It Isn't Easy Being Queen

9. Excuse me, I'm a What?

Stay safe, little one.

Tell yourself lies.

Believe the lies of others.

But tread carefully.

A web of lies has sticky threads.

And hungry monsters are lurking.

Guess what?

I must've blacked out again.

I was alone in our kitchen, flat on my back on the couch, though I could hear my dads' whispered rumblings, the creaking of their footsteps on the old wooden floorboards from elsewhere in the house, and the crackling of a fire in the old fireplace, despite it being fire season.

Relief washed over me that my dads were okay. I hoped Cal got away safely.

Wow, it felt like only seconds ago I was in the cemetery.

Was this going to become a thing? The blacking-out part, not the cemetery bit. I didn't think flying minivans would become a regular occurrence in my life. At least I hoped not.

Blacking out was the worst because it was like someone snipping away a portion of my life and leaving it on the cutting room floor. What if I forget something important, like my first kiss or the schematics for a working time machine, or the passwords for my dads' emails?

Disaster!

People like me did not faint. People like me, with wild red hair, who leave a trail of mayhem wherever I went, caused the fainting. Thank you very much!

But beyond the weird, disjointed feeling of waking up in an unexpected place, I felt like crap.

My throat was raw like I'd been screaming in a horror movie for the entire ninety-minute running time. My head was filled with cobwebs, and I felt a weight pressing into my chest as if I'd been buried in those lead blankets they give you at the dentist's office for x-rays.

A bubbling, gurgly noise came from the fireplace. I lifted my head, which took almost more strength than I possessed, and discovered the familiar black iron cauldron inside the inglenook. It hung from a metal rod, dark smoke rising into the chimney, boiling so furiously, it spat liquid over the sides, which hissed as it hit the flames.

Wait. Did I just say "the familiar black iron cauldron?"

Dad never cauldroned at home. Maybe in the store, yes, but only because the tourists loved it.

But in the deepest part of my being, I knew I'd seen it before. Many times. I tried to access the memory. I could feel it coiled up deep inside my brain, protected by a coating, almost like a caterpillar wrapped in silk. When I tried to break through and fish out the memory, a sharp pain exploded in my head, like it was a top-secret file, and I didn't have the password.