The rain was cool, but the night was still warm. The Baltan heat had poured into the pavement during the day, radiating surprising warmth hours past when the sun went down. The sidewalks were mostly empty, since most people don't like to walk in the rain. It was still a few hours before
midnight, and plenty of cars drove by, threatening to spray the few pedestrians as they plowed through the puddles.
I spent the first three blocks of my journey home trying to rationalize what had happened. Just because Arzal the Demon told me that tequila with worms didn't give you hallucinations didn't mean he wasn't a hallucination.
In fact, that sounded very much like the kind of thing a hallucination would say. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn't convince myself that I had somehow imagined the whole thing. Even in the most vivid dreams I have ever had, there was always some sort of surreal quality to them.
I couldn't feel the chair I was sitting in or couldn't read the words on a page. But there
had been no snags in the fabric of reality during that scene. I had felt the crappy theater chair I was sitting in. I could read words on the screen. There had been absolutely zero clowns. As much as I might want to, I couldn't dismiss what had just happened to me as some sort of crazy fantasy.
At the same time, who even believed in demons anymore? I mean, besides old church ladies, people from third-world countries, and apparently me now. Even if I accepted that demons were real—I really had no proof that they weren't other than the fact that I didn't want them to be—then
what else was real? Things like unicorns, magic, and the Tooth Fairy all became a lot more plausible.
I spent the rest of my walk home specifically trying not to think about demons and monsters. Which, naturally, meant I thought of nothing but. Have you ever tried to not think of something specific, like elephants in
ballet tutus? It's literally impossible. Almost as bad as trying to not think about manual breathing.
At one point, the downpour increased, and I stood under a bus station awning, letting the angry sky vent a little more of its frustration. The desert.and the sky don't get along as far as I can tell. Desert Dude is always hot and cranky, and when Lady Rain finally decides to visit, she isn't gentle.
It feels like those of us dumb enough to live in the wasteland that is Low-land Valley are stuck in between their eternal lovers' quarrel.
Stuck with nowhere to go, I pulled out my phone and checked it for messages. A couple from my friends wishing me well or checking in on me. None from my father. On a whim, I pulled up his contact and stared at it for a long moment before putting my phone away and walking out into the rain.
It wasn't worth it. Not even for a birthday. The floating feeling from the tequila faded on my walk. Maybe the constant drizzle and the exercise had sobered me up. Maybe there was something about being visited by a demon that lowered your blood-alcohol
content. Or—and probably most likely—maybe I hadn't actually had as much as I thought.
The old four-story building that housed our apartment was one of those buildings that are probably historic but no one has ever cared enough to take care of it. A vibe that is consistent with the neighborhood of Low land, a place I often refer to in my head as the "armpit of Athen" because we are off to the side, and it smells a little funky. It's the
Valley, what can I say?
The tan limestone exterior had wooden accents that were splintering and worn down from years of being exposed to the elements. The brown trim was faded and in desperate need of a new coat.
I opened the front door, which creaked in mild rebellion. Stopping at the bottom of the linoleum stairs, I tried to mentally prepare myself for the onslaught to come. You can never truly avoid some sort of birthday
shenanigans with friends like mine.
My hiding tonight had only delayed the
inevitable. With a sigh, I started my trek up to our third-floor apartment, my wet sneakers squeaking with every step, echoing through the cavernous stairway. While not my preference for a theme song, it also sounded about right.
Our door was also pretty old, but this was one time I was okay with old. It was a big wooden monstrosity, quite heavy and thick. The kind of door that seemed like it could withstand a siege by the Mongol horde. The
number for our apartment, thirty-one, was marked with two bronze digits that weren't quite the same size. I let myself in, braced for contact with human beings.
The interior of the apartment was much more modern than the outside would imply. Don't judge a book by its cover, I guess. The door led into a short hallway with a closet and a guest bathroom. The end of the hall
opened into a large kitchen area that blended seamlessly with the living room. Being bachelors, Connor and I had stuck a couch and a pair of recliners in front of a TV and called it good. The walls might have once been limestone or wood, but now they were modern drywall, painted and spackled to look like every other white wall ever.
A pair of doors on either side of the living room led to the two bedrooms.
"Dylan? Is that you? Kyle! Dylan's here," Freya's voice called from the kitchen.
I stepped out of the hallway and did my best to smile. She was a tall girl, probably about five foot ten. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which danced vigorously as she put something away.