Page 7 of The Slug Crystal
Setting up the terrarium is almost suspiciously easy. Jake reads the instructions, Alina decorates, and I transfer the snail with a delicacy I reserve for only the most fragile and oracular life forms. It leaves a shimmering streak on my finger, which Alina assures me is definitely not toxic.
The three of us stand back and watch as the snail… my snail? My curse? My ex? Alex? It… Explores its new habitat. It circles the log cabin, then pauses, antennae outstretched, as if seeing the world for the first time.
We place a few pieces of lettuce and watch him nibble or his goo eat away at it? I’m not sure. I wash my hands again, just in case.
Alina raises a glass of Gatorade. “To new beginnings.”
Jake clinks his can of Coke against it. “To functional boundaries.”
I lift my mug of lukewarm coffee and say, “To never doing magic again.”
Dante’s words about escape-proof terrariums echo in my head. I’m not sure if he was talking about the snail or about me. But as I watch the little blue shell glisten in the half-light, I feel, finally, honestly, a little less stressed. Maybe even hopeful.
Maybe this is what closure looks like. Not a clean break, and not a neat ending, but a slow, steady crawl toward something new.
3THE REVERSE HEX SUMMIT
Saturday,4:07PM. Closure does not look like turning your ex into a snail.
We’re in my living room, and I’m perched on the edge of my sofa like the world’s most anxious house cat, jumping at every noise and movement. The heat of my laptop is burning a rectangle into my thighs. Outside, the street is loud with the usual symphony of college-town Boston. Food trucks idling, there’s a distant dog riot, and the sounds of the slap of shoes and strollers and all other sorts of nonsense against the pavement. Inside, it’s just me, Jake, and Alina sitting in semi-silence. The three of us are locked in a search-and-destroy mission for the one thing more elusive than closure: a magical undo button.
My idea to be chill and let whatever happens, happen… lasted about seventy-five minutes before I had a full-blown panic attack. I’m not good at being chill, nor am I good at pretending. So now we are trying to figure out how to fix Alex.
Jake sits to my right, his arm draped over the couch back in a way that is both casual and, possibly, strategically positioned to corral me if I try to make a break for the kitchen.He’s got my old iPad, which he types on with an intensity that makes the cheap Bluetooth keyboard rattle. Every few seconds, he grunts or makes a face and leans closer to peer at the screen with his chin jutting forward, as if Google will cough up different results if he brings his jawline into play.
Alina is sprawled on the rug at our feet, hair in a pineapple bun, legs bicycling in the air as she scrolls on her phone. Every so often, she flips the screen around to show us a truly cursed meme or a tweet from a thread called Hex Fails. She’s wearing a highlighter-yellow bralette and matching bike shorts, because apparently dressing like a sentient pack of Post-Its is her method for manifesting clarity.
We are on hour two of what I have dubbed the Reverse Hex Summit, and so far, our research has netted:
— Seven YouTube videos promising emergency demagicification (all of them clickbait)
— Four contradictory Reddit threads, one of which devolved into a fight about the difference between slugs and snails
— An offer from an actual, licensed psychic to break the spell for $50, plus shipping (it was unclear what would be shipped)
— No fewer than a dozen blog posts warning us that all reversal attempts are at your own risk
The snail, formerly Alex, is in his new terrarium, which we have placed squarely in the center of the coffee table. The habitat is lush, filled with coconut coir, a fake waterfall, and the little log cabin Alina insisted on. There is a rainbow of decorative shells scattered throughout the coir, and all the extras make the thing look like an Airbnb for gastropods. He’s been asleep for the last hour, tucked deep into the moss like he’s in cryostasis and waiting for better writers to take over his story.
I refresh the search window for the tenth time. “Still nothing. The closest I’m seeing is a ‘counter curse’ that requiresblack candles and the hair of a virgin.” I glance at Alina. “Do you think the guy in 2B would let us pluck some arm hairs or something, for science?”
Alina waggles her phone. “Only if we offer him weed, or a couple dozen pictures of your boobs.”
I grimace and shake my head.
Jake sighs. “What happened to just calling customer support?”
I close my eyes, imagining the world’s least helpful helpline. “Press one to undo mollusk transformation. Press two to join our mailing list. Press three to scream into the void.”
He nudges my elbow. “Let’s try the original site again. There was an email, right?”
I hesitate, remembering the FAQ’s threat about misuse, but type witch-webshop.com into the address bar, anyway. The page loads, more gaudy in the daylight: pop-up banners, flashing fonts, and the sad anime mascots now sporting little Spring Sale hats.
Alina sits up cross-legged and says, “What if we just order another kit? Maybe there’s a reverse option.”
“We already have the kit,” I remind her. “We checked the box and the instructions. There’s no reverse spell, and I don’t think we need another slug crystal.”
Jake leans over my shoulder, scanning the site with me. “Is there a live chat? There’s always a live chat.”
