Page 37 of Devil Inside

Why won’t she let me go?

Tuesday nights are Punk Bingo down at Sticky Rice. The weekly meetup is just an excuse to gather, get a little tipsy, fling some tater tots around while stamping our homemade bingo cards. It’s hosted by Richmond’s very own Ben Bateman, a local staple of the scene, a hero amongst us mere mortals, doling out cards for five bucks a sheet. He’s hand-drawn the bingo grid in Sharpie, filling in each block with a different hipster signifier—horn rims, combat boots, blunt bangs, vegan patch, septum piercing—you name it.

Bateman’s taking bingo back from the blue-hairs. Reclaiming it for the kids. Truth told, there are a bunch of blue-hairs in the crowd here tonight, only these guys have dyed theirs with Manic Panic—but I digress.

This version of the game is an odd hybrid of bingo and karaoke. The rules are simple: Ben calls out a particular characteristic, then you’ve got to spot that descriptor around the room, blot it off on your card until you can call out—BINGOOOOOOOO, MOTHERFUCKER!

Winner gets a free beer and a bucket of tots. Not bad for five bucks. Ben spins a DJ set in between rounds, playing until midnight. I’m in for a round. Why the hell not?

In and out. Just to see. Maybe, just maybe, she’s here.

I’m Deak’s wingman tonight. He’s eager to hit up the bar. Get drunk. He’s broken up with Lys for like, the fiftieth time. I’ve lost track at this point, to be totally honest. Keeping up with their relationship is a fool’s fucking errand.

Deak drives. I haven’t ridden my bike in... well. Forever. The rusted husk is still hanging from my apartment wall, all bent the fuck out of shape. A gnarled rib cage.

I keep it as a reminder. In a lot of ways, I think it’s me. That’s my body up there, crushed and twisted, hanging from the wall. What’s walking around on two feet is just some ghost, living on borrowed time, simply refusing to believe I’m dead. There are demons following me around town, chasing after me, trying to get me to realize I’m already damned.

Got to sync back up to myself. Got to feel complete again.

Typical Tuesday night thoughts for me. You can tell I’m a real joy to be around.

“I’ll get the first round,” Deak says before disappearing into the crowd. We’ve got ourselves a table against the window, the street at my back.

The city swims around me. I can feel the pulse of it. The unsteady, erratic beat. Or maybe that’s my own heart, pounding away, the anxiety mounting. Who can tell anymore?

People press up against each other, closing in. I’m losing the formulation of faces. Everyone’s blurring. Limbs begin to intertwine and it’s like I’m in my dream all over again, lost in a sea of bodies. Not another panic attack. They come so frequentlynow. Practically every time I leave the apartment. I have to lock this shit down. Get ahold of myself.

Keep it together, Jordan, I think.Don’t do this to yourself. Not here.

Some woman laughs not two feet away from me. She downright cackles, cracking up so loud, her laughter fills the bar. I glance over, curious to see what’s so funny.

This woman turns. The moment her eyes lock onto mine, the cackling stops. Her expression shifts. Droops. Whatever pleasure was there just a second before slips. I don’t know what it is, what the hell’s going on here, but there’s something wrong with her face.

It’s melting.

One eye turns upward while the other rotates counterclockwise. Her tongue lengthens—no,sloughs—out from her mouth, like the muscle is detaching itself.

My anxiety spikes. I can’t breathe. Every inhale is shallower than the last.

Get a fucking hold of yourself.I’m seeing things, that’s all.Don’t lose your shit.I close my eyes, squeeze them tight, take a deep breath. When I open them back up again—

Her face is fine. The woman looks totally fine. Perfectly normal. No melty-face.

What the fuck was that all about?

“Here we go,” Deak says, sliding back into the booth. He’s brought me a beer, the yeasty inferno of it bubbles before me. I get lost in the froth. Drown in it.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” I toast without drinking.

“Bad luck, bro.”

“Sorry,” I say as I glance back at the woman one last time. Totally fine. Totally solid.

Jesus, you really are losing it...

A waitress brings a tin of tater tots—fucking tater tots—to the table. Of all the things to get excited for, some rehash of our elementary school cafeteria lunch is not it, but so it goes. Justsome more kitschy bullshit. The queso’s pretty killer, though, I will confess.