Considering there’s an active sacrifice happening between the dumpsters, it doesn’t really matter that my pockets are bloated with stolen batteries. So what if I’m a thief? The night is ripe, and my guilt is porous, and nothing will ever go back to the way it used to.

A hooded figure nurses a large fire within a circle of dollar-store tealights. They feed the blaze spoonfuls of acetone. Roadkill leftovers. Fragments of memory. Extracted bruises. A drizzle of apology.

And when the inferno hungers for more, they lean forward and stick their own head in.

I step forward, entranced. Gaseous tentacles lick my bare shins. I want them to swallow me whole until I am untouchable, until I have shed every cell that cannot scrub itself of shame.

The human wick rocks back on their heels, hood sizzling. With their back to me, they ask me my name.

I tell them it’s Genevieve because it’s my government name and nobody calls me that.

They glance over their shoulder. Whoever they once were no longer exists. Their skin oozes in candlewax drips, exposing virgin bone and gaping cavities. Globs of epidermis splatter the pavement.

“Your face is melting off,” I point out.

“Yeah, no. That isn’t my face,” the wick says, swiping a skeletal hand across the space where their nose used to be. “That’s just the mask I put on to appease others.”

“Oh.”

I imagine a dollar-store employee rounding the corner, trash bag slung over their shoulder, stumbling upon a repulsive metamorphosis. It doesn’t really matter that a person melted their own face off. Nothing good ever happens behind a Dollar General, and humans don’t make good candles without a scent, and frankly dollar-store workers don’t get paid enough to give a shit.

“What about you?” the wick continues. “What do you have to hide, Viva?”

My grip tightens around those shoplifted batteries. I contain combustible potential. I have nothing to lose but my own self. Before doubt pulls me back by the sleeve, I toss a pack into the flames and brace for an explosive revelation.