Page 118 of Devil Inside
“More than we can count.” It was only a matter of time before others sensed his presence. His dark light. He radiates in it, such a luminous void. He draws us in. A magnet. A lighthouse overlooking the abyss. I’d never be able to keep him secret forever. Keep him for myself. Others want him now, too. What he can offer us all. A home to call our own.
“I knew it,” he says. “I fucking knew it. I thought I was losing my mind...”
“What have you seen?”
“People. Just... normal people. Staring back at me. Then their faces slip.” Jordan’s attention is elsewhere. We can’t find him. Lost. Where, we don’t know. In his thoughts.
He’s all walled up. I can’t get in. He won’t let me.
We place our hand on top of his, gently. There’s a cold current rising off from him. Butane blue. Ice running down our spine. So many sensations, clamoring for our attention.
“You’re a catch,” I tease, trying hard to lure him back to me. Be playful about it.
He turns. There’s fear in his eyes. “Why me, though? What do they want with me?”
“Have you ever felt outside of yourself? Like you couldn’t connect with others?”
“All the fucking time.” He shakes his head, drifting off in his thoughts again. Slipping away from us. “I’ve always felt separate from... everything. I don’t know. I’ve made friends, sure. Dated, absolutely. But ever since the accident, everything’s been so out of whack.”
“We found each other,” I offer. “Your accident brought us together, didn’t it?”
“Is it me, though? What am I?”
“You’re holding on to all this guilt... It’s weighing you down. You need to let it go.”
“Funny,” he says without laughing, no mirth in the words whatsoever. “My physical therapist said exactly the same thing... and then he went all demon on me.”
“It’s true, though. Stop feeling so guilty for being who you are. You need to stop looking for absolution and just let yourself be...you.”
Let him reach his true potential.
“What if I’m... not good?”
“Look who you’re talking to.”
There’s something inside Jordan that he’s not comfortable with. That he’s afraid of. We see it seeping out from him, even now. He can’t hide it. Contain it.
His darkness.
What demon wouldn’t want a taste of that? To wrap themselves up in his shadows?
We just have to show him how special he is. What he’s capable of. We can court his darkness. Indulge his whims. Embrace his wickedness.
Who knows? Maybe we can share.
“Close your eyes,” we say, bringing him back. Just the two—three?—of us. We prepared a picnic. Bacon-wrapped dates. Scones and jam. A feast of the tiniest bites.
“What’s on the menu?”
“You.” Jordan does as he is told and closes his eyes. “Now open your mouth.”
His lips part, lowering his jaw. His tongue suspends itself,just so, as if he’s ready to receive sacrament. His breath is held, hesitant. Expectant. Yearning for what comes next.
We imagine his mouth’s exploration. What he’s tasting. Soft skin. Baked flesh, soggy. A facsimile of flesh. It tears apart immediately. If this belonged to a body, something living, it has been soaking in water for so long, it’s softened to the point of disintegration.
“What is it?” we ask. “Any guesses?”
“Ravioli and pesto.” Garlic. Burnt earth. Cheese, like loam, in his mouth. Of course he knows. He is permitting us this guilty pleasure. Letting us play our guessing game.
