Self-reliance

On a dusky evening in a metropolitan city, where crimson clouds shimmied in the sky, and the rain poured down like gentle spit, if you were to peer through a muddy window of a dive bar, you would have seen, if you could, something that hadn’t happened for a thousand years.

It was a small, sticky establishment inviting only those with one purpose — to drink alone. On the right corner of the rosewood bar, on the thin film of dust, was the imprint of two arms, left there from the frequency of the position, the owner of which had just walked in.

A tiny bell rang with the equivalent cheer of a dead body announcing its re-arrival. By all accounts, she should be dead. But time worked differently on witches.

Avalina Matthews Bartholomew — Ava for short. Naturally, she had given up trying to make people pronounce a hundred-year-old name — well, a hundred and eleven, to be exact.

Wearing all black (obviously), she was tall and thin, like a prowling jaguar, with eyes as black as the night and hair the color of shadows that stretched in it. Smooth, ivory skin that had stopped ageing after her thirty-third birthday. But nobody looked up. Nobody cared.

The bartender, Joe — she assumed, because she had never asked — saw her as she sat on her stool, and her arms found their usual place on the rosewood bar.

A mezcal negroni slid into her hands, and a silent but meaningful nod passed between them. She often came here to be alone, a bar full of, well, other recluses, who probably came here to do the same. The plight of modern humans was that they often preferred to be alone in crowds. Humans as social creatures was a fact vehemently refuted by the present company. Scattered in disarray, occupying the shady corners, there were a few regulars. There was sombre John, Tiny Tuck, and Blue Betty — not that she was blue; she only ever wore it. Of course, Ava had never inquired why. Maybe she was more like humans than she thought. But being alone wasn’t just a choice for her. It was survival.

“Excuse me, barthender! I’ll have another beer… please?” Someone sloshed loudly next to Ava.

“Do you mind?” she said pointedly.

“Oh… sorry… didn’t see you there. You were kind of merged with the shadows…” he fumbled pointlessly.

Ava noticed his hair first, dark and straight, falling to his shoulders, and in abundance, like cascading blue ink. He must have been as tall as her, skinny but notably attractive, in an earnest kind of way.

“Can’t. You’re cut off,” Joe stated gruffly while wiping a glass with a cloth that seemed like it hadn’t been washed in a while.

“Come on, man. Not today!” he sighed, resting his head in his hands as he slumped on the stool.

By this time, Ava started feeling something mushy in the pit of her stomach, akin to pity.

“What’s today?” she bites.

“I got fired…” he mumbled, still with his head in his hands. He looked up. “You know how they say gossip is the best way to bond? But when people only bond over someone they hate, what is that worth?”

Ava didn’t try to answer that rhetorical question.

“I tried to do it, you know. Be cool and take a few jabs at the new guy… I just felt bad afterwards. So I reported it. There, I ‘snitched’.” He air-quoted sarcastically. “And they fired me! Said I didn’t have enough ‘team spirit’.” He raised his hands, giving in to the temptation of air-quoting again, but lost heart mid-way.

“Sorry to hear that,” Ava said, almost regretting her decision to engage.

“Thanks,” he said.

In an attempt to get out, she said, “Well… I guess it’s not all bad.” Ava trailed off.

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking at her.

“At least you got what you wanted.” She looked at his empty glass.

“But he won’t —” He froze mid-sentence, staring at Ava’s index finger pointing at his empty glass that was now filling up fast with golden, crispy liquid. Up and up to the brim, and the best part — no foam.

“Boom,” Ava said, smiling self-assuredly, “and bam!” She snapped her fingers in his gaping face, faster than he could blink. “Now you won’t remember it,” she whispered as she twisted her stool the other direction, clearly confident in her ability to kill two birds with one stone — that is, doing something nice and marking an end to the conversation.

“But… how… h-how did you do that?” he stammered to her back, which had suddenly gone stiff.

Ava turned around slowly and looked him straight in the eye.

“Did what?” she asked carefully.

Too afraid to speak, his eyes pointed to the glass.

“You’re not supposed to remember that.” Without warning, she snapped her fingers in his face again. Besides flinching embarrassingly, his expression did not indicate success.

She leaned in, eyes narrowing. “How are you doing this?” she asked quietly.

Mustering up all his courage, he leaned in as well and quietly replied, “You first.”

“Outside. Now!” Ava ordered.

He got up at the same time as her and then stumbled back to make way, gesturing like a gentleman, albeit an intoxicated one, as he followed her, but not before grabbing his beer from the bar.

The night air was chilly and damp from the rain. Smoke rose from rat-infested gutters that gurgled sporadically. She turned around to face him. “Who are you?”

“Uh… Damien?”

“Are you not sure?”

He laughed nervously. “I am…?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was trying to enjoy my evening…” He shrugged sheepishly.

She walked right up to him. “Answer the question.”

“Okay okay… god, you’re a bit intense. I came here for a job a week ago. I’m the new guy. They were making fun of me, okay? And I heard them and reported it… and well, the rest is the same.”

“It can’t be… you’re a Normie!” Ava said.

“Okay… rude,” Damien said, pursing his lips.

Ava, visibly perplexed, paced in circles, muttering to herself. “But… they said… it can’t be… it’s only not supposed to work on other witches…”

“Did you say witches? Wait, what? Are you a witch?!” He shouted incredulously.

“Shh.” She walked towards him and then lowered her voice to a calculated whisper. “If you’re talking traditionally… then yes.” She glanced behind her just to be safe. “And keep your voice down. Because from my calculations… so are you.” She looked back at him.

“What? You’re way crazier than you’re cute, lady!” he faltered, hands up defensively.

Ava looked down and shook her head in silence. “You know…” She looked up at him, her eyes blacker than before, reflective like a feral animal in the jungle at night. “I don’t like being called crazy,” she hissed.

“Okay… that’s like, objectively cool,” Damien said submissively. “You know what I’m wondering? Why is a witch, who can conjure alcohol at whim”, he took a satisfying swig from his glass, “drinking in a bar?”

Ava smiled coldly. “I have a question too. How many sisters did your mother have?”

“Hey, there’s no need to bring family into this,” Damien said in mock anger.

“Look, here’s what I know: one, magic doesn’t work on other witches. Two, only the sixth daughter of a sixth daughter is a witch.”

“Ha! You’re wrong! My mother only had four sisters because… one died in childbirth.” He slowed as he completed the sentence, keeping time with the realization. “Actually… that does explain a few things.”

He paused. “Earlier… when I said I heard them talk about me at work… um, I really heard them.”

“Okay…” she said, confused.

“You don’t understand… I can hear thoughts. But I can’t hear you.” Adding almost instantly.

“Are you sure? What am I thinking right now?” Not waiting for his answer. “I’m thinking you’re crazy. I guess it must be true — you can’t read my mind,” she said dryly.

“I know it sounds strange…”

“Try me.”

“Well, at first, it was like noise, you know, like the black and white static of a TV, but it was loud. I couldn’t control it. Then my mom got sick, and it got worse. Some days, I thought my head would explode.” He noticed the melancholic shift in the air. “Anyway, my mom couldn’t talk much by the end, but I heard her. Even till the bitter, dreadful end.”

Ava hadn’t anticipated his vulnerability. She paused, thinking. “Meet me at the abandoned sugar factory near the lake.

Tomorrow. Four o’clock. Don’t be late.” She turned around to leave.

“Uh, do you mind filling this back up before you leave?” He glanced at his empty glass and back up, but she was already gone.

Damien started making his way home. Two blocks in, his phone rang. “Yes, boss. On my way home. I’ve been listening all night. I had a few. I told you, it helps me focus. I haven’t found her yet. Maybe I can’t hear her.” At least that part was true, he thought to himself. “I’ll keep trying. Yes, I’m all ears.”

The call disconnected.

_______________

The abandoned sugar factory looked like someone had tried to gentrify it and given up halfway. The smell of old sweetness lay buried under damp concrete and pigeon shit. If you hadn’t known what it was, you would never have guessed that once, this place had made things taste better.

“You’re late,” Ava said behind him.

“Jesus — you’ve got to stop doing that,” he said, clutching his chest.

She walked past him and pushed open a crooked metal door. Inside, shafts of light fell from broken windows in long, dusty triangles. Old machinery hunched in the shadows like sleeping beasts. Ava led him to a cleared-out space in the middle. On an overturned crate sat a small, battered metal case.

“Great, you brought lunch!” Damien exclaimed.

She side-eyed him silently and flipped the lid open. Inside were two glass vials. One was filled with clear liquid. The other held something thick and murky.

“This, for lack of a better word, is a potion,” she said. “If you’re a real witch, it will help you connect to your powers.”

“And if not?” he asked.

“You’ll die.”

There was a beat where he couldn’t tell if she was joking.

“Death by potion,” he said eventually. “Very on-brand.”

He took the clear vial, looked at her, then at the liquid. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, and tipped it back.

Nothing happened for a second, and then: “My throat,” he gasped. “It feels tight. What was that? Oh my god, I’m dying. What did you give me?”

“H₂O,” she said, stone-faced.

“What’s H₂ — oh.” He blinked. “Just water… ahem. I knew that.”

“Here’s the potion.” She handed him the vile-looking vial, trying not to smile.

He uncorked it and sniffed. “That smells nasty.”

“Tastes worse. Hence the water,” she replied.

“So now what?” he asked.

“Chug.”

He did.

Instantly, the world shifted. Pipes hummed. A mouse’s tiny heart hammered in the wall to his left. Outside, a cyclist’s tires hissed on wet pavement. A couple two streets away argued over what they were going to eat that night.

Damien dropped to his knees, palms pressed to his ears.

“Too loud,” he gasped.

Ava knelt in front of him. Her hands hovered, unsure. “Damien,” she said sharply. “Look at me.”

He did. For a flicker of a moment, the noise dipped. The rats, the pipes, the arguments blurred into a background storm. His breathing steadied.

“Focus,” she said. “There’s a truck three streets over waiting at the light. What’s the driver humming?”

He closed his eyes. The city slammed into him.

“Focus,” she repeated.

He sifted clumsily through the noise. There, a low off-key mumble.

“Dancing Queen,” he said eventually, clenching his teeth. “Badly.”

“Now filter him out.”

“How?”

“Decide he’s not important.”

“Harsh.”

“Try.”

He imagined a dial in his mind, the driver’s off-key ABBA shrinking, then flicking off.

“Do the same for the rest,” her voice guided.

He held on to the noise, felt its penetrating hum, and went through it. The overwhelming chaos dropped a fraction, then lower, and finally disappeared altogether.

He exhaled and opened his eyes, breathless and grinning.

_______________

They met like that most afternoons. Sometimes in the factory, sometimes on rooftops, sometimes in the bar. Today, it was under a bridge.

She held out a small handheld radio. “Break it,” she said. “In there.” She tapped the casing. “The sound. The frequency. Push back.”

The radio hissed softly between stations. A pop song flickered in and out.

Damien closed his eyes. He followed the sound inside, into wires and static, into a small invisible path where information moved like water.

The radio squealed. For a second, the sound warped, then snapped back to normal.

“Again,” Ava said quietly.

He tried again. The song twisted, notes stretching like melted tape. And then, everything went silent. The radio light was still on.

He opened his eyes to find Ava watching him. “Very good.”

They sat under the bridge until the light shifted from periwinkle blue to the twinkling of stars. Damien kept fiddling with the radio, making it cough out little bursts of static like an asthmatic robot. Ava watched him with the kind of expression reserved for cats chasing laser pointers — mild curiosity and bubbling affection she would sooner have died than admit.

Eventually, Damien pocketed the radio and cleared his throat. “I need to tell you something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If it’s that you’re broke, fired, and bad at cordless electronics, I’m very much aware.”

“No,” he said, swallowing. “It’s —”

He froze.

The air had gone wrong.

Ava sensed it a moment later, not in the way Damien heard the hum of the city, but in the way hunters felt the breath of wolves before teeth found flesh. The underpass was too quiet.

“You feel that?” Damien whispered.

Ava nodded.

A metallic click echoed through the gloom. Something rolled across the concrete and tapped against Damien’s boot.

“Oh hell,” he muttered.

The flash-bang erupted with a burst of white. Damien’s ears didn’t just ring, they shrieked. Shapes slid through the glare: two silhouettes in tactical grey, guns raised.

Ava moved first. She raised her hand; the gun nearest to them jerked sideways, skittering across the concrete, her fingers pinched the air, and the man’s neck snapped like a dry bark. The other lunged and met Ava’s knee instead, crumpling with a noise that sounded very much like regret.

Suddenly, sound grabbed Ava like an invisible cage. Nothing as she had ever felt before. It clasped her bones, contracting every fiber in her limbs. Her magic stuttered under it.

Opposite her, Damien was on his knees, his jaw clenched so tight he thought it would crack. The noise wasn’t noise. It was precision. It was a leash he had worn before in the hands of the person who raised him — his Handler.

Pale and lithe, dressed all in white, he crouched down next to Damien. “Remember this?” he asked, pointing to a small black remote in his hand. “I’m sure you do.”

He spoke into his collar mic. “Targets located.”

And then back to him. “You’ve been avoiding us, Damien. Mr. Bleach is not happy about it at all.” He tutted. “After everything we’ve done for you? Took you in when your mother died, gave you purpose, saved you from yourself.” He pointed the remote directly at him, and Damien flinched.

“Your kind has always been ungrateful.” He continued, looking at Damien and then at Ava with unadulterated disgust.

Ava’s eyes widened with realization.

“You witch scum,” the Handler spat. “Oh, we knew what you were when we saw you — an unwanted anomaly. A glitch in the system. A male witch.” He laughed once, sharp and humorless. “So we used you. It was Mr. Bleach’s idea. He said the Cleaners could use a witch to hunt other witches. But imagine the irony — a witch who couldn’t hear himself.”

Something inside Damien broke, echoes of pain stored deep within, now finding their way out in the circular relief of a guttural, primitive scream that not just blasted the torturous remote but also the hand holding it.

The Handler shrieked, falling back, clutching the ruin of his wrist. The sound trap shattered. Ava’s limbs unlocked like strings had been severed. Damien didn’t wait.

He hit the Handler hard, taking them both to the concrete. His fists found bone. Bone found bone back. Something cracked. Damien didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Until Ava grabbed his coat and dragged him away. “Enough,” she said. “He’s done.”

Damien staggered to his feet. For a long while, they said nothing.

“They told me they saved me,” Damien finally said.

“They didn’t. You did. Just now,” she said quietly.

“I guess I never felt at home. Not amongst those people, in the dormant smell of familiarity, in the places I was supposed to and maybe, not even in my own head. As if all my life, I’ve been waiting for it to start. When the lights went out and the noise drowned me out, I longed for someone to quiet it. Till I found you.” He confessed.

Ava almost smiled at that. “So, what now?”

Damien tilted his head. “We could run. Or,” he said slowly, “we could stop running.”

Ava exhaled through her nose, something between a sigh and a laugh. “You’re insufferably optimistic for someone raised by fascist janitors.”

“It’s a coping mechanism.” He said.

She looked at the three unconscious bodies on the ground, then back at him. “We’re not ready.”

“Not yet.” He agreed.

They walked slowly towards the rising sun. Above them, the city beast droned on.

And behind them, in the shadow of the underpass, one of the radios crackled back to life.

A voice whispered through static.

“Asset compromised. Proceed to cleansing protocol.”

_______________