Page 4 of Presence

“Mm, perhaps,” she replies.

Gods, I just want to leave this place already.

“Um, anyway,” interjects. “We would like to pay for these.” She puts a hand on the basket and raises her eyebrows in a way that looks friendly. If I tried that same expression right now, I’d just look like a bitch.

There’s something about me that people don’t seem to like. I can’t quite put my finger on it. The only people who’ve stuck around are those I met early in life. I’ve never been able to make new connections. I guess I’m like some kind of human repellent. And apparently… cats can sense it too.

“Right,” the clerk replies. “Let me scan these.”

She starts moving slowly and deliberately, as if every item she touches is sacred. I just stare at her hands, swallowing hard because my mouth is suddenly desert-dry.

My exhaustion is a real trip. The world starts spinning, and stationary objects seem to dance. Her tattoos are doing a number on me—in my blurred vision, the signs twist and writhe like tiny snakes, mirroring her slow movements.

seems oblivious to all this, so I know it’s just my tired brain playing tricks on me. Meanwhile, the knot of dread in my stomach tightens, and I glance at Artemis, whose yellow eyes almost glow in the dim light. Even the air feels heavy, almost suffocating.

Fuck, this whole scene feels like some kind of a fever dream. It went from zero to one hundred real fast, and all I want is to get out of here and find some sleep.

“That will be $47.23,” the woman finally says, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes it hard to look away. Her voice has an unidentifiable edge that sends shivers down my spine.

I hand over the money as fast as possible, but the clerk’s fingers brush against mine as she takes the cash, and I recoil at the unexpected coldness of her touch. The twisting in my belly intensifies even more.

“Be careful with the sage,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Used correctly, it can cleanse and protect. But if misused, it might stir up what’s hidden in the shadows. I don’t think you want that.”

What the hell?

The cryptic warning confuses me, but I don’t want to stick around to ask what she means. I grab the bag of items and hurry towards the exit, pulling with me.

Whatever. I just want to sleep. That’s the only thing I want.

2

Smoke and Shadows

After an Uber ride where I stared out the window at the bustling city nightlife while kept gasping and muttering over something on her phone, we finally reach my complex. The sky is surprisingly clear tonight, and the crisp air bites at my nostrils. The stars are shining brightly, and the crescent moon looks like it’s smirking at me. If the curve is supposed to be lips, then all those other shining dots are the eyes—ever-lasting, ever-glaring.

Tonight isn’t the first night I feel like the heavenly bodies are mocking me, and it probably won’t be the last.

“Well, looks like I’ve learned everything I need to know,” says, hooking her arm with mine and dragging me toward my block.

As much as I want to get back home, the thought of climbing to the top floor of this twelve-story building makes me feel sick. The elevator broke a week ago, and the repair people haven’t even come to check it out. Walking up all those stairs is the last thing an exhausted person wants to do.

But it’s the only way to get there, so... up we go.

We reach the door, and I punch in the code. It unlocks with a faint beep, and we start climbing. Halfway up, I feel like I’m going to puke. One story from my apartment, I start coughing, my stomach rebelling.

“Hang in there, girl,” says, patting my back. “Just a bit more, and we’re there.”

I have no clue how she stays so bright and happy about all this. If I were her, forced to climb stairs just to perform some weird magical ritual to help my friend fall asleep like a normal person, I wouldn’t be so cheery. At best, I’d be tolerant.

But that’s me. I’m not the type to wear flowery dresses or put on makeup every day. I don’t style my hair, paint my nails, or refresh my wardrobe every season to fit the theme. And I certainly don’t think I’m a witch like does.

“This is torture,” I manage to say, finally catching my breath and grabbing onto the railing to steady myself. Cold sweat sticks to my back.

“Torture is the temperature of this freaking building. I swear, the higher we go, the colder it gets,” says, trying to lighten the mood. She’s not wrong, though.

“It’s the wind,” I parrot what everyone says. “It cools the windows and seeps in through the tiny cracks or something.”

I take another step upward. My thighs burn, and my heart pounds in my chest like it wants to break free. Dizziness spins my world, and I just hope my sense of direction is good enough to keep me from falling.

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