A lonely car honks once behind the window. A few late night commuter souls clink into a tired escapade from a party, trailing home. Hunter's soul hums its delicious concerto next to me. Darkness presses on the house, smelling of gasoline and nightly perspiration. My tongue tastes bitter.

A parasite, I repeat in my mind over and over. He means me. Enclosed in a beautiful shell. His most precious pearl. A work of art and science combined. Extracted from a broken mollusk, discarded after delivery. I shrink into the soft leather, wanting to run, battling the desire to stay and discover if my yearning can be answered. Revolting disappointment overwhelms me. A sudden temptation takes over, and I throw my next words at my father like I don't care.

"You forgot something," I say levelly.

He raises his eyebrows and taps his fingers on the sonic gun in a steady rhythm, lifting his feet on tiptoe so that his silk socks press lightly into the freshly vacuumed carpet.

"Please, enlighten me," he says.

"You forgot to check if the parasite is still alive." I savor the pause.

"Oh. Not for long, actually. Turns out, I have grown rather fond of the parasite I happened to produce." He stretches his lips, but his eyes don't smile. The air grows thick with my anticipation.

"We'll be staging your funeral tomorrow morning. To quiet the city folk and stop the rumors, let people know we found your body and just weren't ready to disclose the news. You know, the works. To give you a proper goodbye."

"What?" I almost choke. "Why?"

The rest of what he says I don't hear. I just sit there, bolted to the couch, debilitated, reaching out and grasping for the meaning of this news but finding nothing to hold on to.

"Where would you like to go?"

"What?" I force myself back. "I'm sorry, I got distracted. What did you say?"

"I said, after it's over, where would you like to settle? You didn't hear anything at all, did you?" He shakes his head. "How typical."

I gape. "Sorry. The whole parasite thing, and then the funeral thing...Why do we need to do it? I don't understand."

"I'm doing this for you, Ailen. We need to do this for you." He studies me, making a clear emphasis on the word we.

"We need to do this? For me?" I repeat.

"Yes, for you." He clears his throat. "I made a mistake, as a father, and I apologize. I failed to...to see you as my daughter, above all; siren or not. I want to make this right again. I want us to feel like a family and put an end to this incessant conflict."

I simply stare, dumbfounded. Something smells fishy.

"Once you're buried, we'll be able to leave Seattle and start a new life, you and me. I will close my store and open up a new one in another city. What do you say? Sound good? Is there a particular place you'd like to go?" he asks again.

His knuckles grow white, his skin stretched over the hand holding the gun, yet his face lights up. There was only one other time when he was glowing like this, and it was when we returned from my mother's funeral. Another fake funeral, because there was no body to bury and her casket was empty. He excused his happiness on account of not having to look for her body anymore. He said the funeral brought him much needed closure. Back then, of course, I had no idea it was him who pushed her off the bridge.

"You're serious? You mean this? For real?" As I say this, my traitor heart burst aflutter. Hopeful, childish, full of naïve excitement. His crimes forgotten. His violent behavior evaporating from my memory like it never existed.

"Of course I mean it! How is that for a birthday present? I didn't forget, see?"

I study him, wanting to make sure there is not a hint of deception in his eyes, not a twitch in his facial muscles. I'm scared, terrified to believe. It's too good to be true, too easy, too all of a sudden. I swallow back tears.

"Can this be true?" I croak.

"Can't an old man change at the sunset of his life? Come on, Ailen, give me some credit. Look at me." He places the gun down on the coffee table and raises both arms in surrender. "I admit, I'm a little afraid of you. You turned out to be a fierce little thing. But I'm proud of you. I'm very, very proud of you."

I want to hug him, but I can't make myself move. I've never hugged my father, or been hugged by him in return. Not once, including when he delivered me in the bathtub. He probably had to hold me simply because I would drop to the floor if he didn't.

Confusion swirls its nasty doubts around in my head, twisting my guts. Isn't this what I wanted all along? To have him all to myself? To sing to him, better than my mother? To have him admit that I can be of value? That I'm worthy of his love after all?

"I don't care where. Anywhere. You pick," I say and mean it.

"All right. I have an idea. How about Italy? On the outskirts of Rome, away from heavy population, say, in some small village, so that every weekend we can take a trip to the—"

"—Baths of Caracalla, to listen to the opera," I finish automatically, fetching this knowledge from the depths of my memory.

"Precisely. That's exactly what I meant. How did you know?" He looks at me quizzically, expecting an explanation.

"I just do. I'm your daughter, after all..." I trail off, blinking tears down my cheeks, mortified that he'll see me crying.

"Interesting. Perhaps it confirms that we're truly related." He grins.

I gasp. "What do you mean by that? Are you implying mom cheated on you? How can you even fathom such a thing? She would never...She loved you." My voice catches.

His face wrinkles in pain. "Let's drop the subject of your mother. We have other, rather exciting things to discuss. About the funeral—"

I can't stop. "Did you really think that m—"

"Silence!" His scream is so sudden and abrupt that my teeth click as I close my mouth. This feels comfortable in a twisted way. My father is back to normal, and thankfully, I know how to deal with him amidst his angry fits.

I feign rapt attention.

"You will pretend to be a corpse, for lack of a better word. I'm sure you can manage—your skin is perfectly white with characteristic blue undertones. Would you be able to lay still for several hours?" he asks.

"Sure," I manage, afraid I lost his love before I even had a chance to bask in it.

"Excellent. Hunter will stay with you while you get ready. I thought you'd like that."

I steal a glance at Hunter's face; it looks peaceful and serene with his eyes closed; his hair bunches up over his fist and his chest slowly rises and falls with each breath. I need to stay away from him.

"And where will you be?" I ask.

"Funeral business, of course. I have to leave in a few minutes. I have to pick up the casket," his eyes drop to his Panerai watch, "see to the funeral parlor, prepare the boat—"

"The boat?" I ask.

"Ailen. How else do you think you'll be able to extract yourself from the casket—by digging yourself out of the grave in the middle of the night? I certainly don't think it's a good idea. We will be giving you a burial at sea."

I blink. "Wow. Why?"

"Because it's the only way you can safely break out of the casket. You'll tear off the lid, swim to Ocean Shores and we will meet there, okay?"

"Ocean Shores? Is it that small town on the coast where you and mom went one summer? Why Ocean Shores?" I have so many questions that my words are momentarily paralyzed, bunched up in my throat in a mass of screaming.

Father walks over to Hunter and shakes him awake, prodding his arm with his delicate fingers, announcing, "Your arm isn't broken, it's sprained. You'll live. Now, listen to me. Your job is to see to it that Ailen preps for her funeral. She needs to take a shower and put on a clean change of clothes. I don't care what, as long as it looks decent. Can you do this for me?"

Hunter's eyes open wide in a struggle to understand. "Wha..." He winces.

I can't tell if it's because he's realizing once again that he's deaf, or because something hurts, or if he was able to make out the word funeral from my father's lips.

"Let me repeat." Father launches into a detailed explanation of the type of coffin he picked out and why it would be easy for me to open, the time people will come to pick me up, how long the ceremony will take, and where we will go afterward. But I only half listen. My other half imagines things that I didn't dare to imagine before, like life with my father. In another city. Staring new, from scratch.

Suddenly, I realize that a funeral is a very lovely word. It means a happy ending. I think that a funeral is my new favorite thing. It's where families get reunited, to witness the passage of a loved one to the other side. Like birth, only the other way around.

Hunter nods, perhaps afraid to speak up, stealing quick glances at me.

Father is done with his tirade.

"You got everything, son? Can I count on you?" he asks.

"Yes." Hunter nods.

"If he forgets, I'll remind him," I say, to get father to leave the house faster, eager to get ready and move away from Hunter so I can have a little break.

"Your job is not to remind him, but to get ready. Do you understand?" he asks.

"Yes," I answer.

"Good." My father excuses himself and disappears upstairs to change, then comes down donned in one of his finest Italian wool suits, black, with a black tie contrasting against his crisp white shirt. A waft of his signature Bulgari cologne tickles my nostrils. It takes him less than ten minutes to transform from a recreational fisherman to a gallant businessman. During this time, I dare not move closer to Hunter, dare not talk to him, remaining in the same position I was. I don't even steal a single glance to see what he's doing, concluding that he probably dozed off.

In the foyer, father adjusts his cufflinks and slides into his black shiny leather Italian shoes to compliment the look, addressing me without raising his eyes.

"It's close to five a.m. now. Be ready by six, please. I should be back by then with the casket." He sticks his arms into the sleeves of a trench coat, picks up his umbrella, and then jingles the keys before dropping them into his pocket. A chatter of heels against the parquet floor, a click of the door latch, and he's gone.

I remain seated for a beat or two, the rectangle of the door fried into my retina, when Hunter tugs on my sleeve.

I jump up and wheel around.

"I'll be right back!" I say and raise my index finger to indicate both my fast return and my desire to go upstairs. Then, before he has a chance to say anything or hold me back, I sprint up, literally flying up the stairs, yanking open the door to the bathroom and shutting it closed with a loud bang.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I register that this door is brand new and smells freshly painted. Out of habit, and without thinking, I lock it, slide down to the floor, and break down into sobs. Secretly, I wish Hunter would dash after me, knock on the door, beg me to let him in. But he doesn't. I know why. He's giving me space, allowing me to fume. Plus, he must be exhausted. I bang on the floor with my fists, driving the pain out of me, into the open, turning it into words, spelling it out aloud and not caring if the neighbors hear me. I simply have to purge my system of this sonorous misery.

"Hunter, I'm sorry. I want to be with you, but I can't. I love you, but I can't. I want to die, and I can't. I want to bring my mother back. I can't. I want to kill Canosa so she'd," I bang both fists on the floor, "stop," I hit again, "fucking," and hit once more, "threatening you. I can't. Can't seem to be able to do it. I don't want to be a siren anymore. I want to be normal, I want to turn time around. I want to go back to how it was before my birthday. But I can't! I can't! I can't!"

I hit the floor until my knuckles bleed the clear liquid that is my blood. Dust flies up into the air in small puffy clouds. I manage to break the tiles into mush. I spring up and direct the rest of my fury at myself in a kind of a delirious glee, tearing at my hair, slapping my own face. There is one thing I can do, I realize, and it's reunite with my father.

I yank at my Siren Suicides hoodie. It's clammy and sticks to my skin and won't peel off, so I rip it and throw its dirty rags around me. I strip out of the hateful orange fisherman capris, tearing them to shreds in the process. There is nothing else to destroy, so I turn my attention to our antique, carved-marble bathtub, the ridiculous Bright family relic. I consider lifting it and smashing it to pieces. Curiously, it looks naked to me, boring and bland without its sirens and their mouths open in a lethal song, their arms spread astride like wings. The faucet bends its bronze neck, vulnerable, lonely and frail without the Siren of Canosa holding it in her delicate hands. To wash off my frustrations, I want to soak in a bath so badly, that I decide to hack it into a pile of rocks afterward.

I vigorously twist the cold-water handle and nearly break it off. A frothy stream gushes from the spout. I watch it bubble, inhaling the echo of chlorine like a welcome friend. I plug in the chained resin stopper and delight in the twirling fluid. It rapidly fills the tub, making me think for a second that it's my birthday again. Instead of drowning, I'll simply take a bath and get out, before it all goes to hell.

I step over the rim and descent into cold water, rushing into submersion. I tilt my head to the ceiling and slide all the way in, letting my face sink, breathing through my gills.

This is bliss. Nothing bad happened, no time has passed. It's September 7, 2009, around 5:30 a.m., and today, I'm sixteen years old. I'm simply getting ready for my big day, to celebrate, to be all nice smelling and adorable and pampered.

The ceiling doesn't share my sentiment, however. It frowns through circular waves on the surface of the water. There are no bubbles that escape my mouth, no disturbance in my chest of any kind, no pain in my lungs. I don't need to push myself down with both arms to stop from floating up. In fact, I can make my body sink or float at will, without moving a single muscle, simply by thinking about it. No, not even thinking, it's instinctual now. I tentatively reach up and touch my gills, tracing their ragged edges, torn a few days ago but now smooth and healed into two coarse openings. Jets of fluid siphon in and out of them, matching my breath.

Fate decides to completely mess up my brain. The doorknob turns once to the right. I hear a distinct click amplified by several feet of water and sit up, my heart pounding.

I watch the knob. It turns three times to the right.

Click-click-click.

"Hunter?" I call, forgetting that he won't hear me now, but knowing that if it was him, he'd knock first and not barge in like a Neanderthal.

"Papa?" This is my next guess. I instinctively call him Papa again, thanks to my wishful thinking of us reuniting.

There is no answer, but a single tentative knock on the door. I hug my knees, realizing with horror that I forgot to grab a change of clothes from my room and have nothing to throw on.

"Hang on, I'm naked! Getting out." I swiftly jump out of the tub, and, dripping water all over, grab the nearest towel, rolling myself in it and tucking in one end at the top, ensuring it's secure. It occurs to me that, indeed, it is Hunter—who else would it be? The soft concerto of his soul seeps through the crack under the door, how did I not hear it before? He probably finally decided to come and talk, tried to enter, and then realized I'm taking a bath and knocked.

This thought erases my misery like it never existed.

"Hunter, is that you?" I repeat, not caring that it's useless. The melody of his name alone makes my heart sing.

"Ailen?" he says, as if he heard me. But it comes out muffled, strained, slurry. "Hey, uh...I got clean jeans for you." Pause. "And a T-shirt." Another pause, followed by his heavy breathing. "I can't hear what you're saying, so, can I just come in? I'll drop them on the floor and be out in a flash. I won't look, I promise. Remember your favorite number? It'll take me three seconds—" The last lines he delivers fast, in a rush, and then promptly falls quiet as if cut off. I think I hear a choking cough.

"Favorite number?" I say, thinking, three. Why did he ask me that? I frown, turn the lock lever into the open position, and grab the door handle. My wet palm slides against its polished bronze. Brand new and stuck, it doesn't give. I wipe my hands on the towel.

"Hang on. I can't open the darn thing," I mumble, turning it harder, afraid to break it. It won't budge, stuck, probably because it hasn't been used that much and the locking mechanism needs to be oiled and adjusted.

"What the..." I curse under my breath.

A melody penetrates me. Strong vibrations come from behind the door. I try to rotate the handle again. It's no use. The song comes through the walls, like a chorus of some ancient opera. At once, Hunter mentioning three makes sense. Him squeezing my hand three times. Three minutes is how long it takes for an average person to drown. For both of us, three is like a code for death.

"Canosa!" I shriek, and hear her mad cackle. Her rotten stink poisons the air, bursting through every gap and enveloping me in its ruin. It burns my nostrils, laughing at my naïveté.

"Nooo!" I yell. I rip the handle off and drop it on the floor. Raising my right leg, I kick the door with great force—one, two, three times. The hinges take pockets of plaster out of the wall and the newly painted wooden slab finally collapses with a groan, rousing a puff of dust.

My heart sinks.