Charms - Demonia Tag

Circa 2003

Like many older millennials, the only thing DARE ever taught me was that I'd definitely end up doing drugs one day. You can't dare children not to do something, their first impulse is to find a way to do it. Most of us would cheerfully jump off a bridge if our friends did.

I was nineteen and had been in Florida for a year. I was desperate to escape my living situation. I found my way to a group of folks who shared a house while attending Rocky Horror Picture Show events. After I started dating one of them he invited me to move in, and I eagerly accepted.

The day after I moved in, my boyfriend's roommate Alex showed up with a bag of shrooms. I was hesitant, weed being the only drug in my history. Alex and my boyfriend persisted. This was product they hand-picked themselves out in the pastures a few nights prior. "Organic!" they raved, as I considered the dichotomy of enjoying mushrooms harvested from cow shit. I caved, mostly out of curiosity. It was bound to happen eventually, why not now?

Alex got to work brewing a noxious concoction of Lipton tea, grape Kool-Aid, and sugar. They broke up the shrooms and tossed them in the pot, licking the dust off their fingers. The end result smelled horrendous and tasted worse. We filled up our solo cups and drank it anyway.

My boyfriend and I laid back on the couch as other people I didn't recognize showed up at the door. Alex had settled into the recliner and would shout at visitors to let themselves in. He never checked to see who was waiting. I wasn't thrilled with the idea of tripping with strangers, but there wasn't much I could do. They filled their cups and joined us in the living room, crowding the furniture and floor.

Alex moved to the couch to sit next to his friend. He had his foot in his lap, gently tugging at a loose dog tag riveted to his sole. "How did this get here?" he mumbled. "Why the fuck does a boot need a dog tag?"

"So you can identify it's body if it dies in combat," I quipped back. Alex cackled much too hard, falling sideways into his friend's lap. His friend jumped, startled, and proceeded to spill a full cup of tea all over her crotch and Alex's head. The volume in the room increased exponentially as his friend cursed and more people lost their shit.

"Someone needs to get this fucking tag off so we can send it to his family" Alex was now hacking at his boot with a knife. Grimy purple droplets ran down his face, bits of soggy mushroom stuck in his hair. His determination was tangible.

My boyfriend leaned over and snatched the knife out of his hand. "You're gonna amputate your damn foot". Alex's eyes narrowed. He grabbed the collar of my boyfriend's shirt, fabric tangled in his fist, and yanked him forward til they were breathing down each other's neck.

"We need. To send. The dog tag. TO HIS FAMILY."

Alex had received a medical discharge from basic training after having a mental health crisis. He hated talking about it, embarrassed that he never made his first deployment. His eyes spoke of unsettled debts to persons unknown, confused and desperate for resolution.

I swung myself off the couch, paused a moment to watch the walls shiver, then landed gracelessly on the couch next to him. The cushion felt lumpy. And wet. I looked down. Someone's damp lap was underneath me. I locked eyes with the girl I had planted myself on and we both cackled. Landing unceremoniously in people's laps was a calling card of my early twenties.

Uninclined to move, I had my boyfriend throw me my purse. I pointed at Alex's boot. "Gimme." He dropped his foot in my lap. I got my pliers out of my bag (yes, I always have pliers on me), and got to work manipulating the rivet until it released the dog tag. I handed it to Alex, bouncing off his friend’s lap. I stood, watched the walls shiver, and unceremoniously crumpled to the floor.

The act of inhaling no longer made any logical sense. Muscles long accustomed to operating on their own suddenly demanded direction, stubbornly refusing to fall back on their programming. Lungs filled with panic in the absence of air. I grasped my chest and wracked my brain for a hint of how to jump start my respiratory system.

My body's defenses kicked in and I gasped for air. I scrambled onto the couch next to my boyfriend, looking up at a room full of wax figures. The fan in the corner marked the only passage of time, mannequins ogling with wide pinned eyes.

I offered a crooked smile, "I forgot how to breathe".

The room erupted again, and I chuckled along for a moment before melting into the couch.

Alex approached, gently taking my hand and pressing the tag into it. "You'll make sure this gets where it needs to go, right?" I nodded and tucked the dog tag away in my bag. I already knew exactly where it was going, but it seemed rude to add it to my charms in front of him. I'm honestly not sure what he expected me to do with it, and I never asked. It didn't seem important. Alex was breathing easier, and that's all that mattered.

"Charms" was my first writing project, written from December 2023 to February 2024.

They are a collection of memories attached to found or given objects that I've collected for over 25 years.

The stories are posted to Substack in their raw, unedited form.

Most are only a few hundred words.

The project remains incomplete.