SPIDER-CHICA!

After watching her reflection twist back into something acceptable by societal standards, Raphaela stepped out of the decrepit house with newfound glee. She even tried to break into a little song and dance number, twirling down the street in blissful defiance. But before she could fully commit to her performance, the universe cut her off mid-spin when, for the second time that night, a bird pooped on her head.

Annoyed but still riding her high, Raphaela made her way back home. She burst through the front door, greeting her family with an unfamiliar joy, a smile stretching wide across her face. Her sudden enthusiasm sent shockwaves through the household. Her mother, startled by the uncharacteristic behavior, rushed over, placing her hand on Raphaela's forehead to check for a fever. Finding nothing, she squinted suspiciously, then gently parted Raphaela's hair, searching for any signs of blunt force trauma.

"Are you okay? Did you hit your head?" her mother asked, voice tight with concern.

Before Raphaela could respond, her father swooped in. "Step aside, darling, let me handle this," he said with exaggerated authority. He grabbed a lamp from a nearby table, pulled Raphaela close, and shone the light directly into her eyes.

"Are you on drugs?! Speak, girl, or else," he bellowed, his voice filled with dramatic intensity.

"What? No, I'm not on drugs, Dad," Raphaela replied, blinking against the blinding light, her face scrunched in confusion.

Her mother crossed her arms, eyeing her daughter skeptically. "If she's not on drugs… maybe she's in love. Do you have a boyfriend?" she asked, her tone softening into something almost hopeful.

Her father froze, eyes widening as though the very notion had physically struck him. His shoulders slumped, and he muttered to himself, "So… the day has finally come."

Without another word, he turned and marched up the stairs, leaving Raphaela and her mother exchanging confused looks. Moments later, he returned—shirtless, a bandana tied around his head, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and holding a samurai sword in each hand.

From the top of the stairs, he dramatically announced, "The day has finally come! I, Diego Gomez, must become a murderer because of lustful school boys!"

Raphaela stood there, utterly bewildered. "Uhmmm... Dad? I'm not sure what this is about—maybe a midlife crisis—but I don't have a boyfriend."

Her father paused mid-stride, his face falling. "You... don't?" His voice wavered, and his grip on the swords loosened.

"No! I don't," Raphaela confirmed, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all.

A wave of relief washed over her father's face. "Thank God." He dropped the swords with a clatter and fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands as he began sobbing dramatically.

Raphaela's mother, who had been silently watching the spectacle, sighed deeply and turned to her daughter. "Alright, then... where have you been all this time?"

Raphaela shifted uneasily. "I... I came from Miss Austin's house."

"Miss Austin?" her mother asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is that a new teacher at school?"

"No, Mom," Raphaela clarified, trying to keep her voice steady. "Miss Austin is the lady who lives across the street."

Her mother's brow furrowed, concern deepening the lines around her eyes. "Raphaela, honey... no one has lived there for twelve years. Not since the..." She trailed off, exchanging a worried glance with Diego.

Raphaela's mind raced, searching for a plausible explanation. "Okay, you got me," she said, forcing a sheepish grin. "I snuck out last night and had a sleepover at Jasmine's."

"But Nour would have called," her mother countered, referring to Jasmine's ever-vigilant mother.

"She had the night shift at the hospital," Raphaela lied smoothly, surprised at how easily the deceptions now came to her. "We thought we'd take a chance. Look, I really have to get going, or I'll be late for school."

Before her parents could protest further, Raphaela bolted upstairs to grab her school bag. As she descended, she caught sight of her parents' concerned faces, their eyes following her every move. A pang of guilt twisted in her stomach, but she pushed it aside. They could never understand the truth.

The cool morning air hit Raphaela's face as she stepped outside, a welcome respite from the suffocating atmosphere of her home. As she walked to school, her mind began to wander down dark paths. The hunger Medea had warned her about was already gnawing at the edges of her consciousness, and she found herself involuntarily assessing the people she passed.

Her thoughts turned calculating, weighing the relative "value" of potential victims. Who would be missed the least? Whose disappearance would cause the least disruption to the fabric of society? With a chill, she realized she was considering the homeless as prime targets.

Part of her recoiled at the very idea, but another part – a part that felt alien and yet increasingly familiar – began to rationalize. Wouldn't she be doing them a favor, ending their suffering? Wouldn't it be better than leaving them to die from exposure or violence on the streets? And wouldn't removing such "eyesores" benefit the town as a whole?

Raphaela shook her head, trying to dislodge these invasive thoughts. She was horrified at how easily she could justify the taking of a human life, how quickly she could dehumanize those she deemed "less than" herself. Was this the price of her transformation? Not just physical changes, but a warping of her very morality?

As she approached the school gates, Raphaela took a deep breath, forcing her features into a mask of normalcy. But beneath the surface, a war was raging between the girl she had been and the creature she was becoming. She knew she would have to feed eventually – Medea had made that clear. But could she really bring herself to cross that line? And if she did, would there be any coming back?

The school bell rang, startling Raphaela from her dark reverie. She joined the stream of students flowing into the building, outwardly just another face in the crowd. But inside, she carried a secret that threatened to consume not just her body, but her very soul.

At school, Raphaela felt herself fading into the background once more. Her popularity, which had skyrocketed in the past few weeks, was slipping away. People barely spoke to her now, and the boys who once admired her from afar now looked at her with disgust, as if she were some kind of freak. She was down to one faithful friend again—Jasmine Richman, or Jasmine, as she called her. It was infuriating. The attention she'd grown used to was vanishing, and so, too, was her beauty. Her very existence felt like it was beginning to unravel.

Sitting at her desk, Raphaela kept her head down, letting her hair fall over her face like a shield. As her mind churned over these teenage dilemmas—her fading beauty, her slipping status—something dark and primal stirred inside her. Anger, resentment, and jealousy bubbled up, twisting into something far more sinister.

The hissing started then. Soft at first, barely noticeable, like a whisper slithering through the air. But it grew louder, more insistent. Raphaela's hand gripped her pen, and with each rapid click of the pen, the hissing grew louder and sharper, drowning out the sounds of the classroom. Soon, it overwhelmed everything—every whisper, every scrape of a chair, even the droning voice of Mr. Cummings as he tried to read from Othello.

"Raphaela!" Mr. Cummings called out, but his voice was swallowed by the cacophony of static and snake-like hissing that seemed to radiate from her. His frustration mounted. He slammed his book shut, scanning the classroom for a solution. And then, his eyes landed on the fourth most famous delinquent in school—Ben Bens Hur Junior. No one would miss Ben if something went wrong, and Mr. Cummings was all too eager to have him try and fix the disturbance.

Ben rose from his seat with a cocky swagger, puffing out his chest like he was strutting down a runway, not heading into danger. He gave the class a thumbs-up, grinning like a hero about to face a monster, and made his way toward Raphaela. The hissing continued, growing louder with every step he took.

He cleared his throat a few times, trying to get her attention, but it was useless. The noise around her was deafening. Her fingers twitched as she sat there, venomous drool starting to drip from the corners of her mouth, burning through the pages of her book. The acidic hiss of the dissolving paper went unnoticed by everyone else. Ben, oblivious to the danger, leaned in, still determined to play the hero.

Raphaela could feel him getting closer. His hand, now inches away, reached toward her shoulder. Something snapped in her brain—an instinct, animalistic and fierce, screamed at her to strike. The hairs on her arms bristled, her muscles tensing, ready to pounce. Her lips parted, revealing the faintest glimpse of sharp teeth as her jaw began to unhinge.

Ben, however, remained unfazed, determined to make his mark. He held his breath as the foul stench of rotting flesh seeped into the air around her. A wave of nausea rolled through him, but he pressed on. He was going to be the one to break through to her, to claim the glory. Just as his hand was about to land on her shoulder, Raphaela's head snapped to the side, her mouth wide open, ready to bite.

A noxious smell, far worse than before, filled the room—death, decay, and something else foul lingered in the air. Ben hesitated, but only for a moment. He wanted to be remembered as a hero, as the guy who took down Raphaela's rage.

But before Raphaela could sink her teeth into him, a voice cut through the madness. "Raphaela!" Jasmine's voice rang out from the doorway, sharp and clear, snapping Raphaela out of her trance.

Raphaela blinked, her predatory instincts retreating as quickly as they had risen. Her body shifted back to normal, her teeth retracting, the hissing dying down into nothing. She turned to see Jasmine standing there, fresh from her bathroom break, looking confused and concerned.

The classroom was dead silent. Raphaela's heart raced, her mind spinning with the realization of what she had almost done. She took a shaky breath, her hand trembling as it fell away from the pen. Ben, still standing there, looked pale but relieved, backing away slowly as if he had just survived an encounter with death itself.

Raphaela wasn't sure how long she could keep the darkness inside her at bay. But she knew one thing for certain—she was losing control, and it was only a matter of time before it would fully take over.

Raphaela's gaze dropped to her textbook, her heart skipping a beat as she noticed the acid-eaten holes marring its pages. She hastily covered the damage with her arm, only to look up and find Ben Bens Hur Junior looming over her, his face plastered with a bewildered grin.

"What?" she snapped, her voice sharp with irritation and poorly concealed fear.

"That's precisely what I should be asking you, Miss Gomez," Mr. Cummings interjected, peering into the classroom with a mixture of concern and exasperation etched on his face.

Raphaela blinked, feigning confusion. "I don't understand, sir."

Mr. Cummings' eyebrows knitted together. "Allow me to enlighten you. While I was attempting to educate this class on the finer points of Shakespearean tragedy, you were sitting there, hissing like some sort of... serpent. This behavior is entirely out of character for you, Miss Gomez. Disrupting class has never been your modus operandi. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I... I..." Raphaela stammered, her mind racing for an explanation that wouldn't sound completely insane.

Before she could dig herself into a deeper hole, Jasmine stepped in, her voice smooth and reassuring. "I think she's feeling under the weather, sir. You know... girl things. I'll take her to the nurse's office."

Mr. Cummings held up a hand, his face reddening slightly. "Say no more, Miss Richman. You're excused."

Jasmine nodded gratefully, helping a still-dazed Raphaela to her feet and guiding her out of the classroom.

As they walked down the empty hallway towards the nurse's office, Jasmine's calm facade began to crack. "Okay, Raph, what the hell was that back there? And don't tell me you don't know, because I saw... something."

Raphaela swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "Jasmine, I... I honestly don't know what happened. It's like I blacked out or something."

They reached the nurse's office, finding it mercifully empty. As they sat on the edge of the cot, Raphaela began fidgeting with her hair, a nervous habit she'd had since childhood.

"Jasmine, can I ask you something?" she ventured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jasmine sighed, recognizing the tone. "Let me guess, another one of your crazy dreams?"

"No... well, maybe. Sort of."

"Raph, I swear, if this is another one of your horror stories—"

"It's not like that," Raphaela interrupted. "Do you remember anyone named Medea Austin?"

Jasmine's brow furrowed, her photographic memory scanning through faces and names. After a moment, she shook her head. "No, I don't remember anyone by that name. And you know my memory doesn't just fail me."

Frustration bubbled up inside Raphaela, a surge of anger that felt disproportionate to the situation. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the pillow from the cot and, with strength she didn't know she possessed, ripped it clean in half.

Feathers exploded into the air, settling around them like snow. Jasmine stared at her friend, eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear.

"Raph," she said slowly, "what's happening to you?"

Raphaela looked down at the destroyed pillow, then at her hands. They were trembling, but not from exertion. She could feel something stirring inside her, something dark and hungry and terrifyingly powerful.

"I don't know," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "Jasmine, I'm scared. I think... I think something's wrong with me. Really wrong."

Jasmine hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took Raphaela's hand. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. Okay? Just... maybe no more pillow murders for now."

Raphaela managed a weak laugh, but the fear lingered in her eyes. As they sat there, surrounded by feathers and unspoken truths, she couldn't shake the feeling that her transformation was far from over – and that the worst was yet to come.

 "Okay… I'm going to go now. You're clearly dealing with some... stuff," Jasmine said, slowly backing away. "I'll take notes for you in class and, uh, maybe get you a priest?" She turned and hurried out of the room.

"Thanks for your help," Raphaela mumbled as she threw herself onto the bed. Exhaustion washed over her, and before long, she drifted into sleep.

The school day was nearly over when Raphaela awoke, jolted by a ravenous hunger. She leapt from bed, grabbed her bag, opened the window, and—with a swift, effortless motion—jumped three stories down. She landed softly, like a feather touching the ground.

Across from the nurse's office, Ben Bens Hur Junior and Jasmine were sitting by a window, and they saw everything unfold. Their jaws dropped in disbelief.

"Y-Yo... You saw that, right?" Ben stammered, turning to Jasmine.

"I did. Did you?"

Ben nodded slowly, eyes wide. "Is your friend even human?"

"I... don't kn—"

"Miss Richman! And Ben!" Mr. Cummings' booming voice interrupted them, cutting through the stunned silence in the classroom. "Whatever romance just blossomed between you two, please save it for after school. Honestly, Miss Richman, you could do better."

Ben and Jasmine quickly turned back to the window, but Raphaela was already gone.

Meanwhile, Raphaela made her way to the nearest restaurant. Without hesitation, she ordered five burgers, three extra-large pizzas with extra cheese, and an extra-extra-large chocolate milkshake. She devoured the entire meal in minutes, leaving both the waiter and the chef in stunned silence. After dropping a tip, she headed home.

But the insatiable hunger struck again as soon as she walked through the door. Desperate, Raphaela ate anything in sight—leftovers, snacks, even the fake plastic fruit sitting on the kitchen table.

Still unsatisfied, she trudged upstairs, her stomach growling louder than ever, and collapsed onto her bed for another nap.

As consciousness clawed its way back, an insatiable hunger gnawed at her very core. Rage bubbled beneath her skin as she rolled from the bed, expecting the harsh impact of the floor. Instead, she found herself suspended, hovering mere inches above the ground.

A primal instinct took hold, whispering of a target, a need that must be satisfied. She moved towards the window, her mind still clouded with sleep and hunger. As her hand reached for the latch, horror struck. Where her fingers should have been, a hairy, segmented spider leg extended. Though invisible to her eyes, she could feel her transformed limbs, alien yet undeniably part of her.

"Damn it," she hissed, pushing aside the shock. "I can't deal with this now. The hunger... it's too much."

The window refused to budge, her new form too bulky for such a mundane exit. With inhuman agility, she scuttled up the wall, squeezing through the skylight and emerging into the night air. Without hesitation, she leaped, landing gracefully in a nearby tree before racing towards town.

Shadows became her allies as she darted through the streets, her mottled brown and black body blending seamlessly with the darkness. Her destination was clear: the alley where she had spotted the homeless man earlier that day.

Scaling the building with ease, she peered down into the gloom. Movement caught her eye – something burst from the cardboard shelter. Dog? Human? Or some unholy fusion of both? The question flickered briefly in her mind before being consumed by the all-encompassing need to feed.

With practiced precision, she anchored a silvery strand of web and began her silent descent. Venom pooled in her fangs, anticipation building with each passing second. As she neared her prey, she flipped the cardboard aside, revealing a gruesome sight.

The man lay barely clinging to life, one eye socket a bloody void, his throat bearing the marks of a savage attack. Most chilling of all was the unnatural absence of blood – as if something had already begun to feed.

"Well," she murmured, her voice a mix of disappointment and resignation, "at least there's still some life in you. Beggars can't be choosers."

With lightning speed, she cocooned the weakened form. As her powerful jaws clamped down, the man's attempt at a scream was cut brutally short, replaced by the sickening crunch of bones giving way.

As the last morsel disappeared, an odd tingling sensation spread through her body. Limbs shifted, reformed – human once more. The transformation left her feeling stronger, faster than ever before. She raced home, covering impossible distances in mere minutes.

Slipping back through the skylight, she collapsed onto her bed, exhaustion finally claiming her. As sleep took hold, one nagging question lingered: what other creature prowled these streets, sharing her hunger for human flesh?