Our revel spilled out of a tavern and into the streets like a swelling celebration of your ham-fisted rule. Boisterous screams of laughter ripped through the tense night—calls to arms, drawing more and more partiers to our revelry.

To our secret rebellion.

Because you had gone too far this time.

Your parents had dismissed the old ways by the time I died, so I was surprised to find the hallowed place you’d built for me in one of the stubbly fields.

In the darkening evening, you lit a small pile of twigs, reminiscent of a home hearth. Upon a tiny stone altar, you laid all your supper.

And waited.

When you stepped inside the local cavern, you couldn’t have known you’d walked into my throat. Many came and went from here, no one interesting enough to stir me. But you arrived with a different purpose than they, didn’t you?

I found you in the morning, kneeling among my spell books. Your lips moved continuously, cracked and bleeding. Your voice had dried out hours ago reciting the same line over and over. Your fingertip traced back and forth beneath one sentence within the volume open on the floor before you.

From between close-growing tree trunks, I thrust my fist out into the path in front of your face, making you stop short. In my clawed grip dangled folds of fabric.

You took the fabric. Unfolding it revealed a long skirt in your size. At least, I hoped it would fit.

Sirens blared as I stalked along outside the palisade of your fortified village. Mist wreathed my horns and the ground trembled beneath my many-toed feet. My two tails lashed at the noise. Your little monster warning. Telling everyone to get behind your toothpick walls.

To hide from me.

Sparks erupted from eye sockets as you set my bones ablaze. A pile of ribs and spine and femurs to fuel your bonfire. A sachet of herbs laid within my mouth sent a sweet scent rising into the darkening evening alongside the building flames. A call to crawl forth from among the bones of the earth.

When you found me at the flea market, you had on one of those ridiculous shoulder-mounted cameras. You probably uploaded your little cheap-market excursions online. Showing off your savviness. Your cleverness.

From my package, you read aloud, “Comes with knives.” Then you flipped me over, looking for the disclosed knives. “Hey, this one’s missing pieces,” you continued to the proprietor. “Can I get a discount?”

In the guise of your front door, I awaited your return home.

For weeks, I’d lurked there. You’d turned my limb shaped like your doorknob, not noticing the slight give to the bronze. You’d hung your Christmas wreath on the red door of my tongue, missing my fetid breath.

You’d missed my eye watching you from within the peephole.

Scorch marks and the shattered shells of holy water grenades littered the floor around us where you’d finally fallen. You lay cradled in my arms, your pulse…questionable. You’d lost your crusade.

I’d won. But I wished I hadn’t. Not yet.