Medusa. Thereโs a reason they call you that. Itโs not so much the mythology course you teach, or the fact that your last name is Gordon, or the curly snakes of hair that tumble down your backโitโs your eyes. That famous penetrating gaze that should by all rights have the power to turn one to stone.
You love your nickname, you play up to it, treat it as a badge of honor. You relish the connection to the original โnasty womanโ, a picture-perfect representation of a victim who doesnโt give in to victim-blaming, an emblem of female empowerment. Medusa images can be found anywhere, from the flag of Sicily to Versaceโs fashion logo. Youโve told us that.
And so, it is with a heavy heart but a hopeful one that I bring my story to you. I cry of rape. You should relate to itโMedusa would have. I remember Ovidโs version of the story still about a beautiful maiden who caught the eye of Poseidon himself. An innocent raped in the temple of Athena. An enraged goddess who turned her lovely hair into snakes for it was the maiden she sought to punish for desecration. Not Poseidon. Poseidon got away scot-free.
Surely, things have changed since. Surely, you will take my side. Even if the accused is your son.
โMy stepson,โ you correct, and I wonder why you should see fit to make such distinction for someone whose innocence youโre so committedly defending.
Do I have witnesses? I must. The party was crowded enough to have people spill right out of the fraternity house and into the lawn.
Are they reliable? Whoโs to say? They were college kids at a Halloween party.
Were they drinking? Of course, they were. None more than your beloved son, Connor. Stepson, forgive me.
You tell me how itโs a case of he said, she said, leaving unsaid that the he in question is your golden boy and the she a scholarship townie. How grateful I must be for such an opportunity, to attend this elite establishment among its elite pupils. How youโd hate for anything to jeopardize it. Youโre so careful with words. So precise. The sun reflects off your framed degrees and into my eyes. The framed photos on your desk are facing away from me, but Iโm sure at least one of them features Connor. His smug handsome face, his devil-may-care grin that I should have known better than to be charmed by, but for a moment there, after two years on the outside looking in, I relished the warm spotlight of attention, basked in it.
I had waited so long to be noticed, and Connor was/is/can be so charming. You know this, Iโm sure. But have you seen the obverse side of that coin?
His face changes; no longer so handsome when his hand is covering your mouth and his body is so heavy that you canโt move and the drips of his sweat fall right from his beautiful blond hair into your eyes, stinging, stinging. Nor is it so handsome afterwards, contorted by something like disgust, when he buttons up his pants and tells you to leave.
Youโll never know any of this, of course. And you wonโt believe me now when I tell you these things. Your namesake would. Sheโd rage, spurned into action by the memories that have scarred her so, her hair a hissing symphony of revenge. Sheโd turn your son into stone to match his already petrified heart.
Not you. You prevaricate. You talk in circles around me until I feel the fight leave me. Not all the way, just for today. Weโre not through. Count on it.
Perseus was the one to slay Medusa for she was the only mortal one of the Gorgons. This is important to remember. There are lessons to be learned in myths. You may be fearsome and powerful, but you are not invincible. The Gods helped Perseus on his quest, providing him with a mirrored shield, winged sandals, a helm of invisibility, and a mighty sword. How easy Perseus had it.
Me, I must do everything myself. My own research to find out that you have another son too, a seventeen-year-old, and that this one is your biological offspring. To find where he studiesโa private school, of course. To find out which way he takes home, mostly in Ubers since his driverโs license has been suspended. To find out he never double-checks his drivers if they happen to be women. He is an obnoxious brat, steeped in privilege, thoroughly encompassed by the false safety it provides. He doesnโt physically resemble his older half-brother, but I see the echoes of Connor in him all the same. Do you?
The rest will be easy. The rest will be the hardest thing Iโve ever had to do.
Iโll turn my heart into stone. I shall do that, for you have failed to bring me justice. For all your talk of feminism and defiance of the patriarchal establishment, you are an empty vessel. You put too much emphasis on words and not enough on actions.
Iโve heard your lessons. Now hear mine.
When they find your sonโs body, itโll be too late. You will spend weeks shuddering with fear, writhing in the uncertainty of his fate. You will plead, you will offer rewards, you will wonder what kind of person would do this.
Youโll never give me a second thought. Youโve never done so before.
There will be no comfort for you. Never again. In myths, Medusa gets her head cut offโI shall cut out your heart instead. For if there are any lessons that Medusaโs story teaches us is that thereโs no fury like a woman scorned, no justice but the one you make.
Mia Dalia is an internationally published author of all things fantastic, thrilling, scary, and strange. Her short stories of horror, noir, science fiction, and more have been featured in a variety of anthologies and magazines and adapted for narrative podcasts.
Featured publications: Novella:ย Tell Me a Storyย andย Discordantย ( PsychoToxin Press, 2023); Debut novel,ย Estate Saleย (Black Ink Fiction, 2023), Debut collection,ย Smile so Red and Other Tales of Madnessย (Anuci Press, 2024); Upcoming: Sci-fi novella,ย Arrakothย (Spaceboy Books, 2024); and second novel, Havenย (CamCat Books,2024)
