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I Am the Wild

Chapter 1: The Wanted Ad

Being a candle is not easy;in order to give light, one must first burn. ~ Rumi

Underwater, the world doesn't feel like itself anymore. It becomes more like a gateway to another reality. It's an in-between place, water. Same with air. And dreams. They are all in-between places where so much possibility lives.

I often get my best flashes in the water. Some would call them premonitions, but they aren't nearly that defined. They're more impulses with a slight tingle to them. The kind I've learned to listen to.

A flash is what led me to turn right instead of left on my way home yesterday, which took me past a homeless person I gave change to, who then gave me their newspaper as a thank you, which had a strange advertisement for a job, which resulted in an interview today.

It read:

Assistant needed for unique firm.

Must be willing to work at night, travel, and live on-site.

Strong stomach a perk.

Compensation generous. Will train.

If you're reading this, you're the person we're looking for.

It listeda number but no name. When I called, a woman answered the phone with a chipper, "The Night Firm, how may I direct your call?"

I told her I was calling about an ad in the newspaper for a job. She paused. Became very quiet for a moment, and then said, "Please hold," with less chipperness than before.

When she returned, her voice was nearly robotic. "Be at 333 Alley Lane at 10 p.m. tomorrow," she said, before promptly and unceremoniously hanging up on me!

I sat staring at my phone for several minutes, unsure of what had just happened or what I should do.

A quick Google search for The Night Firm revealed only skin care creams and a questionable website that showed women bent over with minimal clothing. I instantly decided I wasn't going to go. It was stupid, possibly dangerous, and surely not worth it.

But then I set my phone down and wandered my two-bedroom apartment with the secondhand, mismatched furniture that smelled like cigarettes and body odor, the carpet that hailed from another epoch, and the couple above I'm certain are professional dancers who also like to breathe loudly during sex, and I changed my mind. Rather, my flash changed my mind. I got the tingly feeling, and I knew I had to go.

So here I am, applying one more coat of mascara before heading out the door in a suit I can't afford and will be returning first thing tomorrow, in hopes of landing the most mysterious job ever.

How do you dress when you have no idea what the job is that you're applying for and don’t know anything about the company? I figured it would be better to be professionally overdressed than under, thus the blue Prada suit. The woman at the store insisted I wear it, despite my objection that the feather cuffs were a bit much. She assured me it was all the rage, and I must confess I do look rather striking in it. My dark hair is pulled into a French twist, and I accented my blue eyes with a charcoal powder. Red lips provide the finishing touch.

They can't possibly judge me for my choice of presentation when they didn't give me any hints as to what they are about.

With one last glance in the mirror and a fake smile that I hope looks sincere, confident and competent, I turn off the light in the bathroom and grab my well-worn leather bag as I head to the front door.

I don't openhisdoor this time as I pass it, though I do run my hand over the knob briefly, even as my mind unpacks the memories stored there. Memories of before. Memories of us. Always us. "It's us against the world, Evie," he'd always say, his blue eyes, so alike to mine, peering straight into my soul in a way no one else could. My hand lingers a moment longer, then slips off, and I tuck the memories back into their mental box and shove them away.

I'm clearly not over it. Not ready to entirely move on. Still, there's some progress. I think even Jerry—my former therapist—would agree.

Former because we ended up sleeping together and it took me longer than it should to realize how unhealthy that was. He took advantage of me during a low point in my life, and I let him, because I was in too much pain to say no to something that looked enough like love.

His true colors bled into our relationship slowly, and by then it was too late. I was already under his thumb.

I don't even cry every night anymore. Not about my brother and not about my therapist/love/ex/asshole.

But when my phone bings, the familiar panic sends a surge of unneeded adrenaline through my bloodstream and my heart quickens as I swallow back bile.

Because I know it's Jerry.

And I'm not wrong.