#gwi-ma

You weren’t dumb, and nor were you gullible. The sky is a misty grey, the cold kissing your shaky lips as you stare at the knocked down billboard. Another missing person photo wiggles from its pin, practically waving you forward to look deeply.

And you knew them.

It was little Sarah. 16, brown hair, green eyes, had issues with her left eye due to trauma. She was struggling through her parents divorce and her only safe haven was talking about the new band in town— the Saja Boys. And she wasn’t the only one.

For the past year, every single patient who gushed about their newest obsession went missing days letter. Business got slow as people found music to be their emotional outlet, and you didn’t mind at first.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said listening to Huntrix made you cry. You absolutely adored them, from a fan and psychological standpoint. Three strong women who make songs about them, their life, and pursue their goals through confidence. The Saja Boys? They’re nothing but men who use their bodies, and young ones? They’re not really your type.

The city is bustling with people; cars zoom and people stroll around dressed cozily for the winter. You let out a breath, a sigh actually, and watch longingly as it turned to a puff of white. Maybe, things will get better soon.

“Miss!”

You turn around, hearing a childish voice. There, a small toothy grin smiles at you as they hold up a golden keychain. “You dwopped this!” he grins, staring up at you with sparkling eyes as they held their mother’s hand, “Is it fum Huntrix?”

Your heart heals instantly as you squat to their level, “Yes, yes it is.” It glistens, reminding you of the concert you attended to buy it.

You reach out to grab it, but you immediately draw back, “Why don’t you keep it? It’s a replica of Rumi’s chain, y’know.”

The kid stares at you in awe, looking up at the mother who’s as surprised as him, “Thank you miss!”

“Oh, are you sure?” the mother asks, her gloved hand clasping her mouth, “I know those aren’t cheap—“

“Please,” you insist as you stand, smiling softly at the giggling child, “Take care of it for me, will you?”

The mother looks at you with sorrow, and you asses her easily. Stressed, trying her best, and…grateful. Afterall, who are you to steal candy from a child?

You watch them chatter softly to each other, the kid skipping on the snow as he waves the keychain around, blabbering about where he’s going to hang it on. Yeah…on his hat sounds nice.

You take one final glance at the missing poster, and then you walk away. There were some things that weren’t in your control, and you weren’t going to beat yourself up about it.

Three hours later, you were sitting on a chair. Your leather-backed notebook sat nicely on your lap, along with the pen you fidgeted. It was past 2 o’clock, and your patient was awfully late.

Your office reflected your inner child, but with a taste of modern solemnity. The walls were painted a dull rainbow, and she was definitely long overdue for a retouch. You had pictures of your clients hanging from the walls; pictures of them with awards from the successes, their family (which became yours as well due to how comfortable they are talking with you) and with your awards too.

Graduated from a local college, a bachelor in humanities and a doctoral in psychology. A photo of you smiling stared back at you.

The rest of your office was well furnished. You had your desk organized in the corner of the room; a wooden desk, metal cabinets, the “relax corner”, and the other chair in front of you. It was a deep red color, given by the previous owner of the establishment and held many memories.

Sobs, laughter, anger— it had it all. Your chair was a simple grey foldable, and although uncomfortable, it made you at least feel a bit of pain that would never be the same as your patients. You sighed, glancing at the time again and noticing a minute barely passed.

You looked at your client’s file again, reading;

Micheal Der’osher , 23 Depression, bipolar & facing suicidal thoughts Doctors Note: just don’t let him die

You frowned at the note. You never loved the way doctors easily disregarded the health of patients. You can’t always stop them, you’re only here to help them— whether it be to listen or to offer solutions. Moreover, lives can easily be dismissed by a single scribble. Just sign under the “stable” line, and you’d never have to see them again.

But you’d never do it. Not until you’re confident that they feel better and know themselves they are.

A knock is heard at your door, and you perk up, maybe it’s him right now? You set aside your papers, standing as you dust off your black skirt. Heels clack on the wooden floor when you open the door, and just as you’d expected, it was him.

“Oh, Micheal?” you began, eyeing him, “I thought you wouldn’t—“

He interrupted you, his face too joyful as he held tickets between his fingers. You notice his nails, bitten to the point where scabs have formed at his cuticles.

“I just wanted to stop by Miss!” Micheal shoved a crumpled ticket up to your face, “I won tickets to see the Saja Boys this weekend! A-and I thought you’d want to go too, so I want to give you my second ticket!”

You placed your hand over your heart, pouting at the heartfelt consideration, “Aw, thank you Micheal, but are you sure you don’t want to keep it? You won them fair and square, don’t you think?”

You didn’t even bother bringing up his appointment, or the fact that you didn’t even like the Saja Boys. It was moments like these where you really had to put yourself in your patients shoes, and match their mood.

He shook his head eagerly, “No! I want you to have them!”

Slowly, you take out your palm as he slaps the ticket right on it. The ticket was purple, but because it was crumpled, you couldn’t make out any of the words just yet.

“Well, I appreciate it a lot. Thank you,” you tilt your head, grinning, “Did you want to go together?”

“Nope!” He was already making his way down the steps of your office, dancing on the road as he shouted at you, “You’re amazing, Dr. l/n!”

You stood at the entrance, your head peeking out as you watched him safely get back on the sidewalk and dance some more. A light chuckle leaves your lips as you lean on the door frame. Your manicured fingers unfurl the small ticket, and you read it:

Saja Boys - Admission Ticket #671 Ticket valid for 1 entry

There was no other detail written on the ticket, no matter how much you turned it around. Even Huntrix show tickets were more detailed and pretty than this.

You walked back inside, staring at the ticket as you closed the door. You had no other appointment pending, so you began to pack up. Today was Friday, was it not? You frowned, glancing at your written calendar behind your desk.

You had no appointments this weekend either, an eerie coincidence. That is, not until next week on Wednesday at 10:00 am. An abrupt ring made you jump, snapping you out of a daze. Your red telephone rang, and you pick it up, saying;

“Hello? This is Dr. y/n l/n, how may I help you?”

“Oh! y/n!” says the familiar voice, his voice clearing as he talked, “You busy?”

“Yes.” you say, monotonously as your finger hovers over the end call button.

It was your annoying ex again. The very one who cheated on you during your 3rd anniversary, and you were very fortunate to not have fucked him before. He probably called to ask you for a date again.

“Um,” David hums, and you hear his fingers tapping a surface impatiently, “I just wanted to know if you want to go out Saturday night? Anywhere you want babe—“

“I’m not your babe.”

And you hung up, blocking his new number, again. You glance at the ticket, and you’re not a lair when you say to yourself,

“And I am busy Saturday night. I have a boring concert to attend.”

Next thing you know, you’re the most suspicious person. You wear a long black trench coat with your bare legs and heels peeking from under. Because who else wears trench coats to concerts?

Your hand is stuffed deep into your pockets, clutching the ticket as you stare ahead. People are bustling around, screaming excitedly and flaunting hand-made signs for the band. The stars in the sky twinkle with joy, dancing about as big colored lights cross each other in a mingle.

A part of yourself wants to leave immediately, and another wants to peek inside, to have a taste of what you despised.

And maybe to find your patients, who were probably in the crowd. With resignation, you puff up your chest and make your away down the uneven path.

But they could be dead, and it will be your fault.

You stop yourself from taking another step forward. The noises around you come to a drowning stop as you stare ahead, your skin growing into goosebumps as the voice talks to you. You do not deserve to have them. They hate you. They want you gone.

Your head feels heavy as you turn around, your movements sluggish. Was this you talking to yourself? Your tongue brushes against your top lip, hydrating it as you whisper to yourself;

“No, I love them,” you take another dreading step forward, “They’re my family.”

Shoulders bump into yours in a rush, and you glance up, seeing the screen meters ahead turn on. The show had already started and you weren’t even inside yet. It took every ounce of your being to walk.

Stay away. Don’t come. They do not want to see you, y/n.

You ignored the voice, your heels practically digging against the concrete when you show your ticket to the Ticketmaster. He glances at you with a raised brow as he hands you a bracelet, but doesn’t say a word.

Trickles of sweat slide down your face as you shakily walk ahead. The hallways are empty now and the voice talking to you has grown quiet. You lean against one of the walls, your body against the Saja Boys poster as you slowly sink down to the floor. The bracelet falls from your hands, but you paid no mind to it.

It feels like you just ran a marathon without water, so you couldn’t even force yourself to watch the concert. You only listened, your eyes closed as you took shallow breaths.

At a distance, a man lurked. His fingers twirled a silver coin between his knuckles, voice muttering as he catches it in his palm.

Never, and he means never, has this happened before. It intrigued him. Made him grin and his fangs flash with hunger.

You were nearly fainted in the hallway. His minions were creeping up to your figure, their mouths opening in a horrid manner, to engulf your soul.

But that was much too soon for him.

He waved his hand, a motion enough to let them scamper away. What was a woman like you doing, disobeying?

You felt like someone was watching you, so you opened an eye. At first, you swear you see purple flames licking the walls, but when you blink again, you see a man. If it is one that is, because your nausea seems to be playing tricks on you.

He seems to be wearing heels as well. His boots make heavy thumps against the concrete, and his coat makes a fluttering show of his figure. You swallow thickly, your heart beating fast as the man of your dreams stops right at your feet.

His purple hair is slicked back, the tips of his hair licked a deep pink. The man looks at you with violet glowing eyes, beautiful lashes blinking down on you as he leans. You felt like butter, and you pulled your knees closer to your body.

“Well,” he says, pushing back his black coat for you to see his velvet suit when he squats, “What do we have here?”

And he has a sexy voice. You felt embarrassed as you tried to stand, but your own feet give up on you as you land right back on your ass.

“I-I” you began, trying to look anywhere but him, “I think I-I fell.”

His chuckle rattles your bones, and you see a leather-gloved hand reach out to you as he grins. Aged dimples pull at his cheeks, making him look like a glorious angel.

“Here, my name is Gwi-ma,” he watches you take his hand, your figure trembling pleasurably, “What is yours?”

Every nerve in your body screams at you to stay quiet, but you reply with a sheepish smile.

“y/n. y/n l/n.”