Chapter 11
Behind The Mask
It had been a week. Seven endless nights, each one longer and more hollow than the last. A week spent reliving the moment when fur, fang, and terror exploded around us; a week since Aiden’s blood seeped black onto the forest floor since he pushed me behind him and disappeared beneath that writhing mass of wolves.
Seven days in which I woke up every morning shivering, hand pressed to the phantom-torn skin at my throat, pulse jackhammering with the memory of animal heat and the sharp copper stench of fresh wounds.
I had checked Neon’s silent alleyway every night after my shift, hoping beyond logic that he would step from the darkness, battered but alive. Each time was nothing. I told myself he was gone. That he must be gone.
But that didn’t stop me from searching for him in every stranger or every glimpse of a leather jacket in a crowd. It didn’t stop the dreams, those fevered night visions where I ran down endless midnight hallways while something hot and wild chased close behind.
My phone became a lifeline, one that I clutched tightly. I told myself not to care, yet my fingers hovered over the keyboard, crafting messages that trembled with urgency—Are you okay? What are you?—only to erase them before they could escape into the void.
The silence from Aiden’s pack loomed like a shadow; if it weren’t for the vivid echoes of that blood-soaked night, I might have convinced myself they were figments of a fevered imagination.
Days unraveled into a nonsensical blur; phone calls went unanswered, and my shifts at Neon morphed into a monotonous parade of dull faces and flickering lights.
Even Mateo noticed how far gone I was.
He didn’t say much at first; that was the thing that scared me. He’d started watching instead. Sitting cross-legged on the arm of the couch with his homework open but untouched, glancing up every time I drifted too long into nothing. Like he was tracking me. Taking mental notes.
Sometimes he’d hover in the doorway while I cooked, pretending to be interested in the fridge or his phone, waiting to see if I’d snap back into myself. Other times, he’d ask questions that sounded casual but weren’t.
“You working late again?” “You eat today?” “You good to take the train that late?”
Not worried. Just… checking.
At night, when I tucked him in, he didn’t cling. He lay stiff on top of the covers, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His phone stayed face-down on the nightstand, close enough to grab if he needed it.
“You good, Mom?” he’d ask, like it was no big deal.
“Yeah,” I’d lie.
He’d nod, accepting the answer without believing it. That hurt worse than if he’d cried.
In addition to my disquieted mind, Mateo’s nightmares deepened into a haunting symphony of fear. His nightmares didn’t come every night, but when they did, they were violent enough to yank me awake from across the apartment.
Mateo never screamed my name. He gasped instead, sharp and animal, like he’d been dropped into cold water. By the time I reached him, he was already sitting up, breath ragged, jaw clenched tight like he was trying to hold himself together.
I pulled him into my arms anyway. He let me, just for a second, before pulling back and scrubbing his face with his sleeve.
“Just a stupid dream,” he muttered.
I didn’t argue. I just stayed until his breathing slowed, until the tension drained from his shoulders.
By morning, he acted fine. That was the part that terrified me.
Each night I lay awake long after Mateo drifted off, listening for sounds outside the window that shouldn’t exist: a wolf’s howl, broken glass, footsteps too heavy for the floorboards.
By Monday afternoon, I realized I had not spoken one real word in three days.
And Mateo’s birthday was the next day.
I realized it standing in the kitchen, staring at the calendar like it had personally betrayed me. Eleven years old. Double digits plus one. And I had nothing, no cake planned, no candles hidden in a cabinet, no secret present stuffed under my bed.
He didn’t remind me.
That somehow felt worse.
When I finally knelt beside him, where he sat messing with an old action figure he was clearly too old for but hadn’t thrown out yet, he didn’t look up right away.
“I know,” he said before I could speak. “You’ve had a lot going on.”
My throat closed.
“We’ll do something this weekend,” I promised. “I swear.”
He glanced up then, studying my face like he was deciding whether to trust me. Finally, he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. Not disappointed. Not excited. Just… understanding.
I hated myself for how much that understanding cost him.
The rest of the week went by in a similar fashion.
The quietly built pressure inside my skull until every sound was too loud.
Even at Neon, the club’s thumping bass grated on my nerves instead of lulling them into oblivion.
I started counting the hours until my debut performance just so there was something solid ahead.
Thursday dawned, cloaked in a shroud of gray clouds.
The air was thick with humidity, promising rain that never seemed to arrive.
I moved through the motions of my morning: scrubbing dishes, sweeping crumbs from the floor.
Each chore felt like a reminder of normalcy, yet my heart raced with anticipation and dread for what lay ahead.
Today marked my debut as Neon’s masked dancer.
The thought sent ripples of anxiety coursing through me, tightening my chest like a vice. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something monumental was about to unfold, a collision of worlds where shadows danced just beyond my reach.
In the dimly lit backstage area, I paced like a caged animal, my heart racing with an electric blend of anxiety and excitement that buzzed beneath my skin. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray and sweat, mingling with the distant thump of bass from the club’s speakers.
I caught sight of my reflection in the cracked dressing room mirror, where my eyes were shadowed by dark circles. My fingers trembled slightly as I applied foundation, desperately trying to mask the fatigue etched into my features.
Just then, Rita burst through the door, her vibrant energy cutting through my swirling thoughts like a beacon. She took one look at me and raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a knowing smirk that hinted at both mischief and encouragement.
“You gonna be okay out there?” Rita asked, her voice a gentle nudge amidst my swirling thoughts.
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It’s just a dance.”
“Please,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “We both know it’s not just that.”
The air between us vibrated with a static charge.
Rita and I sat in that cramped, fluorescent-lit dressing room in silence, thinking of the times this same scene played out with Ava.
My tongue felt numb. Every time I opened my mouth to ask, “Have you heard from Hazel?” or “Do you think she’s alright?
” the words dissolved into vapor, leaving only bitter aftertastes of regret and longing.
Instead, we made small talk that night, trading barbs about dodgy regulars, bitching about the broken A/C that left sweat pooling beneath my bra line by ten-thirty. But underneath the surface chatter, our minds orbited the same black star: Ava’s absence.
If I closed my eyes, I could replay every second of the day we lost her.
The sirens, uniforms swarming her apartment building, a six-year-old Hazel clinging to my leg with both arms while I tried to keep my own knees from buckling.
I vividly remembered how no one could reach Ava, how I tried demanding answers at the precinct’s front desk.
Until it was too late. And social services had shown up with their clipboards and fake-concern voices. Even then, they let me take Hazel for “the night,” as if grief could be negotiated by hour or rationed by teaspoon.
That day rewired me. It taught me how quickly sunlight evaporates from a room when someone snuffs out your entire sense of normal in one call.
The memory clung to me now like a chill inside my ribcage.
I could almost feel Hazel’s terrified little hands pressing against me, even though she hadn’t called in weeks, or maybe even months.
So it wasn’t just guilt that gnawed at me as showtime approached; it was this new, all-consuming paranoia that something else might go wrong tonight.
Rita caught my eye in the mirror. Her expression softened for a split second, a flash of big-sister empathy before she slipped on her own mask of brash indifference.
“You know,” she said quietly, “you don’t have to do this if you’re not feeling up to it.” She gestured at my partial costume, a vintage magenta corset and a delicate black g-string thong, like it was battle armor rather than club attire.
I shook my head, more grateful for her concern than I could admit aloud. “It keeps me busy,” I said. The alternative, sitting at home counting Mateo’s breaths, wasn’t an option.
“Just don’t let any of those creeps backstage tonight,” Rita warned with a wink. We both laughed, the sound brittle but oddly comforting, and for a moment it almost felt like old times.
I spent fifteen minutes smothering thoughts of Ava beneath layers of foundation and glitter primer until only their ghosts remained.
When the house lights dimmed for the opening act, Rita squeezed my hand once, a silent promise that no matter what happened out there in front of those leering faces, she would have my back. If we were walking into a trap tonight, at least we’d do it side by side.