Leah came back to consciousness with a shudder. Smells of the alley; rough paving under her cheek; a throbbing in the side of her neck. The streetlights were on at the far end of the alley, but here she lay in darkness. How many hours had she been out?
She remembered the glint of the needle when the foul old man overpowered her. The same as her nightmare, but real. He must have injected something into the side of her neck: the throbbing told her that.
She propped herself up on her elbows, and realised in that moment she held nothing in her hand. No stone. The man had taken it.
Well, of course. Why wouldn't he have taken it, when she couldn't resist?
Another realisation followed. The hand in which she'd held the stone was whole and healed, and the agony in her arm had gone. She felt good all over. Even the throbbing in her neck was a sensation without pain.
She levered herself up and rose to her feet - then lurched suddenly with the weight under her breast. What the fuck? She staggered three steps to lean against a wall.
She guessed even before she rolled up her t-shirt and felt the smooth stretched skin, the domed protrusion under the skin. It was like a second heart implanted in her chest. Not just stuck to her hand, but lodged in her body. Philosophers' Stone, Junkies' Stone ... it was hard and heavy as lead.
No! she wanted to scream in outraged protest. Such surgery wasn't possible! Not in a back alley! Not without a cut or a scar!
She had to reach a hospital fast. She turned and headed towards the streetlights, step by cautious step. Each step came easier than the one before. It was only a matter of balance. After a while, she no longer needed the support of the wall. She stopped in the middle of the alley and performed a complete rotation.
The stone wasn't really so heavy, not in the ordinary way. She felt it weigh inside her, but it was more of a solidity, an inertia. It was absolute thing. Strange, to be a living being with something unliving at your core.
Even stranger - she didn't mind. Once the first shock had passed, it no longer horrified her. In fact ...
She stroked it there, under her t-shirt and under her skin. It made her feel anchored, with an invulnerable centre. Such utter security. A second heart, a better heart ...
The bad emotions of the day had fallen away. The baby that stopped breathing ... the stretch-armed non-human ... trying to hide the stone and save the world. None of it mattered. She was absolved and innocent.
The dead are innocent. Who had said that? But it didn't matter either.
She remembered her first fix, when the smack went into her blood, into her head. That was absolution and security too. But she'd never quite recaptured the feeling, never as good as the very first time.
This was different, she was sure. This would stay with her.
Life had become suddenly, wonderfully simplified. There was only one thing to think about. She laughed and walked on towards the streetlights.
"Transmute me," she muttered to the stone in her chest. "Fucking transmute me."
(Richard Harland)
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