rebounding around town #3
It’s happening again. Only more. Eyes everywhere. I’m seeing them wherever I go now. In the faces of people I pass by. Behind
their eyes. Their smiles, lingering on their lips.
Demons. They’re following me. Watching me.
Happy hour is here. Ipanema gets a decent mix of hipsters and college kids. Doesn’t take much for this basement bar to get
crowded, but it seems—I don’t know—exceptionally hectic. All these bodies press up against each other, sharing the same air.
The general din of conversation lifts so high, a chorus of voices, I can’t even hear myself think.
I don’t want to think. I’m here to drown. Get blackout drunk and fall straight into that black hole. Never climb out from
this abyss. I don’t want to see demons anymore.
Wicker Men is tonight. Just what I need. A fucking house party. I promised Lys I’d go, but before I hit the road, it’s time
for a little pre-gaming. Just a drink to balance the nerves.
Make that two more drinks. Who’s counting?
I’m losing myself in the light refracted off the ice melting in my glass, the colors swirling in an oil spill spiral. Look
at that—an entire cosmos in my scotch on the rocks.
I can’t stop thinking about her. The demon within. It was easier before, when it was just her. Now I’m seeing them everywhere.
They’re in my sleep, my dreams, all around—
“Is this seat taken?” A woman’s voice beckons behind me.
I turn, expecting to find Lilith.
The woman standing before me is not someone I’ve ever met before, but that doesn’t mean much these days. She’s tall, much
taller than me. That’s saying something. She’s wearing an emerald-green dress along with a black satin choker, hair pinned
back.
She slides in next to me before I can answer. “What are you drinking?”
“Scotch. Rocks.”
She turns to the bartender and asks, “Two scotch on ice, please.”
The bartender brings them. She raises a glass to me. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
Clink. I take mine down in one gulp. I can feel the fire work its way down my throat, scorching everything in its path. The burn
blossoms in my belly, a full-on fire.
This woman’s eyes haven’t left me. She’s taking me in, sizing me up. I can only imagine what’s on her mind, if they’re even
her thoughts at all. Because let’s be honest with ourselves here, okay? The only folks interested in chatting with me these
days are demons.
“Looking a little wounded there, soldier,” she says. “You on the rebound?”
“At least I got a purple heart.”
“It’s bleeding all over the bar . . .”
“Don’t want to stain the wood.”
“I don’t mind,” she says, leaning in.
I lean back, trying to keep a wee bit of space between us. “Do I know you?”
She presses her palm to her chest, mortally wounded. “You don’t remember me?”
“The faces tend to blur,” I say. “Then again . . . that’s not your real face, is it?”
“What gave me away?”
“Plenty,” I say, crunching on some ice. “Who am I talking to? Name yourself.”
“Pushy, pushy . . .”
“Tell me your name.”
“The power of whiskey compels you . . .” She mimics the three stations, blessing herself, drink still in her hand, ice clinking with each station: father, ghost, and holy spirits.
“Tell me,” I insist. “I’m done playing games.”
“But we’ve just started, Jordan . . .”
I shake my head, chuckling. “You’re all after the same thing . . .”
“Oh?” She’s humoring me with her curiosity. “What’s that, soldier?”
“A warm body for the night.”
“There are worse things, aren’t there?” She rubs her shoulder against mine. “You’re not like all the other fellas, are you?”
“So I’ve heard,” I say. “I’ve got no soul.”
“They’re overrated.” She leans in to whisper in my ear. “Can I fill you in on a secret?” She glances around the bar, taking
the space in. “Look around. See that guy over there?”
Young. Early twenties. College kid, most likely. Barely old enough to drink. Blond hair, cut to his ears. He’s here with a
few other friends, taking over the corner booth. The second I spot him, he perks up, finding my eyes. The grin he gives sends
a chill through me.
“And that woman over there?” This time, she nods toward the end of the bar. There’s a woman, late thirties, on a date with
another woman. Her head tilts toward one shoulder, meeting my gaze and grinning, the coils of her oily black hair spilling
over.
“Who do you think is inside them?” she asks. “Wearing their skin?”
“It’s a real meat market in here,” I say. I’m getting better at seeing them. I haven’t perfected it yet, but I’m starting
to get the hang of picking out the possessed.
I see them, simmering in the skin. I always knew the dating scene was hell. I just didn’t think it was literally hell.
“They all want you, Jordan. They’re hungry for you. So tasty. A god box who doesn’t know any better. As soon as word got around about you, you had everybody all up in a tizzy.”
“Not interested.”
“You can’t just call upon us and expect us not to answer . . .”
The slither of eyes around the room never settles. I feel the eyes behind the eyes, that insinuating stare of a separate presence,
hiding inside. There are so many of them.
So many heads turn my way. The conversation drops. The din within the room is gone almost altogether, and I’m left on the
receiving end of over a dozen different gazes.
“There’s blood in the water now,” she says. “Yours, Jordan . . . Bottoms up.”
As above, so below.
“Sorry.” I drop a twenty on the bar, hoping that’ll settle my tab, before pushing back my stool and standing. I nod to my
companion, then turn to leave. “You’re not my type.”
“Come on,” she says. “Just one more drink. For ol’ times’ sake?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got a party to—”
I hit a wall. No bricks, just flesh and blood.
“Excuse me.” Blondie is standing in front of me, blocking my way. His grin hasn’t diminished. If anything, it’s only grown
wider. Separate clefts in the corner of his lips rift deeper across his cheeks, these slits in his skin reaching all the way
up to his ears.
“What’s one more drink gonna hurt?” he asks.
All eyes are on me. The whole bar. Practically everyone in this fucking place is possessed.
Am I the only single person here?
I try to push past this possessed asshole, but the second I make my move, his hand is pressed flat against my chest, pushing
back.
I hadn’t noticed my new friend from the bar sliding up behind me. She’s got a shot in her hand, which she brings up to my
lips and tips. Most of it makes its way down my throat.
“Down the hatch . . .”
There’s the burn. I’m coughing whiskey.
“Forget Lilith,” she says. “What can she offer you that we can’t?”
“Plenty of fish in the sea,” Blondie offers. “You just gotta let us in.”
The pressure of bodies tightens. I hadn’t realized everyone was closing in. The people at the bar, the tables, nearly everyone
in here, they’re all surrounding me.
Raising their glasses. A toast to me.
Nobody drinks. I’m getting bathed in booze. Anointed in alcohol. It all comes showering down, drenching me, until I feel the
singe in my skin.
“Drink! Drink! Drink!”
Their lips loosen. Cheeks sag until they look like jelly jowls. The bags under their eyes pucker and drip. Their cheeks slacken
into taffy, their jaws weighed down until they look as if they’re about to fall right off. Their noses crater, sinking into
themselves, leaving behind nothing but these hollow sockets in the center of their faces. Laughing through it all.
“Drink! Drink! Drink!”
I push through. I shove my shoulder between the weakest link in the crowd and plow my way out of Ipanema. I can hear their
voices behind me, their laughter trailing after me outside, into the streets. They’re behind me. Right behind me. Closing
in, I just know. But the second I turn—
I’m alone.
The door to the Ipanema slowly closes, on its own. I get a passing glance at the people inside, milling about and drinking
as if nothing were out of sorts, nothing at all.
Except for the one lady at the bar. She gives me a wink as she raises her glass, one last toast before the door closes, sealing
shut, sealing me out.