The Ritual Pt. 03: Bushwick Bound

This is part three in the series 'The Ritual.' You can read parts one and two if you haven't already.

Please note: this chapter contains musings on religion, these are not my own opinions and are not intended to offend; these are the internal thoughts of the character (Alex). This chapter is steeped in symbolism, so I hope you enjoy that aspect! As always, looking forward to reading comments and your feedback!

Chapter Three: Bushwick Bound

The smell of fried food enters my nose, drifting up the stairwell as I step down onto another landing, and I'm suddenly made all too aware of my hunger. Stomach growling loud and violent. Flipping summersaults and squelching at the same time.

"Jesus--" I whisper to myself in the quiet of the building, rubbing at my abdomen through the hoodie, trying to quell the appetite that's been stirred. It squeals again, low and long, painful.

Damien had told me not to eat today; another one of his many instructions for the ritual. As with most other instructions too, it was never fully explained why, only ordered, and me being his "good girl," obeyed without question.

Yet, every part of me wants to knock on the apartment door the smell is coming from right this second. Not caring about a neighbor seeing the painted face of Alexis. Not caring if I out myself as the crossdressing Alex to whoever is in apartment 3B. Wanting instead to beg--plead for a piece of whatever it is they're cooking that smells incredible to me in my frenzied hunger. But I can't, the ritual and all it's odd rules tug at me to stay the course. I have to keep going. Have to obey.

Second landing comes next. Each step another small betrayal echoing further away from safety, the familiar, the comfortable, and closer to something unknown. The tight black dress clings to me beneath my hoodie and jeans, its hem brushing my thighs and riding up and down with each step, stockings whispering against my shaved legs with every move. Multitudes of secrets pressing against one another all at the same time. I'm still not used to the feeling, and all of this is a constant reminder that Alexis is there beneath the surface, no matter how hard I try to hide her.

My sneakers squeak on the last step when I reach the bottom, and the backpack bounces hard against me when I hit the ground. Heels bumping around inside as they settle against the small of my lower back. Their symbolism is not entirely lost on me; it's a piece of Lena that I've brought along with me on this journey. I'll be stepping into her stilettos tonight... her role... her energy. And as much as I attempt to hide my shame and worries associated with her, she'll be connected to me this night.

I swallow down the thought and keep walking, bag tapping lightly against me. Stopping in the entrance to take a deep breath in, the faint smell of fried food still there. A slow exhale escapes my mouth, and then I push through the building's doors, out into the Bay Ridge night.

It's crisp, biting, and a gust of wind hits me almost immediately when I'm out on the sidewalk. An arctic blow that feels almost divine in retribution for my escalating betrayal, numbing the skin of my face. I lower my head to avoid it, hiking up the hoodie so that the only thing I can see is the pavement and my white Vans carrying me forward.

The R train platform is only a few blocks away, but that doesn't stop the cold from nipping at whatever it can find that's exposed on me. In this case, it's my shaved hands. Quickly, I shove them deep into my pockets, saving me from the chill but also hiding Alexis any which way I can.

Trees higher than some limestone row houses line my street, and they're beautiful, even in the dark, their soft sways are a creaking symphony of nature above me. At any moment, one might snap off and put me out of my misery like Damocles, and I laugh at the horrible thought.

Before I know it the trees are gone though, and I'm on Fourth Avenue with its wide roads, getting closer to the subway. The streets are coming to life now too. A car hums past me blaring reggaeton, and I pass by three men crowded outside a bodega speaking in Arabic, arms flailing--too difficult to discern if they're arguing or having a good time. They don't even look at me as I move past. No clue as to what secrets I'm carrying. I'm just another ordinary guy walking through the neighborhood to them.

The phone's silent now against my thigh too, rubbing against me like a hand. His hand. Damien's last text--"Don't be late, princess. The ritual is waiting. Come to me."--still burned into my mind. I'm craving his touch the same way I craved food earlier in the stairwell.

I can still feel the weight of his words, the way they twist something deep in me, but Lena's there too, the heels a part of her shadow I can't shake either. Home now I imagine, curled up in her Park Slope apartment texting a friend to pass the time, or watching something on her phone. Scrolling through reels, sucked into a vortex, her breath steady, hands picking at her chin. A quirk I love.

She trusted me. She always does. And here I am, painted and dressed for someone else, someone who's about to unravel me in ways she never could.

But I didn't even try, did I? Could've told her I wanted to experiment, maybe she'd open up our relationship. Even now, I'm not sure if this is what I really want though. Would she have understood if I brought these things up? Would she have still been able to view me in the same way--as her traditional, masculine, safe, normal Alex--without punishing me? Another gust of wind sneaks under my hood and freezes at my face; I cast the thoughts away and move quicker.

The subway entrance looms ahead, a light against the intensifying ink of the night, with its green railing framing a tiled mouth waiting to swallowing me down. I clamber the steps into it. Cold breeze gone now, but replaced with a steady stagnant chill, as if I stepped out of a wind tunnel and into a refrigerator instead. Swiping my MetroCard, the turnstile's iced metal clicks hard against my legs, like a concession to a wild roller coaster I'm about to ride.

All these normal routines now suddenly taking on a different--more sinister--meaning. Actions all the same but the motivation so much darker now. I tell myself this is all normal, I'm just taking the subway as I always do, attempting to calm my anxious mind through association. But I'm far too aware there's nothing normal about what I'm doing, as I go deeper down.

The platform is sparse, and I join the scattered few souls gathered there. I'm more exposed now, the fluorescent lighting here impossible to escape, but I try my best to blend into it.

When I turn away from the tracks I see an older woman in a purple puffy coat, standing against the smeared tiled wall, glancing at my direction beneath a knitted beanie, her eyes lingering a second too long. Does she see the makeup, or maybe it's the wig peeking out?

I turn away fast, heart thudding, and a push of air shoots out towards me, tinged with a mechanical scream growing louder by the second. Thankfully, it's the R rumbling in, brakes screeching and squealing as it comes to a full stop, and I step aboard with the handful of others, finding a seat near the door. A quick exit if I need it.

My car's half-empty and I breathe a sigh of relief. It settles down my frayed nerves somewhat, not having to face a myriad of eyes staring into me. As we move the lights overhead flicker for a second, and I hunch into myself, staring at my reflection in the smudged dark window opposite me. The hoodie hides most of it, but I catch the curve of red lips, the dark sweep of liner, blush stroked cheeks, strands of long brunette hanging out. Alexis stares back, undaunted, and I look away quick, reaching into my hood and shoving the wig's hair towards the nape of my neck.

The subway tunnels through Brooklyn. Manhattan will come next, then I'll swap subways, take the L and head to Bushwick. There's quicker ways there, but that would mean less time to think--less time to change my mind and turn back. Less time to put this fantasy behind me and come to what senses I have left.

I could get off at the next stop. There's time. It's 4th and 9th. Still close to home. Close to her. Get out in Park Slope. Ditch the wig, get rid of the lingerie and everything else. Remove the makeup somehow; maybe use the restroom in some restaurant, scrub the mask away with water and soap until Alex reappears. Knock on Lena's door, tell her I'm sorry, that I'm an idiot, that I'm feeling better and want to spend the night together like we always have. If it comes up, I'll tell her I shaved my body as a joke. She'd be confused and definitely not buy into it, but she'd let me in, love me. We'd watch some dumb show with her head on my shoulder, and this whole night could dissolve like a bad dream.

I pull out my shaved hand from the hoodie's pocket and it twitches towards the pole, ready to stand me up, but then my phone vibrates against me, and I fish it out. Damien, and his words come quick. "Thinking of you in that dress. Can't wait to peel it off you, Alexis. Are you excited for the ritual, for transformation?"

My breath catches, a flush creeping up my neck. It's like he can hear my thoughts, urging me to not give up, to give in to him instead. I shove the phone back, ignoring his question, but the image sticks--his hands, big and rough, sliding the fabric up my waist and over my head, his body pressing against mine while he chants things unknown to me, claiming what I've made myself into. I shift in my seat, the dress tight and riding higher under the jeans, guilt warring eternal with a hunger I can't tuck away.

More people have entered the subway car and each one is a reflection of my warped mind. A woman to my right is applying makeup, getting ready for a night out. Fingers grip a brush that swirl against her cheek in quick circles. Her technique not a million miles away from what I was doing only thirty minutes ago, and she catches me staring. I turn away as hastily as I can, and she continues with her task. Indifferent to me.

When I turn I notice a man, older--maybe in his late forties or mid fifties--sitting directly across from me, staring, his brow furrowing like he's trying to figure me out. I'm a puzzle, not too different from a crossword to him. His face softens though, smile tugging at his lips as if he likes what he sees, and my heart picks up the pace. I tilt my head down towards my lap, tugging the hood lower, pulse a steady thud in my ears. At the same time, my stockings itch under the jeans and I cross my legs tighter, willing myself invisible from his gaze, crushing my bulge in the process.

We barrel through Brooklyn. Stations blurring past in quick succession--Atlantic Avenue, DeKalb, Jay Street. Court Street comes and it reminds me of her--our Brooklyn Heights Promenade, the photo of us on my phone. Each one's a memory. Union Street is us at Grand Army Plaza, perusing things at the farmer's market in the Fall before heading into Prospect Park. Atlantic Avenue is us catching a Nets game at Barclays.

Each one, each station, a chance to turn back, to choose Lena over this abyss, but my ass stays planted to the seat, the lace panties riding up into the wedge of my crack.

Instead, something else drifts into my mind like vapor. Another woman materializes--not Lena. Her long hair is tied into a tight ponytail, she's clothed but I can tell her chest is round and full, her legs toned yet thick under a flowing dress as she dances around my head in slow-motion.

When you're on the subway, memories flow in naturally, appearing from some deep spring of the subconscious. The woman is one memory, and she's tethered to something else. I'm reminded of Dante's Inferno, a book I half-read in NYU not because I was assigned it, but because I wanted to impress a foreign college student--her--who came from Italy.

Her name comes to me in an instant; Guilia, and the cultural gimmick half worked. A warm evening, I remember, as her soft hand wrapped around me, the dim-light of the dorm, music gentle in the background, the hot breath of her against my neck, her whispers as she went up and down, stroking me, harder, all the way to completion, exploding on her chest and myself in ropes of white.

The memory snaps me back to the subway--the present--and I'm half-hard in the lace panties. A far cry from the young man I used to be.

Devout catholic girls like Guilia came in two varieties, I discovered: chaste, or raging nymphomaniacs. Well, Guilia was the former, so a handjob was the limit of my success unfortunately.

But the memory of Dante is tied to her, and it returns. Recollections of reading passages with her to impress and get laid morph wicked. Now, in this moment--I realize in this very moment, I'm Dante, going through the circles of hell. Each stop on the subway is a new ring, each new straphanger entering another personification of sin.

The doors open, and I'm faced with the sin of gluttony as a man scarfs down his halal cart's aluminum clad food; which smells amazing in my hungered state. The sin of violence as another man to my left is arguing with a guy about something incomprehensible in a foreign tongue, voices booming over the screech of the R. And am I not a sinner too? My sin the soon to be sodomite and adulterer--even though I'm not married to Lena, I still apply it to myself. The sin of lust has consumed me.

I feel like Dante without a Virgil; no guide for this journey. Instead I'm let loose in hell to be hunted by dogs who'll tear me from limb-to-limb as they did to the suicides. My actions tonight in itself a form of self-inflicted violence; the dogs my penance. Or is Damien my twisted Virgil instead, guiding me towards ruin, or is it an awakening as with Dante?

I clutch at my chest but there's no cross there--hasn't been for many, many, years. Guilia and I didn't just share an erotic moment, we shared the same faith.

Catholicism was a tenet I abandoned not because of a lack in belief, no, but in a lack of trust. An organization so stained with abhorrent behavior I didn't want it associated with me any longer. Yet now, I seek out a new stain to mark me, one so much darker, and am I not sweeping it under the rug too? My clutch for an invisible comfort is a habit recurring, yet evasive.

Think of her voice instead, a different comfort, I tell myself. Lena's, soft and steady. "Text me if you need anything."

What would she say if she saw me now? Shaved smooth, dressed like this, a cheap whore running to a man who calls me "princess"? She'd hate me. She should. I hate it too, what I've allowed myself to become. But it's not enough to stop.

Damien's pull is a current dragging me under, and every time I close my eyes, I see his red-lit room that he covenanted with my arrival, feel the weight of his eyes on me. Picturing him grabbing me and making me do things I never thought possible. Turning me into Guilia, into Lena.

I'm terrified of what he'll do to me--what I'll let him do--and it's that fear that keeps me moving, not away but toward. Deeper through more sulphuric circles under New York.

The train jolts and the announcement crackles through static in spurts. "Next stop, Canal Street. Stand clear of the closing doors please."

I'm close now--too close. The open subway door exits to City Hall. I could still bail, catch the train back, scrub the makeup off, stuff the dress in the trash. Be Alex again, the Alex who doesn't lie, who doesn't cheat on his girlfriend of three years, who doesn't want this. But my hands stay in my pockets, clenched, and the doors slide open, then shut, and I don't move. The subway continues to move on, towards Canal Street.

It comes and goes, and I get off at 14th Street--Union Square. It's here I walk towards the L and go with a crowd of others, a metaphorical gust of wind I feel at my back pushing me around with them.

As we wait I glance around to see who's actually with me, and more importantly, if they've pierced through my flimsy disguise.

A couple kiss in front of me, and I watch as the man's arms wrap around his lover and his hands slide down. First at the small of her back, then to her ass painted in leggings. He cups her round cheeks, squeezes, and I look away. Another to my right--two women--cradle each other's faces lovingly, and to my left, I watch a gay couple teasingly joke amongst themselves, one calling the other a "bitch," repeatedly.

They don't look at me--nobody does. They're all going out; to party, to eat, to have fun. I can see it on their faces, no one is doing what I'm doing, and why would they? They're good, honest people. No one knows I'm neither good nor honest, and I don't think they'd care.

The next subway comes in hot, the gray circled L on its front blurring past us. The man lets go of his lover's ass, the lesbians break their embrace, and the gays stop shouting "bitch" amid the noise. It's the final train to him--to it--the ritual, and I step inside, finding a spare seat as a few faces glance up at me, then back to their phones. The line shifts, curving towards Bushwick, and the lights flicker as we dip underground.

My reflection's become clearer now even against the dark smeared glass of the L--brunette hair spilling from the hood again, lips a slash of red, face smooth and painted. Alexis revealing herself more to the world no matter how much she's covered. I don't recognize myself, and that's the point, isn't it? Damien promised transformation, and I'm already halfway there, shedding pieces of who I was with every mile. Lena also feels further away now, a memory I can't touch that's left behind in Bay Ridge and Park Slope. No anecdotes of her associated with these stations.

But the guilt is still there, sharp and cold as the subway I'm in. It's drowning under the hum of anticipation as I shiver in my seat--not from the chill--but from what's waiting for me.

I don't remember the rest; my mind a cacophony of shame and desire, but the train slows, brakes whining, and the sign outside the dirty window reads Myrtle-Willoughby Avenues.

I'm here and it feels like a dream. Not real somehow. I will myself to my feet and stand, gripping the pole to steady my anxiety, the dress shifting under my clothes as I'm vertical. No one pays attention to me. The doors will open soon, and I'll step out as Alexis--not Alex--into the night, into Damien, into whatever's waiting.

I hear a voice speak at me. "Cheater," it whispers, causing me to flinch, guilt clawing its way back up, making it seem alive in the car. But I ignore it and the subway spits me out, the Bushwick night ready to devour me whole.

The air's thick here with the tang of exhaust and something sour as I walk by trash bags piled against a chain-link fence. Their plastic skins glisten under the flickering streetlights, and they make a fluttering sound as the wind whips against them. My conscience says it's me; I'm garbage hidden within a plastic, fake outfit. A cheap imitation of a woman. A traitor of Lena's trust and love. But I bury it all, the task becoming easier with time and distance, not letting it rattle me as my sneakers scuff the uneven sidewalk.

Damien's place is six blocks east, he said. "Six blocks to decide," I tell myself as I walk alone.

Bushwick is a far cry from my safe and pretty tree-lined Bay Ridge. The streets here are alive but jagged. Industrial, graffiti-smeared walls all around me with strange words and abstract art that I can't make out. A car alarm wails in the distance and it continues to drone in the night as I walk away from it. One block down, five to go.

On the next stretch I pass by two men outside a bodega, and they're nothing like the guys in Bay Ridge; they're silent, staring at me. Faces a cold stillness in the obsidian black of night. I look away towards the street instead, averting their eyes. My brain tells me they're going to mug me, beat me senseless when they see what's under my clothes, but I put away the thought and keep moving, bag still against my back with pressing heels. Four blocks to go.

Bushwick is rough. Arty and hip to some and a haven to the outsiders and outcast, but rough nonetheless. Every step is a reminder I'm not in Bay Ridge. Still, I keep my head down, hood up, but the wind snags at it, cold fingers prying at my secrets, wanting to show Bushwick who's really walking their streets tonight. Wanting to expose me. Someone who's just as odd as them, albeit in a different way.

Part of me says "fuck it," and I give in. I need to change into Alexis eventually anyway. Damien expects me to arrive looking like her, not as Alex in disguise.

There, to my right I see it, a narrow alley between two buildings, shadowed and stinking, a dumpster hulking against the brick. It's a hiding place, a threshold to transform. So I duck in and the dark wraps around me like a shroud, concealing me as I drop the bag on a crate, something that looks a little cleaner than the ground. My breath fogs in the chill as I unzip the thick hoodie, peeling it off with trembling hands, while simultaneously kicking off my Vans.

The jeans come next, rough denim scraping abrasive against my stockings as I shimmy them down, exposing the dress--black, tight, hugging my hips and thighs, and then the stockings. The air bites at my bare arms, my shaved legs through the thin nylon, and I feel naked, raw, even with the fabric clinging to me.

I kick my male clothes into a pile on top of the sneakers--Alex's clothes--and crouch to pull the stilettos from the bag. Black, shiny still even in the black of this space. Looking closer, they're definitely closer to five inches than four, and I slip them on, wobbling as the thin soles meet the cracked pavement. "Whoa," I mutter to myself, trying to balance.

I shove the hoodie, jeans, and sneakers into the bag along with my keys and phone and my pulse races, loud in my ears, as I stand--taller now, unsteady, Alexis in full, come to life in a disgusting crucible.

The first step out of the alley is a stumble, heels clacking too loud against the concrete, and I trip backwards, catching myself on the brick wall. Its grit rough under my fingers, but keeps me upright. Beneath my hand though I notice graffiti on the wall that just saved me--if you can call it graffiti. It's simple, just words, but it catches my eye, reading in red dripping spray-paint: PAPE SATAN ALEPPE.

Why is it so familiar? Is it from Dante's Inferno? I can't place it definitively, but it unnerves me and a cold chill runs down my spine, bumping along every vertebrae. Is the occultness of the ritual reaching me here, now? Could this be a sign, or some strange synchronicity instead?

Instead, I hear multiple feet approaching and I freeze, as if something evil has come for me, maybe the men from the bodega. Shadows turn to physical objects, and they morph into nothing evil. It's a woman passing by me at the mouth of the alley, walking her dog as it sniffs the curb. The big pit looks up at me like it's going to tear me apart, but it doesn't, instead it goes back to sniffing; the woman doesn't validate my existence at all. I'm just another weirdo in Bushwick to her. But I feel exposed.

This is the first encounter where another person--other than Damien--has seen me in the full Alexis 'uniform.' It couldn't be more uneventful. No one seems to care. She's gone as quick as she came, and I have to keep moving too. Three blocks to go.

The stilettos are tough to use but I start walking again, faster, the rhythm of the heels unsteady--click, click, click--a heartbeat out of sync. The streetlights cast long shadows, stretching me thin, and every gust of wind lifts the hem of the dress, chilling my thighs and groin. I think of Lena's hands, warm and gentle, tracing those same thighs last week, her laugh when I kissed her neck and told her a dumb joke. Her slapping at me the way she always does when she's trying to make me stop. I catch myself smiling. She doesn't deserve this--I don't deserve her.

My chest tightens, guilt a stone lodged there since I started this journey by pretending to be sick, hell--earlier. When I started messaging Damien. I pause under a rusted awning, the metal creaking above me in the wind.

I feel the phone buzz in the backpack against me, and I fumble to fish it out. When I see the text, I cover my eyes with shaved cold hands as I mutter a soft "no."

The phone shows not only a new message from Damien, but a text from Lena too. Next to her words in the green colored bubble saying it'd been sent twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes! "Must've been when I was underground in the subway," I think aloud, my voice shaky. How did I get Damien's the whole time but missed hers?

I read the text without opening it. "Hope you feel better, babe! Have a good night. Love you!"

She punctuated the text with a love-heart emoji, and I feel as if I'm going to break into a thousand little shards right here in Bushwick. I can't respond to it.

My thoughts come through in a flurry. Could still go back. It's not too late. Ditch the heels. Pull the jeans back on. Be Alex again. Wind hits against the bag on my back and it swings on my shoulder, a pendulum tempting me.

My phone buzzes again, and I'm expecting Lena is going to ask if she can call me--a real gut punch, the catalyst to turn back. A sign from the universe or the God and faith I long abandoned. But it's Damien's name that glows on the screen, a second text following his first, and there's an image attached! The fog of my breath in the night air stops.

I open it, and I nearly stumble out of the heels onto the pavement right there below me, onto all fours. It's him--all of him.

The photo shows his shirt slightly raised, abs exposed, dark hair trailing down to jeans hiked low, and there it is. His manhood. Hard, thick, at least eight inches, maybe more, pubes framing it. Wild and masculine. So much bigger than me. Everything I'm not.

"Oh my god," I whisper. His photo is a promise and a threat. My first time ever receiving an image like this. First time ever seeing a man like this, at least outside of porn.

His text reads harsh and seductive. "This is waiting for you, Alexis. Don't keep me waiting."

Heat floods me, sharp and unbidden, drowning all my guilt in a wave of want. If Lena's text was a stab, Damien's is the twist; the killing blow. I feel it, myself responding between my legs. I'm hard as I can be, uncomfortable in the lace panties which feel as if I'm going to tear out of them. Skin taut like it's going to rip. Reaching under the dress, I shift my erection up towards my stomach, the waistband pinching against the head.

Staring at the photo, I can't pull my eyes away from it. His dick. The curve of him, the power in it. My legs tremble--not from the heels, but from the need. I could delete it, block him, run. But my thumb lingers, and I shove the phone back in the bag, the image seared into me. I'm not turning back. Not now. Two blocks to go.

The streets blur as I push on, faster, heels sinking into soft asphalt, then clicking over broken bottles glinting in the gutter. A car turns a corner and slows, headlights from the sedan raking over me, a spotlight, and I hear a low whistle before it speeds up. "Yeah, baby!" the group of men yell from the window, whistles and jeers fading with the car. My face burns with embarrassment, the makeup a mask I can't hide behind, and I tug the wig straighter, strands catching on my lips. One block to go.

Guilt's still there, always simmering, clawing at me--Lena's trust, her forgiveness I'll never earn--but Damien's closer, his apartment just ahead. The buildings grow denser, brick walls tagged with paint, windows dark or glowing with muted life, and my ankles ache, on fire like the hell I'm going to. The heels are a self-inflicted torture I chose, and the bag slaps against my back, a lifeline I won't use.

Then I see it. A six-story building, brown bricked, its metal buzzer panel covered in half torn stickers from bands no one cares about. The address matches Damien's place. I swallow, the air around me tastes of rust and anticipation as I step closer, heels wobbling on uneven stone, and stare at the numbers scratched beside the buttons. They're faded, but I remember Damien's apartment number from his texts: 6F.

"'F' for fucked," I say to myself.

I take my finger to the buzzer, hovering, shaking, as Lena's face flashes one more time. Her eyes, her hurt if she knew what I was walking into. I could turn away, let the night swallow this mistake. But Damien's image pulses in my mind, hard and real mixed with the occult, and the guilt isn't enough anymore. I press the buzzer, the sound shrill in the silence, and wait.

The buzzer's harsh reply crackles through the panel--bzzzt--and the door clicks open, a heavy thunk that reverberates in my chest. I know what's on the other end of the buzzer; Damien. Our first touch, telepathic, I realize in the moment that I still haven't seen what he looks like, really looks like. What if he's some gargoyle looking guy, horrifically ugly? The abs hinted at someone who took care of his body, I tell myself, and I shove the apprehension away.

I push the door wide and its hinges groan under its own weight, as I step into the building. The air inside is stale, pungent with the ghosts of trash left out too long and fried delivery food, clinging to the peeling yellowed paint of the narrow vestibule. The building's door slams behind me.

Stepping forward, my heels clack against the worn linoleum, too loud, too sharp, and I grip the straps of the backpack against me tighter, the weight of my old clothes a tether I haven't cut. The elevator has torn paper stuck to it that simply reads: NOT WORKING. I have to take the stairs.

My hands turn clammy against the straps, as the stairwell looms ahead, steep and shadowed with flickering light, leading up to Damien on the sixth and final floor. It's all suddenly too real, and as I take the first step, the building comes alive around me.

The walls are thin, voices bleeding through as I climb. On the first landing, a television blares from down the hallway, a game show, applause from a satisfied crowd spiking over a contestant's shrill performative laugh, while someone shouts viciously in Spanish from another apartment further down, piercing and clipped. All these sounds bounce off the chipped concrete, mingling with the clack of my heels against the steps, and I wince, feeling exposed in the light of the building.

The tight black dress rides up slightly with each motion upwards, the stockings rasping against my thighs, and the wig's brunette strands stick to my neck, damp with sweat despite the chill. I pause, hand on the railing, its cold bite grounding me. Lena's there again, uninvited--her dark eyes narrowing as she asks why I canceled, her voice soft but probing. I could still leave. Slip out, call her, beg for forgiveness. Or better yet, tell her nothing and run back to Bay Ridge. I turn to look back down the stairs, my free hand twitches towards the backpack, my phone within it and the clothes, but I don't reach for it. I keep going up.

My glutes are aching something horrific, heels and stairs are a brutal mixture and my body screams at me to stop. But I chose this torment, I remind myself.

The second floor hums louder. A steady rhythmic bassline--bum, bum, bum--thumping from an apartment to my left, rattling the doorframe, while a baby wails somewhere down the hall to my right, shrill and relentless. It reminds me of Lena and her talk of wanting children. What would children think of their father behaving this way?

The stairs push under me and a man's voice cuts through, gruff, slurred, arguing; can't tell if it's with himself or the world. It's chaos, this place, a pulse of raw life that presses in, mirroring the mess in my head.

I think of Lena's apartment in Park Slope; quiet, tidy, a sanctuary I've torched tonight. I think of her text "good night." She'd be reading her borrowed library book now, maybe, her legs tucked under her, oblivious to the lipstick staining my mouth, the heels carrying me away. Unaware as she slept in the next hour the positions her boyfriend was put into.

The guilt's a knife, twisting deeper with every step, and I grip the railing harder, my knuckles whitening. I don't belong here, not with Damien, not as Alexis. But my legs keep moving, heels clicking like a countdown. Third and fourth floors pass me by, more noises, the building groaning and heaving, sounding as if it were a punctured lung, mirroring my own rasping tired breaths.

On the fifth landing I hear a door open, and I freeze. Steps approach from around the corner to my left, and before I can turn around and run back down, she's there, a woman. Exposed, I'm transfixed to the spot. Caught.

She's carrying a garbage bag, heading down to throw it out. I look at her, and she sees me standing there. She's young, pretty, someone from the Mid-West, maybe. Arty. She stops, then continues down the stairs, passing me on the landing, giving me a knowing smile as she walks past. She knows exactly why I'm here, the signs obvious and painted on my face. There's no talk, no noise, she says nothing--no judgement, as she disappears down the stairs like a benign specter.

I keep going. Dress hiking higher with each step, I feel like the bottom of my ass cheeks are peeking out. The air growing warmer as I near the sixth and final floor, heavy with something musky, incense maybe, or sweat.

The sounds shift. A woman's low moan seeps through a door, rhythmic and unashamed, answered by a man's grunts. A muffled yelp and, "more, more, more!" spills out. My face flushes. Because it's not me and Lena that I picture behind the door making those noises, it's me and Damien.

The image from Damien's text flashes back into my head; hard, ready, waiting for me. My mind mirrors the woman's yelps. Guilt is drowned by want, sharp and insistent, clawing past Lena's ghost.

I reach the top. The stairs ending at a dim hallway, bulbs casting jagged shadows, and there it is--6F, all the way at the end of the hallway to my right. The door seemingly normal like all the others, but with a faint red glow seeping from the gap underneath. My breath is shallow and quick, not just from the strain of going up all the stairs in heels, but from what's waiting for me on the other side.

I move forward, past one door, two, three, four and five, and stop, heels sinking into the threadbare carpet.

Lena's face swims up one last time--her smile when she kissed me goodbye just a few hours ago, her love-heart text, trust I've shredded and now threatened to burn to ash. I could still save it, save us. Run down these stairs, out into the night, be the Alex she needs. I clutch at my chest but there's still no cross--just the shaved smooth skin of a bare chest. My hand hovers over to the strap of the bag instead, ready to swing it around, put my disguise back on, flee.

But then I see him in my mind, Damien, tall and commanding. Not a gargoyle at all like I mused earlier. His hands promising to remake me, a guarantee flirted with ever since he slithered into my life. He's just feet away behind that door.

I take the guilt and put it somewhere deep, shoving it into a corner where it can't reach me anymore, not tonight. We're going to see what the ritual is, I'm going to let Alexis take me forward, through that door.

My heels are silenced against the worn carpet as I shift back a step. Settling, I steady my trembling fingers, and raise my clenched fist to the door, remembering his instructions.

Six sharp knocks--rap, rap, rap, rap, rap--I take a breath, deep, harsh, last chance--rap--and step back.

Looking down, the red light pulses stronger underneath, the glow intensifying against my black stilettos. I look up and the lock clicks.

The door swings open.

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