Five hours into my shift, my mood has taken a drastic turn. Although I didn’t truly expect Alorra to return, a sliver of my heart hoped she might. The longer I go without seeing her, the more my demon wants to leave and seek her out. To follow in her footsteps as she went home, or took her motorcycle out, or went to another club and… no.
That’s not a thought I want to indulge. Flames flicker at my fingertips for a different reason this time, ready to scald and destroy. I roll a small ball of fire across my knuckles before circling it in my fist to put it out.
No more fires. No more stealing. No killing.
I take a deep breath and survey the crowd of sweaty dancers, hands in the air, bodies bouncing with the beat. My mood continues to sour as the night wears on. People get more and more drunk, the dancing gets more salacious, the music starts to pound in an unpleasant way, and I get increasingly antsy.
I like my job for the most part, yet there’s one insecurity that continues to plague me when this type of mood hits. There’s nothing wrong with bartending, and the club is fun, but I do wish I could do more. As it is, my life feels meaningless at times. Like I’m not contributing anything, but just floating along day to day.
I want my parents to be proud of me. I want to make a positive impact on society, but what have I done to earn it? Nothing.
My demon is pushing at the edges of my control, wanting out, to find Alorra, to set fire to anyone who may have put their hands on her in the hours since she left here. To steal her away and hoard her for myself.
I debate calling my therapist, but it’s well past midnight, and I know she won’t answer. She gave me emergency numbers for exactly this type of situation—when things start spiraling and my thoughts feel out of control—so I consider calling one of those instead. Each time I feel close to breaking though, I catch a glimpse of the light sparkling off Alorra’s silver bracelet, and I settle a bit.
My fingers are constantly fidgeting with it, circling and twisting and spinning it to remind myself I’m not alone. That I have a piece of her right here with me, and somehow that’s enough to get me through the night.
In the following days, I try not to seek her out, I really do, but I can’t keep myself away from her. My feet have a mind of their own as I watch and study her habits and routines, taking advantage of her opening the curtains some mornings and noting the shadowy movements behind them when she doesn’t.
I learn when she wakes up—late morning to early afternoon—that she takes care of a stray tabby cat but doesn’t eat much breakfast or lunch herself, that she often disappears for hours at a time on her motorcycle. I keep an eye on her apartment, and I try to trail her anytime she leaves, but I quickly learn I’m not that great at it.
Who knew stalking was so challenging? I lose track of her constantly in those early days of learning how to balance stealth and speed, and more than once my frustration gets the better of me, resulting in a few more flaming trashcans thanks to my demon throwing a fit.
I wish I didn’t have these impulses, that I could just be a regular man, but my therapist tells me that kind of thought process will only make things worse. Instead, I’m supposed to acknowledge and reframe those thoughts. The best I can do right now is remind myself that I’m doing my best.
Unfortunately, I’m not always able to follow Alorra since I have to get to the bar for my shift, and it irks me that I can’t decipher what she does for work. I think I’m close to figuring it out today, though.
Alorra takes her bike out, riding into one of the sketchier areas of Chicago, and I’m able to tail her the whole way. When she pulls off into an alley, I park the next block up and sneak back on foot to see her disappearing around a corner further in. My brows furrow as I look up and down the street. This is not a safe area, and I can’t fathom what she might be doing here.
I pick up my pace as I stride down the alley after her, trying to exude confidence, and ignoring the stench rising from the overflowing trash bins. But when I peek around the corner she took, there’s no sign of her. I step into a shady alcove, my heel catching on the cracked pavement as my eyes scan the space. Dilapidated brick buildings line one side, and what looks likean abandoned warehouse takes up the other. There’s no one around, and no telling where Alorra might have gone.
I scowl and kick a rock with my boot. It clatters across the pavement, then ricochets against a metal trashcan, and I cringe as the sound echoes through the alley. I huff out a breath of frustration as I turn away, circling around the alley to inspect the rest of it for any clues, but finding none. It’s like she disappeared into thin air.
I try to take a deep, calming breath, but the putrid air sticks in my throat, choking me. This is a miserable place, and Alorra shouldn’t be anywhere near it. The sun beats down between the buildings, heating the concrete and making the awful smell even worse.
My frustration spikes and I throw out a hand, reacting without thinking as a line of flame shoots into the nearest dumpster and the contents light up.
I stare at the blaze, the mesmerizing dance of red and orange and yellow tongues as they lick up the side of a brick building. It doesn’t catch, but I stand there until it starts to die down just in case, ensuring I haven’t put anyone but myself in danger.
The flames are satisfying, like being cocooned in a comforting, weighted blanket, so long as I ignore the disappointment lurking deep in my bones at once again failing to control my urges.
Lor
“You’ve done well this time, Alorra,” the man says.
I hate the way he says my name, like he’s entitled to it. I don’t reply, and he doesn’t expect me to.
His eyes don’t leave the stardust as he speaks, and the goon in a white lab coat he has weighing and measuring it barely glances at me either. The light is nearly blinding in this sterile section of the large concrete room, minimalistic with everything in its place. So at odds with the cluttered external appearance of the run down warehouse. I thought I was lost the first time I was told to report here, but inside is a different world.
One I wish I had never become a part of.
The stardust is handled carefully, with the workers wearing latex gloves and masks, and the space lined with plastic sheeting. I reflect that it’s probably being given more care than anything else in their miserable, crime-ridden lives, and although part of me is glad they’re handling it respectfully, the other part of me aches.
I only just found that stardust, so to have to give it up so soon, knowing it’ll be lost forever as soon as it’s turned into a magical drug, feels like it’s tearing out a piece of my soul.
“I’ll expect another delivery next week. This is better, but still not enough,” he says.
“I’ll try—” I start to say, but he interrupts me.
