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DEMONS REALLY NEED THERAPY
Ro
“No more fires. No more stealing. No killing.”
I mumble the words under my breath, repeating them like a mantra as the afternoon sun beats down on me. I kick a pebble down the sidewalk, scuffing my sneaker and sending the stone skittering off the curb into a pile of leaves. My inner demon perks up. Those leaves would go up in flamesso easily.
Ugh. I rake my fingers through my hair, irritation bubbling. I was literally reciting my mantra seconds ago, yet my brain went to setting another fire at the first opportunity. My therapist says I need to change my thought patterns, and that’ll help me control the urges. She also says it takes time, patience, and practice, all of which are a struggle for me.
My hands clench at the nape of my neck as I tip my head back, letting out a heavy sigh before checking for traffic and crossing the road. I need to get my thoughts back in order before my bartending shift at Tempo, one of many queer clubs in the gayborhood.
Last time I let the demon out too close to work, I flirted with everyone who so much as looked at me with interest, and hookedup with two different guys before my shift was over. Then I ended up stealing a grand total of $103 dollars, a sleek black watch, someone’s phone (which I later put in the lost and found bin behind the bar), and a tube of lipstick.
I don’t even wear lipstick.
Andthat’swhy I’m in therapy. Because even though I’m a demon, I want to be good. I yearn to be a good person, someone who contributes to society rather than being a menace who breaks laws every day. I know it’s not in my nature as a demon, but people can change, right? My therapist seems to think so, anyway. If she has hope for me, then I will too.
A flash of silver in the sunlight catches my attention and my steps falter. I do a double take, but only see a glimpse of a woman in black before she disappears around the corner of the next building. Her hair was shimmery silver, shining like starlight even though it’s mid-afternoon. I’ve never seen anything like it, and the demon inside me is more intrigued than I’ve felt in ages.
Already on edge, he’s desperate to follow her. The urge bubbles and rises, filling my chest until it’s hard to breathe, and I instinctively take a step in her direction.
But no, I have to get to work. My shift starts in… I check my phone. Five minutes ago.
Shit.
I jog the remaining half block to Tempo and fling the door open, reminding myself that this is the exact type of impulse my therapist wants me resisting anyway. I try to feel good about ignoring it, like I’m doing the right thing, but all I feel is a staticky type of anxious. Denying my demonic urges never feels good. It brings fire to my fingertips, a flash of wavering heat flickering in and out, and I grimace, clenching my fists to douse it.
I steel myself for another rough shift as I clock in. Tempo doesn’t open for twenty minutes yet, so I go through the motions on autopilot, falling into the familiar routine of setting up my space behind the bar while my brain obsesses over that millisecond glimpse ofher.The girl with the starlight hair, black combat boots, and skintight black pants.
I need to see her again.
“Hey, man,” Finn says. My friend thumps his fist on the bar as he saunters in, heading to the stage.
“Hey,” I mumble a reply, giving an absent nod in greeting.
I wish I had caught more. I’ve never seen her before, but then again, I only recently started working here when Finn told me there was an opening bartending at the club where he DJ’s. I resolve to keep my eyes peeled and be at that corner five minutes earlier tomorrow, just in case she and I are on a similar schedule.
Tempo opens and people trickle in for a couple hours. Then it turns to a steady pour, and before I know it, the club is filled. Music thumps beneath my feet as I shake cocktails and pour shots. The fire at my fingertips is eager, making my hot pink nails glow each time it flares to life.
I flex and clench my hands every few minutes to try to erase the prickling itch beneath my skin, the impulse to set fire to the next thing I see, to swipe or steal the next thing I touch. Even the itch to strangle this guy who won’t stop talking to me is getting hard to ignore.
I’ve never killed anyone, thankfully, but that’s not to say it’s off the table. Plenty of demons have. It’s part of why we’re called demons, after all, because we’re known criminals with urges that used to get us institutionalized and locked away. Now, most of us live in hiding or work for various levels of law enforcement; still largely responsible for many of the horrors that happen in the world, but some of us aren’t so bad.
My parents are the type of demons whose inclinations mostly revolve around drugs and sex, much to my discomfort as a teenager. I think that’s why I don’t view sex as something serious; it’s just another fun activity that’s been normal since I was old enough to understand it.
My mom and dad have always been open about who they are and embracing their lifestyle, accepting their demon urges. And while I love that for them, it doesn’t exactly work with the demonic impulses I was born with. Mine are much more destructive and harmful to others, rather than only myself, and my parents never knew what to do with me.
I don’t know what to do with me either.
“You’re distracted today.”
I nearly leap out of my skin and fire shoots from my fingers down to the floor. Thankfully, it sputters out before catching.
“Finn! Holy shit, man. Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I gasp, my heart hammering in my chest.
Finn looks around, eyebrows raised. “Sorry about that?”
