pomegranate juice #2
Lys halts. “For real?”
“I see what you’re doing. I get it, I do. And I know I’m being an asshole . . .”
“Do you, now? Really?”
“I understand how much my misery is dragging everybody down, but . . .”
Lys waits for me to finish, but I’ve got nothing left to say. There’s nothing left at all.
I feel so empty.
“We’re gonna keep trying,” Lys says. “You understand that, right? We’re your friends and friends don’t bail, even when you
want them to. Sorry, but we’re not giving up on you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You always know what to say . . .”
“Fuck off.”
“No, I mean it.”
“Sure. Fuck you, too.”
The conversation lulls for a breath, settling into a cul-de-sac of silence, only for Lys to pick it up again. “There’s something
I want to tell you. Before word gets around.”
“Oh? You got some hot goss for me?”
“Me and Deak are getting hitched.”
Whoa. Hold up. “For real? Didn’t you guys just break up again?”
“Yeah, we did . . . but he came crawling back. Again. Life is short, you know?”
Not what I was expecting. “Holy shit. Congrats.”
“I proposed and everything. He was too chickenshit to pop the question.”
“Check you out.”
“This year’s Miracle Mile is my last,” she says. “Finally applying to law school.”
“Wait—really?”
“Been a long time coming. I can’t keep doing this, you know? After what happened to you . . . That was a real wake-up call,
you know? For all of us.”
You can say that again. I’m still asleep. Wake up, Jordan. Wake—the fuck—up.
“Can’t act like we’re kids on bikes forever,” Lys says. “Need to grow up someday.”
“Someday,” I repeat, but the words are barely there. All my friends are growing up. Getting married. Getting jobs. Getting
serious about life. Getting their shit together.
All I’ve got is shit. A world of it. A fucking cesspool right here.
And no one to share it with.
“Deak wants you to be his best man,” Lys asks.
“Is he gonna ask?”
“He thinks you’ll give him hell for it.”
“He’s not wrong . . .”
“Will you? Be his best man?”
“Do I have to wear a tux?”
“If you’ve got one.” Lys keeps talking, sharing their plans. Ceremony in Maymont, she says—I think she says—but I’m having a hard time keeping up with the words. My attention drifts to this grizzled fisherman
at his stand, surrounded by fish packed on ice. There’s a steady drip of melted slush at his feet, puddling along the sidewalk.
As we walk by, I notice one eye slither across the socket, rotating away from the other eye, all on its own.
Watching me. He’s fucking watching me.
At least, one of his eyes is.
Faces are starting to blur. My grip is slipping. All these people milling around us. Their eyes start to slide. They’re looking
at me. All of them taking me in.
Grinning.
Then I hear it. A song I can’t place. A faint harmony in my head, just at the brink of deciphering itself. It’s there, right
at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t pinpoint it.
Music without a tune. A song without words. A ghost that won’t take shape.
Where have I heard it before?
Look at all these faces. These people. The mass of humanity tragically on display. Everyone wanders along these stalls, their lives intertwining for a few breathless seconds.
They don’t see us. See me. None of them know we are walking amongst them, drifting about the crowd. Absolutely anonymous and
soaking up every second of it.
Some sense us. That fitful chill runs down their spine. A shadow passing over their soul. Even if they can’t comprehend what’s
causing it, their instinct is to shrivel.
Call it evil. Call it sin.
Call it Lilith.
It makes us smile. We hold our head high, chin lifted, gracing these blissfully ignorant people with a touch of their own
darkness. We channel it. Luxuriate in it.
I want more. So much more. I wish to test the very precipice of this flesh, push this skin to the edge of experience, see
how far I can go before it all breaks.
Then I’ll simply slip into another. And another. Never settle. Never sink.
We spot a man and woman before us, pushing their infant child in a stroller. The baby is so vulnerable. Succulent, all wrapped
in its own fat. The innocence it radiates across the lot is as luscious as butter, the salty tang of its sinless existence
filling our lungs.
Our stomach grumbles. Even our own hunger is a pleasure. To feel the need to feed, that craven desire that calls out from
deep within the pit of our belly, brings its own joy.
We find our way before this family. We have halted them with our smile.
“May I?” we ask in the gentlest voice.
This father acquiesces. Nods. He should know better. He is more entranced by our own grin, the pomegranate juice still seeping
along our gums, the blood guttered within.
This mother notices. Of course she does. We sense the spike of petty jealousy. Her attention is on her husband. Not her own child.
Here’s our chance . . .
We lean forward and coo. Her parents watch on, oblivious to us. What’s inside. They barely bat an eye when we tap the tip
of our finger against the child’s nose.
Such a soft target. Her soul tastes like strawberries.
A gift, my child. Your first chilled inkling. A black spot. What’s to come. A blight to guide you. Our darkness, now yours.
Let it lead you through this life. Let it be your shadow.
We will be seeing each other once again. Soon enough, little one. All in due time.
You’re going to do terrible things one day, sweetie. Just you wait . . .
I planted a seed of sin. I absolutely cannot wait to watch it bloom. Let it flourish. I can practically picture all the heinous
acts. The atrocities blossoming. What a lovely garden of delights you’ll have in your future. And I’ll be there to clip that
bouquet, killer . . .
The baby begins to wail, and we are off once more, slipping into the crowd. Wandering amongst the innocent. The corruptible.
The guileless.
There is so much, too much, to experience. To savor. We want to taste more. Eat more. Devour all that we can. We are hungry
for what this world has to offer. Craven for it.
What’s this?
Something lingers in the air. A hint of familiarity. A scent we know, distinct from all the rest. It teases us, this intimacy.
What is it? It’s there, at the very tip of our tongue.
There. Amongst the others. We see him now.
Jordan.
His void calls to us from across the parking lot. Through all these people, he shines. The darkness that radiates out from
his soul distorts the very air around him, feeding on it.
His heart is a black hole. He’ll never get his fill.
What a vast chasm. What an abyss. It’s beautiful.
We call out his name.
He hears us—his name—but he cannot find us. Not quite yet. We are nothing more than a lone voice calling out from the crowd.
He searches for the source. Searches for us.
He doesn’t see. We call out once more to him, louder this time.
“Jordan!”
He turns our way. His eyes have yet to settle on us. They cross over our body as he turns his head, and in that moment, we
feel the heat of his stare against our chest.
And yet . . . he still doesn’t see.
See me.
Can’t breathe.
The panic attack comes quick. The crowd closes in all at once. I’m already feeling that first finger of anxiety press against
my chest, inserting itself into my solar plexus.
All these faces. So many people. Too many.
Some stare back. Some even smile. Who the fuck are these people?
I need to level my breathing. Need to get out of here.
Now.
Lys is drawn toward a stall selling eggs while I keep walking, losing myself in the crowd.
Look at all these people. Look at the couples. The families. Everyone going about their lives. Their happiness. Sipping coffee
or fresh juice. Some little girl in a summer dress covered in sunflowers dances to the bluegrass. She can’t be any older than
three. Her balance is off, so she falls, clapping. Those sunflowers seethe, burning so bright, I squint.
There is a life here. I see it all around me. I want to be in it. A part of it. Don’t I? That’s what I should be wanting right
about now, right? To re-enter society? Be normal again?
Their faces are melting, drip drip drip, like ice puddling on the sidewalk.
I feel so outside of everything. I can’t find my way back in. I can’t seem to—
“Jordan!”
I figure it’s Lys, dragging me back to reality, but when I turn, I realize she’s still sifting through the greens. Her back
is to me, leaning over the stall. It wasn’t her who called.
Who was it then? Am I just hearing things now, too? Voices?
It’s the song. The song in my head is calling out for me.
I swear someone called my name. A woman. Their voice cuts through the crowd, but when I glance around, for the life of me,
I can’t spot anyone.
“Jordan!” There it is again. My name.
Who’s saying it? I search the crowd, sifting through the steady stream of faces, an endless parade of parents and couples,
laughing, chatting, dripping, only to land on—
her
—a woman standing by herself. She’s facing me, wearing a pair of oval sunglasses. Smiling. I can’t help but glance past her
at first. She’s not someone I recognize.
I do a double take.
I’m sure she’s looking straight at me even though I can’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses. There’s bound to be about ten
yards between us, but she hasn’t moved. She’s wearing a romper the color of eggplant. Her red hair curls in tight ringlets.
A dusting of freckles covers the bridge of her nose, seasoning her cheeks.
There’s blood on her face. Dried to her chin. On her teeth.
That’s blood, isn’t it?
“It’s me,” she offers.
Who is she?
Now there can be no doubt who said his name. Jordan lays his eyes upon us. The uncertain look in his eyes pierces this skin.
Hurts us from the inside, a thorn at our heart.
He doesn’t know who we are. Doesn’t recognize us. Not in this skin. Not this vessel.
“It’s me,” we say.
We were wearing someone else during our last encounter. He wouldn’t know us—know me—without our former flesh. This body is
new to him, just as it is for us.
“Who are you?” The look on his face curdles into something we’re not expecting.
Fear. He is afraid of us.
Perhaps he should be.