Antlers

When Cecilia awoke on Thursday morning, she felt a peculiar weight at the top of her head. She got out of bed and walked over to the portrait sized mirror atop the oaken drawers.

Protruding from Cecilia's black hair were two antlers.

She raised a hand and ran her fingertips deftly, carefully, inquisitively over the surface; the waxy smoothness reminded her of slender branches of a tree, there was also a warmth radiating from the center of the antler, this made her smile, it was as if these foreign objects had already melded with her, as if they were supposed to belong on her head all this time and the fact that her existence of nineteen years without was an error.

Cecilia turned her head to the right and then to the left, she was quietly pleased with how they looked, elegant and otherly; a pleasant interruption to her appearance. This, she felt, would be her mark, a physical representation of the separation she felt from her cohort.

The antlers caused her no pain when squeezed and only a slight irritation when gently tugged. I suppose, she thought, I can't ever wear hats anymore; something which wasn't of concern to her.

To her changed reflection, she spoke: This is my true self, at last you appear.