Midnight Demons [ON HOLD]

Groceries and Awful Dates

I woke up with hazy memories of the night before. The foggy scenes convince me that it was a dream.

I was no stranger to vodka-induced dreams, but they usually weren't so in detail. I could remember the feeling of his hands on my face. The way his breath felt against my skin. How his hands caressed my hips.

The dream was so in detail that I was positive that just was just a dream until I found a scrap of paper on my coffee table. Scribbled on it was a phone number, beneath it said, only for emergencies.

I almost had something with someone who claimed they weren't a murderer. He was almost certainly a murderer. That man was in my house and beat me at poker, drank my alcohol, and made me feel all kinds of things.

I held the piece of paper in my hands, considering whether or not I should just throw it away. I settle on entering the number in my phone under the contact, "Mr. Murder Man." I tell myself that I am only doing this to affirm that I'm not crazy and that last night's events did indeed happen. At least, this is what I will keep telling myself.

Nothing interesting ever happens to me. So it's kind of weird how the only thing of any interest that occurs involves a murderer.

"Fuck," I mumbled, running a hand over my face trying to scrub away the slight trauma of almost having sex with someone who is most likely a murderer.

I slowly stand up from the couch, surveying the empty vodka bottle on the table. I sigh dramatically, I might add.

There seems to be a looming feeling of dread hanging over my head. Maybe it's the fact that I wish I wouldn't have let Samael leave last night. Even if it was only to remind me further that he was real.

My found rings. The sound vibrates in my head causes my vodka headache to intensify.

I pick it up.

"Hi, son." The woman on the other side of the line is shaky. I heard that voice so many times that I could imagine it on a whim.

"Hello, mother," I mumble.

"Don't mumble. It makes you sound weak," My mother tells me.

"How much money do you want?" I whisper.

"I'm sorry?" My mother spits out.

"You only ever call when you want money or if someone dies. So how much money do you want?" I say, trying not to let the utter despair I feel from talking to her show through in my tone.

"Well, since you brought it up, I just need a couple hundred to get through the month. You know it's been hard ever since your father died-"

I cut off my birth-giver in the middle of her tear-jerking performance. "You know, my father was an awful human being and didn't even work."

"I can give you 120, but I can't give you anything else, or I won't be able to afford rent this month." I sigh. "I'll transfer it to your account later today."

"Oh, thank you so much, honey," My mother gushes.

"I'll talk to you later, ma," I mutter. I flop down back onto my couch which is where I generally go to feel depressed.

But instead of wallowing on the couch, I have to pick up groceries. I've been putting off leaving the house during the daytime for the last month and a half.

I grab my black sweatshirt off the chair and pull it over my head. I take my earbuds out of the hoodie's pockets and shove them into my ears. Blaring an old Penelope Scott album above what I assume is the recommended volume, it should be played through earbuds.

I walk down the bustling streets of Chicago. Despite it being ten-thirty in the morning, one of the hotdog vendors is already barking about his food. He's doing this so loud that I can hear it over my music.

It doesn't take me more than a ten-minute walk to make it to the supermarket. I realize I forgot my list. I'm never gonna remember everything I need. There is a bottle of gin in my fridge, and that is it. There also might be a bottle of cran-raspberry juice, but I'm not entirely sure.

As the lyrics of Hammerhead blare in my ears, I grab various food items to get me through the month. None of such were actually on my list, but I could only remember things I had not written down.

So I ended up with orange juice, a bag of pretzels, a thing of Trolli gummy worms, and a loaf of bread. There was also some other way less cool things.

After paying for my groceries, the promise that I made to Venmo my mother one hundred and twenty dollars pops back into my mind. I do that quickly before I can think it through.

---

That night I had a date. Yes, a date. His name was Todd.

The only reason I'm going on this stupid date is to forget about a specific someone. Don't judge me.

Overall the actual date was uneventful. Given that I met the guy off Tinder at the end of the night, I ended up in the passenger seat of his car, listening to a story about his dog that was probably fake.

That wasn't even the worst part of the night. The shittest moment was when my date found out his wife was coming home from Rio, and he needed to be home as soon as possible. And that is how I ended up on the side of the road. Cold and alone on the outskirts of Chicago.

I looked around at the different street signs, and I didn't recognize any of them. Meaning that I wouldn't be able to get home without getting quite lost.

With a long and dramatic sigh, I pull out my phone. Since I made the awful decision to give my mother money earlier, I didn't have enough money in my bank account to uber home.

And since I have no friends in the city who would be willing to drive 5 minutes to pick me up, let alone the 30-minute drive. I'm left with one number to call.

"Who is this?" A low voice says.

"Samael, it's Luca."