“Goddamnit!” He growled and his eyes snapped open; he realized everything had been moved around: a tell-tale sign that Rosa, the housekeeper, had been there the day before. He always arrived past midnight on Friday nights with a bottle of Jack in one hand and a scantily clad female on the other, so he wouldn’t have noticed. He could have walked into a house that was ransacked and remained completely oblivious, as long as his bed was the only item that hadn’t been stolen, he probably wouldn’t have cared anyway.
“I am firing that woman! How many times have I told her to return everything to its place when she’s done? What a waste of time…” he muttered angrily under his breath and stepped onto cool ivory tiles, creating a puddle on a spotless floor as he flung open drawers and opened cabinets under the sink. Finally finding what he needed, Damon harshly took the Old Spice shower gel and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror from the corner of his eye as he turned back toward the shower. He stopped suddenly.
Something looked…odd. He stepped closer to the mirror and studied his face carefully. He looked into the reflection of his irritated expression, but couldn’t notice anything out of place, no asymmetries disrupting the balance of his features. He looked again and noticed that there seemed to be something different about his gaze. Verdant eyes that permanently burned with intensity looked dull and expressionless. It was as if the light from inside of him that shone through the lighthouses of his inner self were turned off. He felt as if something was missing.
Alarmed, he realized what it was he was missing—his soul.
Frantically, but with a stoic expression, he dashed out of the bathroom and pushed open the heavy door. He scanned the bedroom for any clues as to where his soul might be. There were none. He paced before the bed and stopped abruptly.
Did someone take it while he was sleeping? What if he had been a centimeter to the left of his dream catcher? Could evil spirits take his soul and run away with it before the morning? Did dream catchers even protect against evil spirits, or was it just unpleasant dreams?
He dashed from one side of the room to another, rummaging through the immense walk-in-closet, tearing apart black, navy blue, and pin stripes, pulling through white, ivory, and crème.
Did he forget to put it back on the last time he took it off? Did he remember to hang it back on wall with the rest of his work clothes? Maybe he left it in the hamper; had Rosa done laundry yet? Would she have noticed? Could it be under the bed, discarded among a dozen bras and garter belts that would never be returned?
Damon rubbed his temples and swung open the door of his master bedroom, stalking toward the living room. He threw cushions around and removed parts of the leather sofa in an attempt to check between the tight spaces. He didn’t remember if it carelessly slipped out of his pocket while he watched The Colbert Report. He stopped rummaging through the loveseat and the armchair instantly when an inexplicable fear washed over him.
Did the Devil finally come for it after so many years of avoidance? Damon signed his employment contract with Jackson & Jackson Prosecuting for only two years, and it had expired three months ago, right? Why would Satan himself come to claim something that had been rendered void and was then considered worthless? Maybe he could use that argument… would Lucifer accept it? Would he give Damon back his soul if he felt convinced it was a mistake?
He couldn’t find anything in the living room, and he was running out of places to look. In desperation, Damon raided the kitchen, checking all the cabinets and drawers, leaving them ajar in his erratic search. He almost ripped the refrigerator’s doors from their hinges, diving through the crowded freezer and swimming through the week’s leftovers. Angrily, he punched the metallic doors, leaving a dent on the appliance and a sharp sting in his fist.
“Where is it?!” he hissed. “Where the Hell is it?!” he murmured, stalking back into the bedroom, where he started. His eyes flashed toward the balcony and a sliver of hope flickered within his lifeless insides when he noticed the doors were half-open. He pulled them back slowly, in case his soul had crept there alone and was hiding. He walked into the crisp air of the early hours of a late March weekend, inhaling deeply, holding onto the railing tightly. “Good morning.” A voice came from the far corner of the balcony. A dark-haired young woman was leaning against the cool metal, contemplating the city atop twenty-two stories. She studied him full-body and offered him a white Liebeck v. McDonald’s mug. “Coffee?”
Damon accepted the offer and sipped long and slow. He took a large gulp and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and opened his eyes once more. With a wicked grin and a menacing flame in his eyes, he chugged down the rest and pulled the woman back inside. He found it.
