Damaged Gods

I put the Jeep in park and peer up at the old brick building. It’s not crumbling. In fact, it looks to be well cared for. The grounds are neat, not a single leaf on the grass, which is still quite green, even though it’s November first.

“Is it closed?” I’m not really asking Pia. Just trying to sort out how I get inside the sanctuary.

I get out of the Jeep and walk up to the gate. It’s a very nice gate. Something custom and old. Very old. Maybe even as old as this building claims to be because it’s got a patina. Mostly it’s black with some rust spots, but there are words engraved over the arch of the top and those are aged-copper green. A horn, a hoof, an eye, a bone. A man, a girl, a place of stone. A tick of time, a last mistake, keep them safe behind the gate. These words are separated by a relief image between ‘a bone’ and ‘a man’. It’s a… symbol. Some kind of simple mark. I search my brain for the word I’m looking for. Not a logo. Not a crest. More like a… sigil.

Yeah. I think. I’m not really sure what a sigil is, but that word pops into my head and it feels right so I go with it.

I peek through the wrought-iron bars. There is no one on the grounds in front. There is no intercom to buzz and ask for guidance, but there is a skinny walking gate on one side, and when I try the old iron handle, it turns with a squeak. “It’s not locked,” I say. “Maybe we should just walk up and knock on the door?”

“We should leave,” Pia says, flying over to land on my shoulder. “I don’t like this place, Pie.”

“Well, I do.” I’m annoyed with her and it comes out in my tone. Because Pia is the whole reason why my life is crap and people think I’m crazy.

I am the girl with the imaginary friend.

I am the girl who talks to herself.

I am the girl who hallucinates.

And I have always stuck up for her, insisting that she is real. So can she just be supportive? Please? Right?

Pia is why my mother left me in foster care when I was nine. I was dragged to dozens of free, Medicaid-approved psychiatrists when I refused to say that Pia was fake. They diagnosed me with schizophrenia when I was six. Put me on all kinds of drugs. Made me go to therapy and finally, when I was about twelve, I figured out how to play their stupid game.

Lie. Just lie.

So I became a liar.

And it worked.

They stopped the drugs, they stopped the therapy, and they stopped calling me crazy.

But that was a lie too, because I don’t care what anyone says. Pia is real.

She has to be real. Otherwise I really am crazy.

“I want to check it out,” I tell her. “And if you wanna stay here, then stay. In fact, I think you should stay here. The last thing I need is you distracting me and blowing this opportunity. Or… killing my hope. Because right now, this place has potential. It’s got no chance of being a home, but I could do worse when it comes to a temporary way station to regroup and rest after running away from my worthless crap of a life back in Philly. It’s got to be better than Jacqueline’s couch. She doesn’t even know I’m coming yet, by the way. So. Yeah. I’m checking this place out.”

Pia doesn’t respond. Just snuggles back into my pocket.

And that’s that. I’m doing this.

So I suck in a deep breath and walk through the gate.

There is a little bit of fog rolling in as the sun begins to dip behind the tall trees, and I shiver. This is when I once again take notice of what I’m wearing.

I should’ve changed, at least. No one is gonna hire me looking like this. So I turn, and in that moment, I’m convinced this is a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here looking like a Halloween leftover. No one wants to be a stupid caretaker anyway. And I’m just about to push that walking gate open and leave when a man calls out.

“Hello!”

I whirl around. “Hello?” I don’t see anyone.

“Up here.”

I look up to the second floor of the main building and see a young man, about my age, wearing—well, from my vantage point, he’s not wearing much at all, actually. I can’t see if he has pants on—I’m going to assume he does—because the brick balcony is in the way. But he definitely has no shirt on. Because I can see every freaking muscle in his upper body.

I dip my sunglasses down so I can see him better. “Well. Hello back.”