There’s a flash of light, blindingly bright. Colored haloes obscure my vision. They dance and flicker and then disappear, leaving only a rectangle of light boxed in by the dark doorframe.
I see then that the door’s gone and in front of me are
people. No…they aren’t people. They have limbs, hair, faces, but they aren’t
human. After the first glance, they don’t look even remotely human. They’re
pure, painful white, so bright they throw off a glare. They look like they’ve
been dipped in glass, smooth and polished, but fluid. And their eyes…they’re a
silvery color, like the mercury in the antique thermometer that my mom used to
have at the side of the front porch.
When I was ten, I knocked that thermometer off with my
wooden kendo sword, shattering the glass. The little blobs of mercury went all
over the porch. I was a kid. I didn’t know better. I touched them, prodding the
little balls until they joined the bigger blob. My mom swooped down on me and
snatched me away, telling me it was poison. It could kill me.
I stare at the things in front of me: the Drau. I can’t look
away.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember Jackson talking
about Medusa.
Don’t look at their
eyes.
Their mercury eyes.
They’re poison.
They will kill me.
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