Most young women are taken aside at some point by their mothers and informed about that dubious feature of our reproductive systems resulting in monthly indisposition. My own mother had died in childbirth, however, and nobody bothered to tell me in advance what I should expect. It was just a month after my thirteenth birthday when I had my first flowers our quaint eighteenth-century term for menses. As it happened, my elder cousin Bronwyn was present that fateful evening in October of 1748, and she told me everything I needed to know about this phenomenon. Except for one small thing. When I bleed, it turns me into a monster. Literally.

updated by @andronica-llewellyn: 06 Oct 2016 06:13:29AM