A Snake's Eyes
A contemporary retelling on Medusa, a tale of neurodivergence and finding strength in myths.
Written by me.
The girl didn't look at other people. Not because she didn't want to, she did, but everyone would stare her in the eyes, try to crawl into her soul and force back awful memories.
There had been two adults who hurt her very badly. Both had been at what everyone called the Temple because it promised curing.
The first was the man in a blue suit with a horse pin who forced her to stare into his ice cold eyes for what he deemed an appropriate amount of time every other day. She had liked the horse pin, but when her gaze faltered (falter, as though looking down was wrong), she would be splashed with water. When she talked about her interests 'too much' and didn't follow the scripts, splash. Her mouth not in a constantly pleasant smile, splash. For everything that felt natural to the girl, splash.
The second was the Observer, the owner of the Temple. She was an infinitely tall woman with eyes that were as bad as the man's. 'Wisdom and Strategy', the sign on the door to her office said underneath her name.
"Wrong, wrong, wrong," she would say while pointing at different parts of the girl, each stab with her bony finger tearing on the girl like a predator bird's claws. Behind the mask of worried frowns and concerned smiles, no one saw the cruelty in the woman's eyes, even though the girl saw it so clearly.
"We have simply tried everything, but she won't behave. Poor, poor girl,” she would say, shaking her head.
The girl didn't want to listen, and so she unfocused her eyes and let her mind slither away. She imagined slithering like a snake, the animal she had lots of books and posters about, out between the bars in front of the window. The air was chilly, and the girl breathed slowly, enjoying each cool blade of grass that touched her scales.
"... special school," the girl caught the last words of the Observer, and she snapped back into her body, spine straight.
"What?" she asked, and in her hurry, she forgot to look up, up, up to the Observer's grey eyes. Almost immediately, the little bracelet the Observer had forced on her wrist the first day buzzed, so strong the girl let out a cry. She corrected her gaze and asked again, in the tone the man had splashed into her, "Miss, could you repeat that, please?" The words were unnatural, and the girl's tongue couldn't wrap around the stilted speech easily.
"We have decided you will go to a special school, dear." She always called her 'dear', but the word was hollow and wrong. When she said it, she sang something else, a word the girl didn't want to hear.
"But I would like to go to other children school," the girl said, her tone balancing right on the edge of Too Much and Too Little. She stood, and restraining her hands' dance, she argued in the words the Temple had forced into her head why she should not go to a special school (she knew there would be more men in suits doing script exercises and splashing her, and more Observers picking away at her). In the end, the Observer had to yield, the girl’s arguments flawless, and the Observer was not happy about that. The girl was happy, but she could only show a fraction of it while her hands were itching to wiggle and move freely.
The lightning bracelet came off two months later. After having 'adjusted' to school and proved she was 'normal enough', the girl was free, after years of weekly visits to the Temple, to go to school and – at least very secretly when no one saw – be what the Temple had tried to splash and shock out of her.
Two months in, the class went to the school library, and the girl got to explore the shelves of books in a calm, dimly lit environment. The natural light was kinder to her eyes than the fluorescent lamps overhead in many classrooms. Every day, when she came home, the girl would retreat into her room – her caregivers called it her cave – and lie in the blanket fort she had permanently set up, reading with only a little light her favourite snake books (she had some on other reptiles as well, though) and listening to violins and cellos play on an old tape she had gotten from a flea market. Her head would follow the melodies, and the tightness that built up over the day unspooled.
Just as the teacher was calling them all back, the girl’s eyes fell on a book depicting a woman with snakes for hair on the cover. Her mouth fell open in awe as she beheld the woman’s beauty and the green on her head. ‘Medusa’, the title read. The girl grabbed it and returned to her group, and they left after checking out the books.
The first night she had taken the book home, the girl had read it three times, and she had fallen in love with Medusa and her snake hair.
The next day at school, a boy thought it incredibly funny to taunt the girl for how she looked at her classmates, studying them. “Hey, watch out, or she’ll turn you to stone with her intense glare.” Many people laughed, but the girl sort of liked the idea.
When the boy stared at her, too, the girl said, “That’s right, don’t you look me in the eye, or I’ll turn you to stone like Medusa!” There was power in it, and though some were still laughing, she could hear the uncertainty in the melody their laughs sang.
From that day onward, the girl called herself Medusa to anyone who asked. Interacting with her classmates got a little easier now that they weren’t staring into her eyes constantly, though some of the teachers (the very strict ones that reminded Medusa of the Observer and the man in the blue suit) told her to stop fooling around. Medusa didn’t care, and if they were particularly nasty, she imagined turning them to stone.
In Medusa’s fourth year, a new student joined their class, and seeing as the spot next to Medusa was empty – no one wanted to sit next to Snake Girl after all – the newcomer got to sit there.
“Hi,” they muttered during religious education, and Medusa tilted her head at them. “I’m Perseus,” they introduced themselves.
Medusa frowned, remembering the character from the story. “You have the same name as the stupid man who beheads Medusa. I’m Medusa,” she said, and too loud, as it seemed, because the teacher cleared his throat rather noisily and glowered in their direction.
After the lesson, Perseus stood and stretched their limbs. “You have a cool name. Did you choose it yourself, too?”
“Yes,” Medusa said, because she had. “I don’t like when people look me in the eyes, and I wish I could turn them into stone for it.”
Perseus laughed, and their laughter was like silver bells playing a gentle song. “Well, I’d better not look you in the eyes then! Wanna be friends? Promise I won’t behead you.”
“Sure,” Medusa said after a moment of hesitation, and just like that, she had made a friend for life.
Medusa and Perseus were inseparable, and Medusa noticed that Perseus didn’t quite fit in themselves. It wasn’t in the same sense as Medusa, but when they got changed for PE class, she noticed Perseus went to a different room to the boys and girls, but they joined in enthusiastically in the games, and much more competent than Medusa whose limbs just wouldn’t seem to listen to her.
“My older sister is like that, too,” Perseus said after PE one time, and they offered Medusa half of their granola bar.
“I don’t like those,” Medusa said, eying the raisins in the bar wearily. Perseus simply shrugged and ate both halves themselves.
“My sister’s autistic, and she has dyspraxia as well. If you want, I could introduce you later today. She’s home from university.”
Medusa knew only the first word Perseus had used, because that’s why she had been sent to the Temple. Perhaps the second one was true as well; it felt true.
Medusa followed Perseus home, and she stood a little lost in their small room until Perseus offered her a chair to sit. “I’ll go get my sister Euryale,” Perseus said, and when Medusa nodded, they rushed out.
Moments later, two people came back: Perseus with their shoulder-length blonde hair, and a taller girl with curls that were dyed green. Medusa shrieked in delight, and she couldn’t help her hands dancing along with the rest of her. “Your hair looks like snakes!”
Euryale grinned. “Well. Perseus, you weren’t lying about your new friend, she’s sweet.”
Perseus flustered, and they tugged their sister’s sleeve. “Gift?”
“Oh right.” Euryale pulled a small box wrapped in snake-scaled paper. “Perseus told me about the lights at school. They suck, don’t they. I hope this’ll help…”
Medusa unwrapped the box carefully, not wanting to rip one single scale, and she beheld the mirrored sunglasses inside the box.
“You’d have to tell the teachers, but they shouldn’t make too much of a fuss. They suit you.”
As soon as she had put them on, Medusa gasped. The world was so much quieter when some of the light was gone!
“Exactly my reaction,” Euryale said, fiddling with one of the hair-snakes. “People don’t like seeing their own reflection, it makes them too aware of how they’re staring at others. Those mirrored glasses will make at least a decent portion of them look away.”
Medusa wiggled her hands happily, finally feeling truly herself and comfortable to show it. “Thank you.”
Euryale reached out a hand for Medusa. “Got to stick together, haven’t we?”
~fin~
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