Page 2 of Devil's Thirst

I’ve lost my goddamn mind. I must have.

Why else would I risk engaging with someone who’s clearly dangerous? I should run backstage and lock myself in the dressing room. I should do just about anything except stand here and confront this man. But that’s exactly what I do, feet rooted to the stage.

Seconds tick by in silence before he raises the cigarette to his lips again, the cherry flaring back to life.

Defiance. He’s defying me.

Two can play that game. He wants to watch me dance? Then no smoking.

I straighten my spine and glare. And glare. I make it perfectly clear that I’m not moving a muscle until that damn thing is out. I dig my heels in so deep that I don’t recognize myself.

Who the hell cares if this man smokes in the theater? It’s not my damn theater. The only thing that should matter is my safety, but I’m sick of the fear and worry. Maybe the stage is to blame. It’s the one place where I feel any sort of power in my world. Up here, no one can touch me. Theoretically. Reality is a different story, but my brain seems to have forgotten that fact.

He stands casually motionless for what feels like an eternity, then takes one more long puff before letting the butt drop to the floor. His body shifts as his boot snuffs out the embers.

An intoxicating thrill spikes my bloodstream.

It’s almost as good as that first step onto the stage when the curtain goes up. I didn’t think anything could compare to that feeling. I’m so stunned that my mind goes blank.

Left in a fog of uncertainty, I shift into autopilot and do what I do best. I dance.

I allow the music to sweep me away like a leaf in the wind. I give myself over to the melody, and when the song is over, I’m alone again. The shadows are empty.

Instead of being relieved, I feel deflated. Surely, it’s a letdown from the adrenaline. That has to be it. No good could have come from him staying.

It’s the truth. I know it. Yet there’s an emptiness in my chest as absolute as the silence inside the cavernous theater.

The thought is depressing enough that my remaining energy drains from my body, leaving me weary and strangely hollow.

It's time to go home.

I realize I’ve stayed longer than normal when I find one of the cleaning crew in our dressing room. I’m usually gone before they arrive. I smile at the older woman who is vacuuming, and she returns the gesture.

“Excuse me,” I prompt, pleased when she removes her earbuds and turns off the vacuum. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering about a man I saw earlier—if he was part of your cleaning crew.” It would be the Olympic record for long shots, but I have to ask.

“No, not with us.” Her dark brows knit with concentration. “We haven’t had a man working nights with us for the past six months. Did he say he was a cleaner?” She props a hand on her hip.

“Oh, no. He didn’t. I just thought I’d check. It’s no big deal,” I quickly assure her.

“If you think he’s a problem, we could call security.”

“He’s gone now, and I really don’t think it’s a problem. But if I see him again, I’ll call.”

Placated, she nods. “I better get back to it, and you should get home. It’s late. Your family will be worried.”

I offer her a forced smile because I know she’s being kind, but the truth is, no one will worry because no one is home waiting for me. And even when I did live with family, they didn’t care.

Jeez, Mel. Pity party much?

My parents were duds, and sometimes that gets to me. I wasn’t totally unloved growing up, but the problem is, nothing quite fills the void created by a parent’s rejection. According to the therapist my sister made me see, the problem was on their end, not mine. It wasn’t my job to earn their love. I get her point, but at the same time, I know I’m different from the people around me. I feel it down to my bones. It’s enough to make me wonder whether I’m different because of my parents’ treatment or if my parents couldn’t love me because I’m different.

All I’ve ever wanted is to be normal. But if tonight has proven anything, it’s that normal is simply out of my reach. That ship set sail, sank, and is supporting a small marine ecosystem by now.

After collecting my things, I give the woman one last smile, then make my way out front to hail a cab. I usually walk home from the theater, and my now mellow mood craves the cool evening air, but I’m not about to risk another encounter with the man in the shadows. I may be a mottled mess from my traumatic past, but I’m not reckless, and walking home tonight would be downright idiotic.

Better to be smart than normal.

My sulking inner voice has a point. My life experiences have shaped me into something unique, and I typically try to embrace that as a good thing. But sometimes normal is too bright and shiny to ignore.

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