Gilded

by Kendall Grey

  I wrinkle my brow. What is “blood pressure” and why would Muninn or Odin care if I’m stressed? I blow off his comment. He’s messing with me and doing a fine job of it.

  I settle my hands on my hips and stretch to my full height. My guts pull into a tighter knot, and I grab my stomach with a gasp. The pain is similar to what I felt when I birthed Sleipnir.

  Heart racing, I eke out, “I want my old body back, Odin, and I want it now.”

  Muninn bellows a hearty laugh. He flies up and laughs. He drops down and laughs. Laugh, laugh, laugh, and then, “No.”

  “Please,” I beg. I hate the desperation in my voice, but I can’t bear the burden of being a woman. Not only has it screwed up my brain, but now it’s screwing up the body that caused my trauma in the first place. Am I broken? Will this agony ever cease? What if I get pregnant?

  No. No way am I getting pregnant. Been there, done that, got the eight horseshoes. I’d rather be celibate for the rest of my days than suffer such humiliation.

  “Allfather sends his sincerest regrets. He cannot aid you in your quest to return to your original body, as it’s long gone, and all other adequate replacements have already been claimed.” Muninn says this with the eloquence of a king. Until he tacks on a brutish, “Pussy.”

  “All male bodies have been claimed? I find that hard to believe. There are billions of men on this planet. Surely not all of them are unsuitable.”

  “Every male body capable of hosting a former god is taken.” With this clarification, Muninn’s tone shifts into neutral, as if he doesn’t want to draw attention to the underlying message.

  So, what is the hidden message? Do reincarnated gods require special bodies? If so, maybe mine houses secrets I wasn’t aware of. And what about Muninn’s use of the word “claimed,” which sounds like other gods are in the process of getting new bodies too? Heimdall, Huginn, and Muninn survived to the present. And Allfather made it clear Sigyn lies dormant within Gunnar Magnusson’s body, her presence subverted by the old goat’s magic, no doubt.

  At the Asgard Awakening convention, Odin hinted that the other Æsir and Vanir might still be around too. They just haven’t woken from their post-Ragnarok slumbers. I tuck this information away for further consideration later. At the moment, I’m more concerned about the cramping that seems intent on turning my insides out.

  “I get it,” I say. “The old man wanted to get back at me for all my ‘sins’ and relegated me to this body as an act of subtle retribution. Well, you can tell him to take this body and shove it up his blooming—”

  “I’ll not stand for insults aimed at Allfather,” Muninn interrupts. “You claimed you wanted out of your female skin. I can arrange for something else, but I doubt you’d like the result. What’ll it be, Son of Farbauti?”

  I open my mouth to accept his offer to remove me from this cursed shell and hurl every insult I can conjure as I do—

  Laguz flexes at my hip, shushing me. You won’t survive without a human casing. Your soul will flee and return to Ginnungagap, never to return to the Nine Realms.

  I close my mouth with a pop.

  “That’s what I thought, pussy. See you in Vegas.” Muninn snickers, his deep voice rumbling like a belch from the depths of Hel. He flits away, laughing his feathery arse off.

  I flip out twin middle fingers and wave them with a grand flourish. The scream of a passing truck’s horn buries the two accompanying words I yell that encourage Muninn to have his way with himself. A scowling woman wearing a yellow dress in the parking lot grabs the small child nipping at her calves like a suckling goat after its mother and covers his ears with her palms.

  “The devil take you. Go back where you came from, heathen!” she shouts with a strange accent I can barely decipher.

  “I’d love to, pussy,” I volley, redirecting the trajectory of my middle fingers to target her and her goatling.

  She stops in her tracks, directs the kid to stand by a nearby truck, and storms toward me, removing the jewels dangling from her earlobes.

  “What the hell’d you call me? This is Alabama, bitch.” She pronounces the word AYL-uh-BAY-ma, which is different from the way Freddie’s been saying it. “We don’t talk that way here, especially when kids is present.” Sending her gaze heavenward, she folds her hands in prayer. “Lord, forgive me for what I’m about to do. Look away, Jeremiah,” she tells the kid and cocks her arm to throw a punch at me.

  The writhing claws eviscerating my uterus slow my reaction time, but Laguz steps up and helps me feint to the right. The woman’s failed attack sends her headfirst into the open van door where she sprawls over the floorboard, legs flying apart, revealing her underwear, which is white and disturbingly holey. I look away as I grab her by the ankles and haul her, kicking and screaming, out of the van. I toss her on the ground and stand over her, my chest heaving with the exertion.

  “I have a torrent of blood streaming down my legs and a uterus staging a massacre in my pants,” I say through clenched teeth. “I am not in the mood, bitch.”

  The woman abandons her impression of a trapped squirrel trying to escape a net and stares up at me. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.” She gets to her feet and smooths her skirt and hair into place. She grabs my upper arms and squeezes them. “I didn’t realize you were on your cycle. All is forgiven.”

  She backs away, hands up in plain view, mumbling “Sorry, sorry, sorry” over and over.

  Pushing a wheeled metal contraption, Freddie ambles up. In the center of the cart, the cats peer out from two hidey-holes nestled in a carpet-covered tower. Stuffed plastic bags bulge from both of Freddie’s elbows. He shifts his attention between me and the rattled woman gathering her child.

  “Everything okay?” he asks cautiously.

  “Of course,” I say. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  He cocks his head toward the woman. “What was her problem?”

  I shrug. “What’s all this?”

  Freddie unhooks three of the satchels from his arms and passes them to me. “These are for you. Hopefully, you can find something useful.”

  He transfers a few bags at a time from the cart to the van. Then he lifts the cat tower and settles it in the back. Sparky and Wiggles seem quite pleased.

  I rifle through my sacks, pulling out pink box after pink box and tossing them on the van floor. “Why is everything so gods-damn pink? Do they not make women’s products in other colors? Oh, here’s a gray one. What is ‘Trojan Condoms’?”

  Freddie snatches the package and stuffs it under the driver’s seat. “Those are mine.”

  “Do you have blood too? Are you a woman, Freddie? Last night I saw something on the internet about women who appear to be men and men who appear to be women. It’s a secret society. So secret, you probably haven’t even heard of it.”

  Freddie chuckles as he unloads the last of the bags, which are overflowing with every color of fabric imaginable. “They’re transgender people. And no, I’m not a member of their secret society. I’m bisexual.”

  “A man who likes other men.”

  “And women.”

  “Both.”

  “Both.”

  My thoughts flutter to Gunnar Magnusson. With a shake of my head, I examine the text on yet another pink cube. This one is smaller than the ones that say, “maxi pad.” I hold it up. “What is ‘tampons’?”

  Freddie’s cheeks redden a tinge. “Uh, those are for … Well, you stick them up your … Let me see that.” He takes the box from me, opens it, and removes the paper inside. It has drawings on it. Graphic drawings. Porno-graphic, even. He pushes the paper into my palm and pats it once. “This shows you how to use them.”

  He digs out a big black leather bag that matches my badass feather coat, rips the tag off it, and offers it to me. “Why don’t you put a couple of those things in this purse? Take it inside and see if you can figure out what to do in the restroom. Come on. I’ll walk you in.”

  Many pockets line the inside of the little satchel. I like
pockets. I stuff my new “purse” full of tampons and maxi pads.

  We go inside Wal-Mart, and my eyes bug with all the activity. People push carts everywhere. Clothing and fruits and vegetables and so much candy line the aisles. I grin. “This place is wondrous!”

  “Yeah, it’s something,” Freddie says as he guides me toward a sign that says “restrooms.” He grasps my shoulders outside the door. “Go in there and knock this shit out. I have faith in you, Loki.”

  “Yes. I will clobber this shite.” I inhale deeply and enter the room full of stalls. I open my purse and remove the tampon instructions:

  Wash your hands. Seated with your legs apart or standing with one leg raised, introduce the tip of the applicator to your vagina at an angle. If you experience discomfort, try lying down on the floor in a relaxed position. Slide the plastic in until your fingers touch skin. Depress the plunger until it meets the barrel. Slowly remove the applicator and dispose of the plastic wrapper. Be sure you can grasp the string for removal later.

  I. Am. Mortified.

  With a sinking feeling in my gut, I wash my hands. I walk past a triumvirate of giggling teenagers checking their garish makeup in the mirror and slip into the stall farthest from the door. I kick off my boots, wriggle out of my trousers, and marvel at the destruction within the denim folds. How do women abide this travesty month after month?

  No amount of blotting with toilet paper will erase the damage inflicted upon my underclothing. I peel it off and feed it to the porcelain maw.

  The girls outside whisper cattily. I ignore them.

  Nose crinkling with disgust, I hike up a foot on the toilet seat. This tampon makes no sense. I study it from every angle and can’t make heads or tails of it. I accidentally push the plastic ridge, and a cottony, white object ejects from the barrel, rolling under the door toward the sinks. Hushed laughter bounces off the tiles.

  Ugh. I open another tampon from my purse. This time I wait to push until the end is lined up with my business, but it hurts going in. I bend over for a closer look to see what I’m doing wrong, but I lose my balance, and my foot plunges into the bloody toilet water with a splash.

  “Gods damn it!” I curse.

  Suppressing a banshee scream, I remove my foot from the icy-cold bowl, yank the tampon out, and fling it into the toilet with the underwear.

  A chorus of snotty titters suffuses the room beyond my stall.

  “What’s her problem?” one of the teens asks.

  “You’re my problem, pussy!” I shout and bang my fist on the stall door. “Get the Hel out of here before I stuff this feminine product up your arse!”

  A trio of terrified squeals echoes off the walls, followed by scrambling feet. The door opens and closes. Blessed silence swells in the girls’ absence.

  Seething, I sit down, spread my legs, and try again. Odin’s spear waving hello to my bladder would be preferable to this torment. Suppressing a shriek, I grit my teeth, tug the string, and toss the toilet another cotton wad.

  This isn’t working. I look down at the tiles slathered in dubious wet substances. I suppress a gag at the thought of mopping the floor with my hair and clothes.

  You can do this, Loki, Laguz attempts to soothe, but it isn’t helping. Yes, it’s disgusting. Yes, you’re a god who’s above such degradation. Yes, it’s unfair. But it’s the lot the Norns drew for you. You don’t have a choice.

  I whimper and poke out my trembling bottom lip.

  Go on. Laguz tries to sound encouraging, but I can tell it’s as grossed out as I am.

  I lie down with my feet sticking out from the door. I bend my knees, squeeze my eyes shut, and brace for impact. This time, the tampon doesn’t hurt going in.

  With a relieved exhale, I stand up and put myself back together. I can barely button my pants over my bloated stomach. I’m pretty sure there’s piss in my hair. My guts continue their twisting, which reminds me of my dead son’s guts strapped over me like iron bands, which makes me relive the pain of watching him die and enduring the poison dripping in my face and eyes, which conjures a fresh wave of despair and—

  Nausea sneaks up and attacks me from my past.

  I drop to my knees, praying for mercy to gods that no longer exist. Or maybe they do exist, but they no longer hear me. Either way, there’s no relief.

  I grasp the toilet seat and wretch.

  My shoulders lurch along with my stomach as I empty its chocolatey contents into the bowl. When I finish, I wipe my mouth with the white paper, but I don’t feel any better.

  I’m spray painted in every bodily fluid known to man. My womb is a certifiable war zone. And worse? I miss Gunnar Magnusson and Huginn. I feel like I left part of myself behind when I walked out of Gunnar Magnusson’s apartment this morning.

  I tidy myself up as best as I can, flush the toilet, and wander out of the stall with my head bowed. I stop in front of the basin and wash my hands. I don’t look at my reflection. I know what resides in the lines of my face: pain, embarrassment, and sadness.

  For a moment, I wonder if all this trouble is worth the fight. I rarely felt down when I was a god, but today, it’s hard to stay up.

  The bathroom free of Midgardians, I suffer a quick glance into the mirror and confide the secret I can’t share with anyone else.

  “I want to go home,” I whisper to the female stranger staring at me with sorrowful blue eyes.

  I allow a single tear to fall. Then I straighten my back, put on my happy face, and strut out of Wal-Mart like the goddess I wish I was.

  Chapter Twelve

  On my way out of the restroom, I spy a rack of Asgard Awakening T-shirts and detour over for a closer look. People swarm the display, oohing and aahing over the clothing like toddlers discovering honey for the first time. With a scowl, I nudge the sycophants out of the way, turn every single shirt backwards, and throw out both middle fingers as I skip out of the Wal-Mart. Take that, idiots. Ha!

  When I return to the van, Freddie climbs out from the back where he was playing with the cats and greets me with a smile. “You look better.”

  “I think there’s piss in my hair.” I reach up to touch it and decide against it. Sparky hisses at me.

  Freddie makes a face, recoils, and shoos the cats away. They climb into the tower he bought, digging their claws into the carpeted walls with delight. Freddie whips out a plastic package with a toothbrush inside and offers it to me. “You might wanna make use of this.”

  I cover my mouth with a hand, huff into it, and scrunch up my face. My breath smells like a goat pen in need of mucking. I sigh.

  “I never had a problem with personal hygiene until now. What am I going to do, Freddie? I stink, I’m stewing in my own juices, there’s a cotton ball the size of Thor’s head stuffed in my lady bits, and if my uterus doesn’t stop screaming at me, I’m going to reach up there and forcibly extract it with my bare hand.”

  Freddie exhales a long breath. “Okay, let’s start with your current … problem. Having never experienced one myself, I’ve been doing some research about menstrual cycles, and I think this will help.” From one of the many bags in the back of the van, he retrieves a bottle whose label reads “Midol.” He shakes two small tablets from its mouth into my palm. “You’re having cramps, and they’re normal.”

  “I hate them.”

  “Based on what I’ve read, I hate them too.” He passes me a plastic bladder of water.

  I swallow the medicine and drink.

  “Next, we’re going to have to stop every few hours so you can change out your,” he nods and waves in the vicinity of my crotch, “stuff. The first couple of days will produce the heaviest flow, but it’ll slow down after that.”

  “How long?” I peep. I’m afraid of the answer.

  “A week, maybe longer,” he says. At my disgusted frown, he adds, “Or shorter. Everyone’s different. But it won’t be forever.”

  “Yeah, until I have to deal with this shite again next month.”

  “We’ll worry abou
t that later. In the meantime, I set you up an air mattress in back where you can nap. The pills should kick in soon. Until then, try to sleep.”

  I look down at my disheveled clothing and curl my lip at the various odors rising off me. “Be honest with me, Freddie. How bad is it?”

  He takes in my messy hair, the stains on my pants, my wet foot, the vomit breath. He turns to his phone, searches for something on Google Maps, and says, “Change of plans. Truck stop shower, coming right up.”

  I don’t know what a truck stop is, but the mention of a shower is like the sweet sound of chaos to my ears. “Thank you,” I say with a small voice.

  Freddie gestures for me to hop into the passenger seat, which he’s covered with some sort of transparent film. How thoughtful. And mildly insulting.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m standing under the spray of a shower, washing away the day’s wounds—visible and invisible—with soap and gloriously hot water. The pills I took are loosening this despicable uterus’s stranglehold on my body and mood. My teeth have been scrubbed, and my breath is refreshed. New clothes await donning.

  I feel almost human.

  And as much as I miss Gunnar Magnusson and Huginn, I’m glad they weren’t here to see me at my lowest. It’s better this way. They can remember me as a strong god who’d never let something as ridiculous as a little blood drag him down. Though, after today’s harrowing experience, I have much more respect for women. If I ever make it back to my original god form, I won’t forget this.

  When I return to the van, Freddie is conversing on his phone. He glances through the window and nods at me, waving me into the passenger seat. I get in.

  “We had a few bumps, but we’re set,” he says into the magical box.

  It’s Gunnar Magnusson. It must be.

  Freddie lifts his chin and eyebrows and points at the phone. I don’t want to talk to Gunnar Magnusson right now. Not in this condition. I make a slicing motion across my throat and point at my crotch whilst wildly shaking my head. Freddie nods.

  “Nothing serious,” he says. “It’s all good, man.”