schizophrenic bartenders

Content warning: contents brief mentions of mental health, physical violence, and gore

Her heeled black boots clack crisply against the wet pavement. The petrichor emanating from her surroundings in lieu of the rainstorm a few hours earlier is dense in the air. She breathes in deeply, trying to hold the warm, familiar scent in her lungs for as long as possible. Her head is bowed, the raincoat tucked around her ears shiny and dripping, colored a deep, earthy green akin to a leafy forest wet with dew, glimmering limpidly under sunbeams. Her bag swings loosely by her side as she walks. She stares down at the holes in the road. They reconfigure into eyes. Blinking slow and sultry up at her, lashes fluttering. Watching.

She ignores them.

She turns the corner and is blasted with noise. Honking horns, people in suits speaking angrily into cell phones, the incessant click of camera shutters as tourists explore the city for the first time. The patter of footsteps against damp cement, laughter and conversations carried forth by the wind, the clink of wine glasses as busy parents retire for the night, celebrating their victorious attempts at putting their children to bed. Her raincoat rustles against her ears. The sound is grating. Like a saw being dragged across a thick slab of slate. Like a mirror being shattered into a million fragments. Like the staticky, flickering hum of a thousand angry hornets. Her nails press into her skin. The rustling turns into laughter. Not the nice kind, like giggling. Not the kind that makes you feel dizzy with happiness, that makes you want to jump off of rooftops, that makes you feel like you could crash into infinity.

No, this laughter is evil. It causes your organs to shrivel up within your body. It causes your mouth to dry up, your throat to close, a tight ball of fear to lodge in the pit of your stomach. She squeezes the bridge of her nose. Shakes her head. Wills away the echoing voice. Blinks away the bouncing, bobbling eyeballs that stare at her from the ground, shiny and wet. She clutches her bag closer to her chest.

The bar where she works is buzzing with life. Cocktails with multifarious hues are being passed around between scantily clad women. They squeal with delight as a round of shots slides over the counter to where they stand. She blends in with the shadows thrown across the walls as she makes her way to the back room to shuck off her coat and bag. She rakes her fingers through her hair, damp and frizzy from the rain. She presses her palms against her skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles, and pulls on a pair of black cotton stockings. The foreboding feeling that was lurking in the crevices of her consciousness slowly dwindles. She is in her element now. She pinches her cheeks for a bit of color, dabs some gloss on her lips, and shuts the door behind her. The music immediately engulfs her. She feels the beat in her bones.

“Leah!” She turns to see Aryan smiling at her from across the counter as he shakes a drink. He sidles up to her. “You’re here early.”

She grins at him, bending down to bring out a bucket of ice from under the table. “I went to the park earlier today to meet some friends. Came straight from there.”

“Ah, of course! You had mentioned. Your friends from Austin, yeah?” Even though they stand close together, the music steals away the ends of his words, swallowing them up.

She nods, grabbing hold of a slender-necked bottle of tequila from the shelf behind. “Today was their last day here. We sat by the lake in the rain and gorged ourselves on caramel apples and maple bars.” She shudders, lamenting her incorrigible sweet tooth. “Ugh, I felt like throwing up.”

Aryan laughs. He walks back to his side of the counter and pours the drink from the cocktail shaker into a short diamond-patterned glass. Deep cobalt and rich mahogany blend in a mercurial riot of color. A dash of juice squeezed fresh from a tangerine, a pinch of salt and lemon zest coating the rim, and the drink morphs into a work of art. He waves his hands in a flourish, presenting it to the already quite vilely-drunk young woman beckoning to him behind the bar. Her blond hair sticks to her neck. She yells a warbled acknowledgement of appreciation at him and proceeds to throw back the liquid before anyone can blink an eye. She lets out a happy shriek of laughter and staggers back into the crowd, pumping her arms to the music. Aryan watches her retreating figure, smiling incredulously. He turns slowly to look at Leah, who is stifling a laugh of her own.

“Well,” he yells at her over the din, “The drunker they are, the more we get paid!”

Leah cackles, and turns her attention to a young man with gangly arms and glitter gleaming on his eyelashes.

“A Blue Curaçao, please,” he slurs, “and cranberry juice.”

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” The music blares in her ears. She leans in closer to hear him.

His palm flies up onto the counter with a slap, and she jumps back, startled.

“I said,” he snaps, voice deepening, “I want a Blue Curaçao, with cranberry juice.”

But his words fall on deaf ears, for she is no longer listening to him. She is looking at his hand, the one on the counter. It is a completely normal hand, speckled with flecks of glitter and paint. Smooth and brown and sun-kissed, prominent knuckles, a mole on the wrist. A boring, generic hand with long, shapely fingers and torn cuticles. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the fact that it doesn’t have nails.

Where the hard cases of keratin should be, there are instead empty, gaping holes, bruised and red and fleshy. Swollen and puffy, blood trickling onto the counter. Like somebody yanked them out with a set of pliers. She looks up at him in horror. Slowly, he meets her eyes. A disfigured grin carves itself onto his face. He brings a mutilated finger to his lips. Shh.

She stumbles backwards, knocking into the shelf. The liquor bottles rattle. His grin widens. The bones in his elbows protrude painfully. His eyes bore into her head. Still smiling at her, he picks up the knife lying on the counter, which Aryan used to slice the tangerine. Quicker than she can suck in a breath, he turns around and plunges the knife into someone behind him. It’s the girl. The girl for whom Aryan made the drink. The one whose yellow hair shone like the sun.

Leah's lungs crumple, leaking air like a stale balloon. She is paralyzed.

Again, the man turns around and looks at her. Shh.

She screams. Her legs give out beneath her. Her head hits the floor, and all she sees is black.

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“God, she just fell. Collapsed, like a puppet whose string was cut.” Aryan’s voice cuts through the void in her brain. “God,” he says again, voice a harsh whisper.

Her mouth has a stale metallic taste, like rusted metal. Bright lights pierce through her eyelids. She opens them, sees Aryan pacing the wooden floor of the back room. A girl is crouched next to Leah, black hair straight as a pin and shining. Ariana.

Leah groans softly, and they both whip around at the noise.

“Oh, you’re alright!” Ariana throws her arms around her. Leah gasps as a bright pain unfurls like a flower within her skull. Ariana hastily lets go, apologies spilling from her lips like warm water.

Leah brushes them off, and sits up slowly. Aryan rushes over and cups the back of her neck, helping her straighten. Ariana fetches a glass of water, and coaxes bits of bread and fruit through her lips between sips.

“What happened?” Aryan looks at her worriedly. “One moment you were laughing and mixing drinks. The next, I looked over at you and watched as you fell.” He pauses, as if steeling himself for what he is about to say next. “Did you see something?”

She swallows thickly, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “Yes. Yeah, I just- I’ve been seeing weird things all day. Nothing too concerning, but unpleasant nonetheless. You know how it is.”

Ariana looks at her, concern etched into the lines of her face. “I thought you were getting better. Leah, you passed out. This hallucination must have been much scarier than any others you’ve had in a while.”

“Yeah.” Leah says, voice wavering. She clears her throat. “Yeah,” she says again, firmly, “I am getting better. But this one was a bit..unusual. There was this man, super glittery and gangly, who had no fingernails, and who grabbed a knife and stabbed that girl.” She looks at Aryan, who is now sitting on the floor beside her. “The one who was drunk, for whom you made the butterfly pea flower gin and tonic for.”

“God,” Ariana whispers. ‘What the fuck.”

Leah lets out a soft laugh. It sounds more like an exhale. “It’s fine. You get used to it. I haven’t taken my medication in a month. Haven’t been seeing anything, either. I should probably take it today, though.” She sighs shakily. “I guess we’ve figured out how long I can go without it.”

Aryan threads his fingers through hers.

They help her up. She feels loads better now. Ariana gives Leah’s bag and coat to Aryan. “Josiah and Niamh are here, covering for the two of you. They came as soon as I called.” She shoos them out the back door, into the cold winter air. “Now go. Leah, get plenty of water and rest. Aryan-” she raises an eyebrow at him. “Take good care of her.”

The blush that paints his cheeks is red as spilled wine. He smiles. “Make the crowd go wild, Ari.”

She salutes them, and disappears back through the door. Leah and Aryan make their way home, boots crunching on the gravel path. They live in the same building - Leah’s apartment is right below Aryan’s.

They walk in companionable silence, shoulders brushing.

Suddenly, Aryan says, “Anyway, are your friends planning on coming back? What with you stuffing them with caramel apples and maple bars until they throw up-”

Leah punches him lightly in the shoulder, mouth turning up at the corners. “Yeah, of course they are - they said they would be back for spring break. It’s New York, after all!” She bumps his arm with hers. He smiles at her. It is blinding.

When they reach, Aryan fumbles for his keys, bare fingers red from the cold. Leah laughs and pulls out her own keys, gloved hands snugly fitting the correct one into the lock. They stumble up the carpeted stairs, giggling like children. They reach Leah’s apartment. She looks up at him, a question in her eyes. His oak-brown skin winks under the yellow light. He tucks her hair behind her ear, cupping her cheek. Their lips touch, and her brain reconfigures into a bonfire. This time, she fumbles for the keys as Aryan mouths along her neck. His arms are wrapped around her waist. His eyes twinkle like stars. Like a supernova.

She pulls him into the apartment. Their laughter echoes in the empty stairwell. Like a memory. Like the vespertine sun.

Like nothing else matters, except the two of them.