Dancing With the Devil

THEY MEET

As she's walking home alone, her mind twists back around to the place and the people she just left.

Self destructive behavior captured on film, she thinks, as she walks some concrete steps down toward a parking lot. Symptoms of an oppressively positive cultural expression. She doesn't know where the thoughts are coming from or why she's so angry. If you wanna be free you have to go the other direction, she hears her mind whisper. Go far enough that way and something truly monstrous will greet you, something free. She doesn't understand. How is it. . . The thoughts feel hot, like hair after the curling iron passes over, the edges sharp and the space beyond boiling with darker emotions. Rage. Lust. Hatred. And worse things without names.

The shadows turn darker.

She sees a cat licking itself. She goes over to pet it. The cat purrs under her caress. Then it stands, stretches its back, backs a few steps away, then plops down again to lick its paw.

"You don't want my loving?" she asks the cat, and takes two steps toward the dark alley.

She kneels to pet its head. The cat arches its back and she runs her hand along its coat and feels the spinal ridges pushing thru the thin skin.

"You need to eat," she says.

For some reason she checks her pockets for food, then realizes how stupid that is. Why would she have cat food in her pocket? Why does she always assume she has to give others what she thinks they need? Before the next thought can bloom, she remembers the cat waiting. She looks up to break the bad news and cat is a few steps away again, licking its paw under the deeper shadows of burnt out neon signs and the cracked windows of stores long out of business. She walks toward the cat, kneels.

"You're afraid of me?" she asks and pinches the cat's paw.

She doesn't understand the game, doesn't understand the cat's true motivation. He's leading her into the depths. The depths of what? Who can be sure.

"Come to me," the night whispers to her. "Hurry."

Staring into the darkness, she feels it, something, a force, an urge, present but invisible, pulling her toward the shadows. Some presence, a command echoing up from the dark unacknowledged regions of her own potential, is leading her out of the light and into darkness, where she feels both more terrified and more secure. Two ravens on a suspended electrical wire twist their heads to follow as she passes. The darkness gets darker. She stumbles over a crack and throws her hand out and catches her balance on some sharpened edge. Her palm tears. She feels the tug and the shooting pain. She tugs her hand back and the force behind the night smiles, shows its sharpened teeth. She touches her palm to her lips and tastes blood.

She keeps going.

She's in a dark place surrounded by golden darkness. There are things moving inside her, flickering thoughts, contrary urges, crossed desires, the beating heart, bubbles from lunch breaking down, conceptual progress toward a perceived future. In the midst of all the movement she contains, she herself is still, frozen in place by something older than fear. A cool wind blows across her cheek. Shivering, she takes a step forward. Toward what? More darkness? Her hands are outstretched. Then her eyes are open and there's a gate made of chipped gold, with darkness all around. And leaning against the gate is the most handsome man she's ever seen. He looks like he fell out of a GQ magazine. Or. . . no. . . really he looks more like a Brad Pitt playing a mongrel warrior. But different too. Her mind tries to quantify him, tries to notice a pattern, but it's like trying to cut a fluid, his features shifting, changing but not changing, becoming more beautiful the longer she stares. His eyes are blue and brown and green all at once, other colors too. Seeing his smile feels like a lover sliding their hand up your naked body.

"Welcome," he says with a smile, a cigarette dangling from his lip.

He reaches for hand and she lets him take it.

The feeling of him against her, the way he holds her, greedily, how he checks over his shoulder to make sure she's still following, how he pins her in place with his eyes—it's what she's always wanted but never knew she wanted. . . and more.

"Follow me," he says and takes her hand.

He leads her thru the shadowy golden gates and back into the light of the city. She looks over at him, confused.

"I thought you were taking me somewhere new," she says.

"Newness is a matter of perspective." He gives her that smile that hurts to look at. Then, with a broad gesture that seems to encompass all the city or all the world, he says, "Welcome to hell."