#aboutlastnight (ONC 2020 Shortlist)

Summoning Demons with a Carpet

Even if I hate Damian Bradely with a passion, that's not going to solve my current predicament. And sadly, neither will all the screaming. It just make Fifi retreat and hide behind the motorcycle and disturbs a family of innocent rats living in a nearby dumpster. The rats then make Fifi start screaming, and there is too much noise altogether.

So I stop, take a deep breath and think. Damian's throat is definitely not made for expressing powerful emotions because it's already raw. Weakling.

Criticizing him gives me no pleasure since I'm in his body so I'm a weakling too, and it doesn't offer a solution. I need to clam down and figure this out like the mature lady I am. My mind instantly goes to my happy place and I remember a fabulous night at Burj Dubai when I looked ravishing in an Alexander McQueen. The memory calms me, but ultimately doesn't help. 

I need to tap the problem-solving part of my brain. #allittakesisfocus

I can't focus on shit because Damian has zero chill. Another wave of rage floods me, but I close my eyes and let it pass like innocent waves of a stormy sea. I've totally got this. Damian can't get to me, can't make me rage. Besides, all I have to do is win that competition the Devil organized and I'll ask him to get me back into my tight, toned body so that I can leave all this behind. Maybe I will even ask him to remove this travesty from my memory so that I can keep on being me, no dubious out -of-body experiences attached.

Well then, if that is not a solution, I don't know what it. #itallcomesnaturally #brilliantgirl

Right, now that I've decided what I want to do, I need expert advice.

"Fifi, what if I actually win this competition? Do you think I'll get my body then?"

Fifi takes her eyes off the rats that have camped under the motorcycle and stares at me with wide, confused eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Oh, right. I think I might not have mentioned that last bit to her, focused as I was on expressing my frustration. "Damian claims that the Devil is willing to give their soul back to whoever finds some thingie for him. What if I find it and ask him to give me my body back as a prize?"

"Carolyn, that's genius!" Fifi shrieks and the rats flee in terror.

I silently don't blame them, but I keep my face hopeful because #friendshipgoals.

"So... What does he want?"

"Um... A piece of soul?"

Fifi clutches her chest. "Whose soul?"

"Not yours!" I want to snap, but I don't. The truth is, I can't tell from the letter. Damian just says he wants a piece of soul, staying infuriatingly vague about it. Maybe he didn't know either. But that's silly, of course he would know what he was looking for.

"I'm not sure," I finally answer because with each passing second Fifi's eyes get wider and I'm afraid they'll pop out of her head. "And I'm not sure how to find out." Asking the evil motorcycle dudes seems like a bad idea.

"I know what would help," Fifi says unexpectedly, her eyes back in her head, a grin on her face. "Some Mate!"

Oh, yes, I forgot, Fifi thinks drinking Mate fixes everything. But I don't have a better idea, so I just shrug, hop on my motorcycle and vrum vrum my way back the her apartment. #onestepatatime

In Damian's body, everything looks smaller. Her cream couch and stone-white walls, the white wood library case filled with photos and trinkets from our many travels. Even the ceiling looks lower. Oh, right, probably because I'm about one foot taller.

"Mate, mate, mate," Fifi chants, darting to her tiny kitchen which is, in accordance with modern open space living, right off the couch. "I'm getting the good glasses." And she shuffles towards the library case, dragging her feet on the floor.