Meghanology – book 1 of girldragongizzard

Did you know that humans have instincts?

When I was growing up, and everyone thought I was a human boy, everything I read about instincts claimed that humans simply don’t have them. But as I got older and started thinking about things like gender, sexuality, and eating preferences, I started to see that this was wrong. And now, I’m pretty sure there are scientists that fully recognize that humans have instincts. It’s just that human instincts are buried and hidden under a gorgeous complexity of social interactions and conscious executive functions, and the ability humans have to just learn so much, and keep learning. But they’re still there.

Let’s take a look at a simple one.

Most human infants have an instinct to grip anything that’s placed in their palm. Previously, scientists would call that a reflex in humans, and a survival instinct in monkeys and other apes. Any other baby primate has got to hold onto their mother. But a human infant? Not so much. And it is a reflex. A simple reaction to stimulus. But it’s also an instinct. A bit of evolved behavior that didn’t hurt to have and at one time increased the chances of survival and continued reproduction.

And human adults still have that instinct. They use it in things like the design of bicycle brakes. By using a lever on the grip of the handlebars, humans have taken advantage of that gripping instinct to do the right thing in a moment of crisis without thinking about it much. If you get startled or see danger, you clench your fist, and clenching your fist is how you pull on the brake and stop the bike.

Now, I’m noticing that since my transformation, I’ve unlocked a whole bunch of draconic instincts. And the more complex ones, too. The ones that are a series of reflexes. A chain of if-then statements in my nervous system. I’m pretty sure it’s how I got through the day, how I made the correct assumption that Whitman was just challenging me for dominance (and probably why Whitman challenged me in the first place), and how I’ve so easily and even accidentally imitated basic sounds I’ve heard. I think it’s also why I can drink anything without drowning myself with this new anatomy. I just know how to use it. It’s certainly how I was able to breathe fire.

Humans have instincts that are that complex too, and I obviously had some of them when I was younger. Such as the instinct to learn language and figure out how to use a larynx and mouth to talk.

I’m pretty sure, at some point, I can eventually learn to talk again. I have all this language in my head. But I don’t seem to have the instincts to naturally apply all this linguistic knowledge I have to my new vocal apparatus.

And this is going to be a problem when talking to the police.

But I’ve got an even bigger problem right now.

Because, when Rhoda opens that door after speaking to the officer through it for as long as she felt she could, what I see there is not just a couple of police officers. I see a couple of competing predators that are not my own species.

And before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve already reared up and flapped my wings completely careless of Rhoda’s belongings. And I’ve made my favorite noise again. To human ears, I imagine it might sound like a muscle car trying to imitate an enraged parrot. If I took a deep breath and really pushed it, I think I could work an elephant into it as well. I might practice that.

And just like that, there are guns pointed at me.

“I thought you just wanted to talk,” Rhoda manages to say.

“Ma’am,” one of the cops utters, putting all of his intention into that word, nodding toward me.

His partner is grimacing and obviously trying to decide what to do.

These two people have been trained to fire at anything that is a clear and present danger to themselves. Which is currently me. And that training has got them to at least draw their weapons.

But – and I recognize this because a combination of my reading and my emotional instinct are kicking in – they’re being hit by a human reflex that’s been largely hidden for as long as anyone can remember. Though it’s made it into almost all the myths.

Well. Humans do have this reflex. As someone who had C-PTSD, I know it all too well. Sometimes humans freeze in the face of danger. Sometimes they fight. Sometimes they run. Sometimes they try to make nice, they fawn. And I think there are a couple of other reactions there, too.

But, when it comes to dragons, there is something deeper and more ancient and stronger that always results in freeze, apparently.

Because now that I’ve locked eyes with them, they can’t seem to budge or pull their trigger fingers.

The thing that sinks my heart is that when Rhoda turns to look, she gets caught up in the transfixation, too.

I can think about this, and I can make decisions still, but I’m learning something important and unfortunate at the same time. Because I’m on the other side of this, and I’m finding that it’s something of a two way street.

It’s as if I’m transfixed by them as well.

My body is swaying of its own accord from side to side, which causes my neck to snake a bit, and that pushes my head side to side ever so slightly. My head is swiveling to keep my gaze locked on the enemy’s eyes.

I’ve already noticed how much my attention is drawn to movement. Anything that moves within my vision vies for my center of focus. I don’t have to snap attention to it, but I want to. And if I look at something that’s moving, I see it more sharply and clearly. It’s easier to focus on it and see the details. And by my body doing this little dance, which I’m sure is part of what triggers the transfixion instinct in humans, I’m also having my movement tracking triggered as my targets parallax against the background despite otherwise being frozen.

And I’ve got two very strong urges, and it’s just like having my C-PTSD triggered. It’s all I can do not to follow one of the two of them. My whole body is tensing and coiling in anticipation of action on my part. And the longer that this lasts, the more intense the urgency is. It feels like a mix of fear and hunger.

If I were encountering these police in the wild and had recognized them as a threat there and gotten us into this same situation, I might have more options. I’d likely be able to take one of the two choices being presented to me by my instincts, and choose to retreat and take to the sky.

And I think the reason humans are frozen by a dragon’s stare is that half the time a dragon would just use that opportunity to leave. Maybe even more than half the time. Humans are pretty scary, actually. Especially when they have pointy things.

I’m terrified of those guns. I don’t think I’m impervious to projectiles like dragons in movies and stories, and a bullet is going to do some pretty shitty things to me, especially if it punctures one of my fire sacks, or whatever I should call them.

Flying would be risky, as once I get away from them the transfixion might be broken, and bullets can go pretty far. But it would be the more socially acceptable of the two options, and I can’t do it because I’m surrounded by walls and a ceiling. And I can’t turn to crawl out a window or I’ll break the transfixion.

Which leaves the other urge.

Pounce and eat.

I don’t want to be a people eater, but right now I want to.

And it doesn’t help that I’ve exerted myself a lot today, because that’s making me even hungrier.

But I’m a civilized dragon.

I’m not going to do it.

I’m not.

I’m not.

By the logic of this instinct and the urges it’s making me feel, Rhoda is now one of my targets, and I’m not going to do it.

I’m using my C-PTSD therapy to manage this. But it’s a tense situation that gets more tense with every second and every movement. Because I don’t know how long these people will remain frozen.

Remember that squeezing instinct humans have? That’s how you fire a gun.

Something about the transfixion prevented them from doing that, so far. And like so much of all of this, I don’t know how that works.

I slowly uncoil myself and move forward, snaking side to side even more as I go. And I watch as the guns track my chest.

Yeah.

They can move a little bit.

And they look so soft and vulnerable.

I lower myself as I get closer to them, which is dangerous because it’s another pouncing position, and I feel my butt wiggle back and forth like a cat calibrating a leap. And I visualize how that leap is going to go down.

But I keep moving slowly, armored head momentarily between those guns and my more vulnerable chest cavity, keeping my eyes on theirs the whole time. Which they can clearly see, because my head twitches with every movement to keep it that way.

And then I rise up right before them, almost between the guns, towering up until my horns brush the ceiling.

Oh, wow, I smell urine.

I’d take a deep breath to calm myself, but that smell is triggering my hunting reflexes something fierce and if I fill my nostrils with it I might lose control. So I hold my breath.

And I slowly, carefully place the palms of my foreclaws on the tops of the guns and push down steadily and glacierly with my whole weight.

I do what I can to grip the guns themselves with my claws, without nicking their hands. But without actually looking at them, because I don’t want to break eye contact, it’s hard. I think I do draw blood.

But I don’t hook their hands, just the guns, and that’s nice.

Neither of the officers have the strength to hold those guns up, and eventually my weight forces them to let go and stumble back a couple wobbly paces.

And now I’m standing on the guns.

And I’m close enough that I can only keep my eyes on the two police officers, and Rhoda is broken from the spell.

“Gentlemen, I think it would be a good idea for you to leave,” she says cautiously but firmly.

Now that I’ve secured their guns, I know I’m in less danger, so I force myself to tilt my head quizzically and then glance at Rhoda. But not at her eyes.

Then I look at the policemen in the chest.

That snaps them both out of it and they stumble further back into the hallway. But one of them looks longingly at his gun, while the other stammers and fixates on Rhoda.

“We’re going to have to call this in,” he says. “This is aggravated assault of a - “ And his eyes flick back to mine and his words trail off.

“You don’t have ordinances for dragons, do you?” Rhoda asks. “How does a dragon fit into your laws, anyway? Are they an animal or a person? I assure you, this one has a name and can talk if you let her use a tablet or my phone. You recognize that, don’t you?”

Both the officers look at her in confusion.

“We all see it,” she says. “Before you drew your guns on her, you were going to ask to see her ID, weren’t you? But this is all so new, there aren’t any laws about it. And maybe until there are, you should leave her alone.”

“We really did just want to ask some questions,” the one who was staring at his gun says.

“Dear?” Rhoda says to me. “Do you want to answer the questions that these fine gentlemen have for you?”

I kind of do. I want to make it clear to everyone that I was attacked in my own apartment by Whitman. And going on record as saying that seems like not a bad idea. But, on the other hand, it occurs to me that maybe I don’t want my former identity attached to my current state of being. Just in case certain laws do get crafted and passed. I don’t know what could happen, and I don’t want my own case to be used against me to take away my… human… rights.

Hm.

I’ve been close enough to activist circles, and I’ve been on social media for longer than a lot of kids have been alive. I know the wisdom. Don’t talk to cops.

It’s pretty easy for me to not talk to anybody, actually.

I shuffle back and kick their guns out to them. I don’t want to be responsible for those machines of death, and I’m sure neither does Rhoda. It’s also a gesture of trust, if somewhat foolish. I’m willing them to take it to mean that they should pick up their things and go, unharmed. And if they point them at me again, I might not be able to hold back this time. And I’m wagering that they think the same thing.

I watch them very, very intently as they hesitantly pick their weapons up again.

When they return the guns to their holsters, I turn and walk back into the apartment and start taking note of what I’ve knocked over.

“I think that means, ‘no’,” I hear Rhoda say, before closing the door. “Maybe come back with a warrant if you want to talk to me, and maybe the dragon won’t be here then. Thank you. I hope you have a very good day.”

I hear Rhoda’s cane thump on the floor as she moves up to my side, but I keep looking at the broken vase and upturned ficus.

“We can’t do that again,” she says, grimly. She sounds like she might be shaking. “I definitely can’t be doing that again. I hope they won’t be coming back, but you’ve got to find yourself a place to stay.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and adds, “I want to remain your friend and keep helping you. I’m not so worried about my things, but between dragon attacks and police visits, I just don’t know. I hope it’s rare. But, I don’t think this is a good place for you to live.”

I bow my head in solemn acknowledgement. I agree with her.

“Anyway, you can sleep here tonight,” she says. “We both need a good sleep, and while I don’t know if I feel safer with you here or gone, I can’t take that away from you. Your place ain’t fit for it, though. So you can stay.”

I look at her.

“Just, right in front of the front door, please. I have fewer breakable things there and if the police come back they’ll have to go through you.”

I give her a nice cat smile.

I really don’t know what I’m going to do, but a nice long nap is absolutely in order.

The next morning, I really have to use the bathroom first thing.

I’ve already figured out how to use the toilet with a cloaca and a tail and everything, but I really don’t want to do that to Rhoda’s bathroom, so that means wandering over to my apartment and using my own facilities. These apartments have pretty small bathrooms, which means I need every surface available in there to maneuver. And I’ve just basically emptied my bathroom of everything that’s moveable.

I could probably just go shit anywhere, and no one would know what to do about it. I can probably even do it on the fly, like a bird. But I don’t want to do that to people, or other animals. If I can use a toilet, I’m going to.

I’m a clever girl, I’ve got this.

Rhoda’s still asleep, so I let myself out. The doorknobs of this place are actual knobs, but they’re antique and textured, pretty easy to grip, even for me. I’d still prefer levers, but I’m practiced with these.

Except my door won’t open.

It’s locked.

There’s police tape across it.

I know that landlords, and the police, and the system are all ultimately to blame for my door being locked when I really need to use my own bathroom. But one thought enters my mind with a fiery fury, because there’s a reason it happened now.

I’m going to eat Whitman.