The Devil in Disguise

I grind my Chevy to a halt on the side of the road, kicking up dust and spinning gravel; a torrent of torment. I am hot for trouble tonight. I fling the door open, ejecting well-bronzed, fishnet-clad gams in flushed fury. My sacral ache is palpable; carnal longings. I side-shimmy from the hot vinyl seat; my pink, satin thong momentarily visible before I pull down my denim mini skirt with one delicately manicured fingernail.

Cocaine and tanning salons are keeping this town in business, I laugh. Everyone here with money is tanned up and coked out. And me? I’m just keeping time with the devils I know: self indulgence and retribution.

Forward motion. I spy the trio of slick-haired, well-tanned men behind the convenience store, talking up a storm. Two undercovers and an informant. I am an agent of change. Or of chance. It’s all the same.

A hush falls over the men when they see me. I stand for a moment, allowing them to absorb me in all my savage glory. I am clad in purple fishnets, chartreuse fuck-me pumps, a short, denim skirt, and a shredded Slayer Hell Awaits tanktop. These men made a grave error, pun intended. They messed with the wrong person’s friend.

Time to act. I walk my pussy like a dog over to the slick men behind the convenient store. I place one foot in front of the other, heels click-clacking; a cacophony on cobblestone. My hips switch like blades as I approach the trio, creating friction under my denim skirt. My inner thighs taught with swagger, I approach the tallest of the lot. I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing, moving in for the kill. Here, sheepie sheepies.

The men start their lascivious cat-calling. They think I’m a sex worker. Fair enough, I’ve been popped for solicitation a few times. I did my time whether or not I actually did the crime. I’m fortunate because I always have money to lawyer up and bail out. Less fortunates are forced to either snitch or get on their knees for the dirty cops running the PD. My friend, Nada, doesn’t have money and isn’t a snitch.

I’ve been watching these men for some time, so I’m well aware of their dirty deeds: the drugs they run, the gangs they supply with coke and guns, the sex-workers they exploit and abuse. I even know which partners are double crossing one other. These thugs arrested Nada twice and assaulted her both times.

I’m counting the moments until they’re on their knees. Begging for mercy. Hell Awaits.

One, two, three…

Inwardly, I recoil. Outwardly, it’s all smiles and subterfuge. The war within! I bite my lower lip as I saddle up next to the tallest man, pressing my body against his. I touch my painted lips lightly to his throat, against his carotid artery, and exhale a warm breath. The man is solid granite from head to toe. I can feel his grotesque protrusion pressing menacingly against my upper thigh. The bile rises.

Four, five, six…

I study the creases around the dirty cop’s mouth as it curls into more of a snarl than a smile. He’s coked out and sniffing wildly. I can smell the blow on his breath as he exhales; a mixture of kerosene and vitriol.

Purrfect. The hungrier he is for it, the more likely to succumb. The man asks how much it’ll cost to take him around the world while offering me a bump of blow from his car key. I inhale; the blow was clearly brought across the border in a gas tank, hence the kerosene aroma.

Blow’s not my jam, but this batch is decent quality. I know it’s better to play into pretense, so accept a second bump. I tell him for an 8 ball of blow I’ll do him and his friend. The more the merrier! The dirty cop made of granite winks at his partner. Clearly, this isn’t their first rodeo.

I swallow back bile and widen my smile, hoping to draw attention away from the loathing behind my eyes. I can’t risk giving myself away. Too much is at stake. Poker face sliding, I pretend to drop my purse, bend over, nice and slow, allowing the denim mini to creep up, exposing my pink, satin thong once more. I stand slowly, make sure not to pull down my skirt too quickly, then walk to my car without casting a backward glance.

Seven, eight, nine…

The two men grin, nudge each other, bump up more blow, then follow. They always follow.

Nada will never have to worry about these two again.

The men won’t make it to ten, I smile.

XxxxX

The trees are zooming by so quickly that Nada can scarcely count the species. Counting is important to her. Numbers matter. The Universe Tells its Secrets Through Numbers. The chaos of the movement is unsettling. Still, the majority are evergreens, so she need not count them all. They are part of a whole. Sometimes, most times, you can only ever know part of the whole. The part that can’t hide.

Since the trees are too chaotic, Nada concentrates on the sounds instead. The drone of the engine is nearly consistent. She’s able to focus on her breath, pulling it deeply into her lungs, then allowing it to expand into her belly and calm her parasympathetic nervous system. She allows her thoughts to pass like clouds, without attachment. None of her thoughts matter. Nothing matters. It’s a realization so liberating it causes Nada to weep.

Nyx would wipe away my tears, Nada laments. It starts raining, and the driver turns on the wipers. The steady, rhythmic swish click of the wipers is a blessing as it drowns out the deafening silence. Nada has nothing to say to the woman driving her away from everything and one she knows and loves; trees continue to whoosh past too quickly to count. Nothing about this feels right.

The halfway house is apparently halfway to the middle of nowhere. Isolation is key to the program’s success in rehabilitating minors, they say. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nyx will find me and save me, Nada consoles herself. Still, she knows her conclusion is forgone. From the moment the dirty cop arrested her, she’s been counting her numbered days. No one outruns a dirty cop. They’ll find her no matter where the judge sends her. It’s one of the few things she knows for certain.

Still, better to spend the remainder of her days with Nyx than not at all. So she shuts her eyes and breathes. Intrusive thoughts pass, like clouds, as trees continue zipping past the car window. She remembers Nyx’s touch. She counts to ten.

XxxxX

The walls are that special shade of institutional white that causes one to hallucinate if they stare at them for too long. White is the most odious color - reflecting back all the visible wavelengths of light that shine upon it. Pompous dick of a color, Nada sniffs as she resists the temptation to give the walls attention. There is nothing to count and the only sound she hears is the maddening tick tock of the wall clock. She can count the seconds, she thinks. But she knows that’s a trap because then she’ll think about time. She can’t think about time.

If she’s a good girl, if she just settles down, stays calm, and does as she’s told, they’ll remove the five point restraints, they tell her between thorazine injections. They’ll leave her in solitary confinement a few days longer, until she proves she’s not a harm to herself. Or others. Half right, Nada considers. Less than half, actually. It isn’t her they ought to be concerned with. When Nyx gets here and finds out they’ve strapped me to a hospital bed, then. Then they will know true terror. She likes this particular thought. It’s enough to help her return to her breathing.

Thoughts pass like clouds.

Days later, Nada is allowed into the general population. She is a very good girl. They even stop the thorazine injections. When she blinks, the world is no longer hazy around the edges. And there are so many things to count: patients, therapy sessions, picture books, sock puppets, crayons, meal times, nurses and doctors, correction officers and wardens. Her days consist of numbers rather than minutes.

Her thought clouds begin forming a celestial tower. A beacon. This is how Nyx finds me. Nyx will see my cloud tower, no matter how far away they are. How far away are you? Nada wonders without weeping. Only naughty girls weep. She is a good girl. So very good.

She remains calm, and a few days later, they grant her a true privilege: for one hour (that’s 12 sock puppets and 13 crayons) she is allowed to sit in the courtyard. The fence isn’t too high. She can climb it before they catch her. But how far will she make it in a hospital gown and no shoes? She considers this a bit longer, but decides to count instead. The view from the courtyard consists primarily of a dull gray parking lot. One shiny yellow Rolls Royce is parked in its center. It belongs to one of the shrinks. The for-profit, privatized institution is lousy with unethical doctors amassing small fortunes.

There is a basketball court. One slack jawed, doped up patient dribbles the ball idly as drool dribbles down his chin. Nada focuses on the syncopated beat of the ball hitting the court. It’s maddeningly irregular, but enough to count. As long as she can count, she can breathe. As long as she can breathe, she can keep constructing her cloud tower, her bat signal to Nyx. Nyx will come for me soon. This is Nada’s mantra; its repetition holy.

A nurse ushers the dribbler inside, and Nada notices a bush in the back corner of the basketball court. Her heart soars. She knows this species! It’s a bougainvillea - her grandmother has scores of them. Its bright pink flowers call to her. Unable to resist, Nada slowly stands from her plastic stool.

A watchful nurse takes a tentative step in her direction, but is held back by a correctional officer. He hopes Nada will misbehave so he can restrain her in solitary confinement again. Nada doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but she is unable to resist the lure of the bougainvillea. So many flowers to count!

It is a thing of unspeakable beauty, this lone bougainvillea amidst a sea of gray asphalt. As Nada stands, entranced, a ray of sunshine pierces the otherwise dismal day, illuminating the flower's colors in kaleidoscopic cadence. So many hues of pink, she notices for the first time. Strange, how often she stared at this exact species in her grandmother’s yard, yet never noticed its varied hues.

As if orchestrated, three butterflies alight atop three different flowers. Six miracles, Nada muses. She doesn’t know butterfly species, but their wings are bright orange, lined in black, and their entire bodies are speckled with tiny white spots. Nada nearly weeps at their beauty.

The correctional officer is poised for the pounce, but Nada refuses to shed tears and give him cause. She attempts to count the petals of each burgeoning bloom. It’s proving rather difficult. The correctional officer decides Nada isn’t worth the wait and leaves. He can find other patients in need of discipline. Nada watches the butterfly trio, wondering if they’re a family. Or, maybe they’re all butterfly buddies. Just. You know. Hanging out. She suppresses a laugh. She has never witnessed anything as breathtaking. She has never felt more alone.

What if Nyx doesn’t come? She wonders for the first time. Nada pushes the thought from her mind. She returns to counting the flowers and constructing her cloud tower.

XxxxX

On the second floor of the building facing the courtyard, an aggressively mustached man stands nose to window squinting under heavily knitted eyebrows. When the second guy walks in, the mustached man is oblivious. It’s clear to the second guy there’s something out there to behold. He walks over to the mustached man and follows his line of vision.

“What the fuck?” he manages before a figure ducks behind a tree at the far end of the parking lot.

“You see that too?”

The second man shakes his head no but replies, “Yeah. I saw…something. Some. One. ?”

“I know what you mean. Tell me - ” Mustache asks, raising an eyebrow, “What did you see?”

“Someone wearing a denim miniskirt - and ripped up stockings with some kinda yellow-green high heels. Ripped up shirt. Weird hair too, almost the same color as the shoes. Pretty sure it’s a wig. ?”

“Right. Ok. So I ain’t crazy. Maybe.”

“How long they been there?”

“I dunno,” Mustache shrugs, “Off and on for a couple of days. No more than three, far as I can tell. I been calling him - her - it - the Watcher. They seem harmless enough. Just hanging around. You know. Watching.”

“What?” Second guy is dumbfounded, “And you ain’t told no one?” He now seems suspicious. “What the hell? You know you’re supposed to say if you see anyone hanging around like that.”

Mustache man stands upright, a full head taller than Second guy. He looks him in the eye, squares his jaw, and knits his heavy brow. Before he can say anything, Second guy makes a hasty departure. Whether to go tattle on him like a little bitch, or because he’s actually concerned, Mustache isn’t certain. What he is certain of is that something smells rotten.

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t reported the Watcher either. Honestly, he can’t make out their gender. They could just as easily be a perverted man in a wig as they could a troubled mother in a poorly executed disguise. Perhaps Mustache is confused by the ambiguous gender of the Watcher. Perhaps he is confused by his ambiguous arousal. But his confusion doesn’t matter. Something bad is about to happen. He can feel it deep inside his mustache.

XxxxX

I hold my breath behind the maple tree and count to 10. That mustached man and his cohort spotted me. That’s ok, it just accelerates the plan. Same plan, just kicked into high gear. I’m still in high gear from the encounter with dirty undercover cops. I have over a kilo of their blow left. It’s enough to get Nada away from here. We can live for a while together, somewhere, anywhere else. I just need to move the blow. It won’t be difficult. I know all the wrong people.

We’ll sell most of it and head across the border. I’ll keep a small stash for myself, gradually wean myself off. We can live comfortably. For a while. This plan makes an incredible amount of sense as I emerge from behind the tree. The mustached man appears to be gone, so I make a break for the back door to the left of the courtyard. They never seem to have more than one guard stationed there. It’s the weakest point of entry and, as luck has it, close to Nada’s room.

I am going to attempt to open the back door, sounding the alarm, wait for the one dumb guard to open it, brain them, then storm the castle. I’ll rush straight down the hallway, four doors down to Nada’s room, grab her, and head back out the way I came in.

I will kill anyone who tries to stop me.

I see a flurry of movement in the 2nd floor window as I run toward the back door. Purrfect. The orderlies are distracted. They’re all upstairs looking for me from the window.

I send a psychic message with everything I have: I’m coming for you, baby girl.

I kick the door handle, tripping the alarm as I pull the undercover’s gun from the waistband of my denim miniskirt. The guard opens the door as carelessly as anticipated.

And so it begins.

I am taking Nada home.

Where is home? I wonder.

I’m not sure.

I’m not even sure what home means.

I bash the guard in the back of the skull with the gun. The alarm is louder than I expected. The whole place reeks of antiseptic and despair. I see Nada halfway down the hallway. She is standing there in gowns; a heavenly apparition. Nada starts to laugh as she runs towards me. Her laughter is music to my soul. Nada throws herself at me, and I pause for a moment to feel our hearts pressed together, hammering in joyous unison.

“I knew you’d come.”

“Nothing could have stopped me. Now, common baby girl, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

I grab Nada and run for the door, away from this, into the great unknown. I feel Nada’s tears of relief and joy as she presses her face against the nape of my neck.

At this moment, I understand exactly what home means.

THE END