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The gorgon decided enough was enough when she turned her hundredth person to stone.
It wasn't even her fault. Mostly. Mostly it wasn't her fault. She was digging up her dahlias when a voice dripping with bonhomie had boomed out behind her.
"Sister!" cried out the voice behind her. "Have you heard the good news about our lord—"
She turned around to tell the person as politely as possible to fuck off, but her mask slipped, and: bam. Stone.
She sighed and called the stonemason to let him know she had another statue.
The gorgon hated turning people to stone. For one thing, they cluttered up the landscape—took up prime gardening space, became tripping hazards. For another, the incensed relatives were a giant pain.
She did her best to prevent the transformations by wearing masks while out. The problem with having snakes for hair, though, was that they were assholes who wouldn't stay put, and were entirely too fond of shoving masks askew.
Change was necessary. A plastic surgeon was out of the question, but she'd heard good things about the witch, out in the big city.
She drove there at night, putting on her tightest mask and her aviators, muttering at her snakes to behave. They hissed and rustled sleepily back.
The witch looked nothing like the gorgon expected. Young, mohawked, dressed in baggy pants and a T-shirt with ripped-off sleeves. She looked more likely to pull a sick skateboarding move than perform magic, but the gorgon took one look in her eyes, dark and knowing, and knew she'd found the right person.
"What's with the mask?" asked the witch, curious but not unkind.
The gorgon pointed to her snakes.
"Those are some sick-ass snakes," said the witch. "Doesn't answer my question."
"I'm a gorgon. I don't want to turn you into stone."
"Don't worry about me," said the witch.
"Look, I really don't want to call the stonemason at this hour, or have your witchy friends coming for me."
The witch grinned a crooked, charming smile. "For real, don't worry. Lemme guess: you want me to transform your appearance so your hideous visage doesn't turn people into stone."
The gorgon nodded.
"Hate to tell you this, but if I have to change your face, I can't do it blind."
"All right, your funeral."
"Look, if I turn to stone, you 100% have my permission to use me as a headstone statue. Here, I'll strike a noble pose." The witch flexed her biceps, kissed one of them, and looked expectantly at the gorgon.
The gorgon bit off a laugh and realized: she really didn't want to turn this witch into stone. God, she hoped she knew what she was talking about.
The gorgon took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, took off her aviators, and pulled off her mask.
She peeled her eyelids open one at a time, expecting the worst.
The witch winked at her, then lowered her arms.
The gorgon stared. "What—"
The witch shrugged and gave that charming, off-kilter smile again.
"Look," the witch said. "I'm more invested than most in looking like a badass, but turning into stone isn't my idea of a good time."
She stepped closer and peered at the gorgon. The gorgon could barely breathe.
"Is this magic? Are you immune?"
"I mean, I'm definitely magic," said the witch, still examining the gorgon with unnerving intensity. "But that's not why I haven't turned into stone." She pulled back.
"I can transform your face," said the witch. "It'll be expensive and horribly painful, but it'll work. I can even take your snakes and turn them into regular hair, which would be a shame."
At that, Finn, the longest and boldest snake, slithered out and nuzzled the witch's cheek. The gorgon turned purple with embarrassment. "Finn!" she hissed. "Get back here!"
Finn, as always, paid zero attention to her.
The witch gave a delighted peal of laughter. "Hey, buddy," she said. She shot a look at the gorgon. "Can I pet him?"
"Yeah, sure," mumbled the gorgon. "Sorry for his appalling manners. People think we have full control of our snakes, but the truth is—"
"They're completely autonomous, yeah," said the witch, petting the top of Finn's head with a gentle finger.
"So how much would it cost?" asked the gorgon.
"A lot," said the witch, eyes fixed on Finn. "It's old magic, and hard, and dangerous—for both of us. But before you make up your mind, I want you to consider something: why don't gorgons turn to stone when they're around each other?"
The gorgon frowned. "What?"
"I mean, you had parents, right? And presumably your parents begat you the usual way, and their parents before them. None of them turned into stone. Why is that?"
"Uh." Hell. The gorgon felt like she'd walked int a quiz she hadn't known about and hadn't prepped for. "Magic?"
"Nope," said the witch, still petting Finn, who was flickering his little tongue all over her cheek and temple. "Not magic."
"Weird natural genetic immunity?" guessed the gorgon.
"Closer!" said the witch. "But not quite. It's really simple." She stepped back and way from Finn.
"I don't find you hideous," said the witch.
The gorgon, struck dumb, stared at her.
"Other gorgons don't find each other ugly. Gorgon magic depends entirely on the beholder finding them so repulsive that they freeze and reject them. The magic takes care of the rest."
The gorgon scrambled for something to say, and the first thing to fly out of her mouth, mortifyingly, was "Wait, you don't think I'm hideous?"
The witch smiled. "Hell nah. You look great! You look exactly as a gorgon should look." Her expression softened. "And that's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about, because strictly speaking, there's absolutely nothing wrong with you, and everything wrong with a system that not only teaches people a hilariously narrow definition of beauty, but to fear anything they find ugly."
"That's great," said the gorgon sharply, "but no amount self-acceptance is gonna stop people from turning into stone, which is a real problem."
"I know," said the witch. "I'll still transform your appearance, if you want. But also: there are gorgon-accepting communities."
A small burst of hope, tender and painful, flared to life in the gorgon's chest. She bit her lip and said nothing, rolling the phrase over and over in her head: gorgon-accepting community.
"I can introduce you to some people," said the witch. "If you like."
The gorgon kept staring at the witch.
"And if you don't like it—if you decide we're a bunch of assholes—you can ditch us, and I'll change your face. Your body, you get to do whatever you want with it. But, y'know, maybe try something less permanent first."
The gorgon couldn't hold back any more; she burst out with the truth that had been burning a hole in her chest ever since she made her decision. "I don't want to change my face."
The witch nodded. "But you feel like you have to?"
"It's so hard." The gorgon paused. "Pun intended?"
"I just want to gently suggest that maybe your face isn't the entire problem here."
"FUCK." The gorgon scrubbed her face. The snakes, sensing her agitation, writhed. A couple of them hissed.
"Look," said the witch, "we have a chill craft night on Tuesdays. Come by if you want. It's a bunch of weirdoes gossiping about our favorite shows while knitting or quilting or glaring at our laptops. You can talk as little or as much as you want. And you don't have to hide your face."
She wouldn't have to hide her face.
Something small and painful fluttered in the gorgon's chest. "I don't know," she said.
"I'll email you the details, if you like," said the witch.
"Sure," said the gorgon. "Yeah, sure. Send me the deets." She gave a small, shaky laugh.
Putting the mask back on felt painful.
But on the drive home, the freeway a silver ribbon unfurling ahead in the black night, the gorgon thought, and dreamed, and saw a different future than she'd ever thought possible unspooling in front of her.