• It was a quarter past four in the morning. There I was. Black-lined eyes, red lips and a thirst for some sexual tension. Meanwhile, the city full of innocent bystanders slept in peace. Unknowing of my agony. Unknowing of the evil within the bowels of the dark alleys and subways. The bastards.

    Sleep. These days, akin to unicorns and dragons. Imaginary, nonexistent, but a pleasant thought nonetheless. Sleep. I'd enjoy it. But without fail, the minute I closed my eyes, some new terror decided to shred at my spiritual fiber until the lids to these black cherries flew up again. Sleep had very little meaning to me.
    Whether it was a memory or dream, or slip of sanity, it kept me awake for weeks. And each night, the terror that kept my sleep locked in a cage had bigger and sharper claws. I found myself running for my life from an invisible demon. In the end I kept telling myself that it was just so much easier to stay awake. Maybe then if my body just gave out and self-destructed, it'd put and end to all of this. Maybe if I just clicked my heels together and prayed to the Gods that it was all a dream, I'd finally wake up from it.

    The promise of dawn sent a bitter chill of defiance down my spine. If you don't sleep, you don't dream. Faces of my past haunted me, worming their way into my stomach, making my insides churn. It almost made me wish I could just puke the memories of them away. Of course, that's impossible. Then again, there were a lot of things that were "impossible" until I got into this line of work, whatever the hell this line of work is. My sins kept tugging at my soul, demanding me to repent.
    My past, the never-ending stomach bug. I didn't have any more cookies left to toss.

    I took a deep drag of my cigarette and let my eyelids droop half closed as the nicotine ate at my throat. My lungs ached. My stomach growled, and - how long ago was it that I ate? An hour? A day? Time blends together when there's alcohol and sleep depravation involved. Yeah...the booze. My father used to drink to help him sleep, but for me it was just a gateway to a week of all-nighters and fruitlessly wasting money on liquor. Oh, and another addiction. Add that one to the list, too.

    My phone rang and the meager contents of my stomach crept to the back of my throat. I swallowed hard, ignoring the wave of nausea that hit me like a rock. My hand shook as I fumbled the receiver. "Yeah?"
    "Brooklyn? That you?"
    It was him. I knew it would be. Damn it all the same. "Carlos. Honestly. Use the noggin the Gods gave you, man. Of course it's me."
    He sighed. I couldn't tell whether it was from relief or frustration or both, but it made me smile. "Listen, Brook. Got a bad phone call. You have a new job."
    Speaking of bad phone calls. "Spill."
    "You know the tricky Incubus we've been keeping track of?"
    Oh yeah. The handsy motherf*cker, we'd been after him for a good week. He'd been molesting random women downtown. Couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe crossing the Gateway made him a little more curious that usual, but the Incubi and those akin to them were usually fairly careful. Especially knowing I was in town. "Mmh."
    "Got a call from Sophie Pedra's mother. Soph woke up with claw marks all over her hips. Poor gal, can't even talk. She doesn't know what the hell she saw."
    "He didn't." My teeth grew sharp without any instruction from what was left of the brain in my head.
    Carlos sighed again. "He did."
    "I'll be there. Five minutes tops." I slung the phone back in the cradle. My body trembled with rage. Slowly I let my tongue unravel from between my lips and I ground the half-burnt cigarette out on the tip of it. The bit of gum above my fangs stung.
    Another day in paradise, and the sun wasn't even up yet.