Bracing myself against the blinding light, I squeeze my eyes shut. There’s a loud sound whipping by me—like when you drive through a tunnel with the windows open—echos upon echos, reverberating until there is silence.
And I open my eyes.
I’m standing in a parking lot. It’s warm. Perhaps summertime. But it’s late in the evening. The sun has set, but the sky still has a dark blue haze towards the horizon, lit up with golds, purples and pinks.
Looking around I try to get my bearings. I take note of the cars parked in perfect little lines in the gravel lot. There isn’t anything that’s a modern make. It’s a mixture of boxy minivans, sharp-edged pickup trucks, and long angular station wagons. A majority of the station wagons and minivans have wood paneling—something that was somewhat fashionable 30 years ago.
On one side of the lot is what looks like an empty corral. Similar to the ones you’d see in old timey westerns or at state fair rodeos.
Opposite of the corral is a long rectangular building shaped like a barn with a sheet metal roof. And it’s from this structure that most of the noise is coming from. The thumping bass of music. The shouting, joyous screams, and laughter of children. The deeper hum of adults conversing over the noise.
This place is familiar in some deep recesses of my brain. A memory brought back to life.
The deeper hum of the adults gets louder. I hear one voice over the others, but can’t make out what they are saying until the music cuts off and through the loud speaker I hear my name and instantly remember what is taking place.
There’s shadowed movement inside the building and I can see some of the adults starting to walk towards the vehicles. Ducking behind a rusty pickup truck, I lay flat on the ground and watch.
Keys come out, fitted into locks. Car doors open, some shuffling around, until they emerge with an assortment of bulky flashlights.
The adults begin to disperse. I can see them looking behind the buildings, sweeping the parking lot with their flashlights, heading towards the surrounding woods, all while calling my name.
As soon as they cleared the parking lot, I push myself up, dusting myself off. It’s then that I remember the state I am in. Asmodeus’s blood is still on my shirt; now dry, but still present. I try to brush it off and a few flecks fall to the ground. I scrap at it with my fingernail, but it's still not enough. Sighing, I grab a handful of dust and gravel and rub it into my shirt, obscuring the blood.
Satisfied, I head towards a familiar tree.
I can see the whites of his/my eyes flashing in the moonlight before I can see the rest of him. There's a vague memory coming to mind about what happens next. I remember this moment: hiding beneath the tree and this stranger, apparently me, coming up and talking to me. When I think about his face, it’s cloudy. When I think about the conversation, it’s muddled.
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I offer a friendly wave or at least what I hope is interpreted as a friendly wave. He watches me with wide eyes, not moving, but glancing to the side as if he’s thinking about making a run for it.
Squatting down, I pushed some of the low-hanging pine branches aside so I could see him more clearly.
“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing down here?” He doesn’t say anything, but stares down at the ground, picking at the dry pine needles that lay beneath him. “You know,” I continue, “when I was little—around your age—my mom tried to get me to dance with a girl and it was the scariest thing I had ever experienced.”
He stops playing with the pine needles and looks up. “What did you do?” my younger self asked.
“Well, I ran and hid. Just like you.”
There’s motion in the woods; lights flashing between trees. It draws his eye and I can feel how scared he is. It pulses out from him; a nervous, anxious energy that is so, so familiar.
“Hey,” I say, “everyone is really worried about you. Your mom especially is freaked out. You don’t need to worry about dancing with a girl.”
“But what about cooties?” he asks.
I laugh. “Cooties aren’t real and no, girls don’t have anything contagious about them.”
“What if they don’t like me?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Like what if I dance and they don’t like the way I dance? What if the girls just think I’m weird and don’t like me like me.”
“Look,” I say, standing up. “Does this look weird?” I do a little jig, spinning around, twirling my finger, and wiggling my butt a bit. He laughs and tries to cover it up by burying his face in his hands. “I’m not a great dancer, but when I do dance, I have fun. Who cares what people think as long as you have fun. And besides, eventually there will be someone who likes you for you, including how you dance.”
“Okay,” he says after considering it for a bit. “How mad do you think Mom is?”
“She’ll be pretty angry, but she’ll be happy that you’re okay. She loves you. She’s worried. A lot of people are. Here.” I extend my hand, but he hesitates. “Come on now. It’s going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.”
He takes my hand and I help him crawl out from underneath the pine tree.
For a while he stands there completely still, looking towards the now quiet dance. He takes a deep breath and I can hear him shaking as he draws it in. When he exhales, his shoulders droop and his head drops—a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.
“Hey,” I say. “Do you want a hug?” He nods and I step towards him, wrapping him—wrapping myself—up in a tight hug. “You’re a good kid,” I tell him, rubbing his back in soft circles and giving his shoulder a little squeeze.
He nods his head and pulls away, walking back towards the dance, his head up a little bit higher, his shoulders a little bit straighter.
I watch him walk away. As he nears the light of the dance, I see my mom running out to him. Her face is frantic. The worry of a lost child etched across her features—something I distinctly relate to now.
Turning to walk back towards the parking lot, I find myself back in the void. Another star is shining brighter than the others and I head towards it.