Page 43 of Devil Inside

Now I see this guy, baseball cap and all. My hand is a fist before I know it. My knuckles drag over this guy’s nose, raking skin.

“BINGOOOOO, MOTHERFUCKER!” I call out at the top of my lungs, landing another punch. Everyone cheers, raising the decibels in this place until I can’t hear myself think.

I don’t want to think anymore, anyway. I just want to hit. Hit this guy so hard.

His flesh feels like Silly Putty under my knuckles. I can knead his face into any shape I want. When I feel something crack, I’m imagining it’s his nose. His jaw. His fucking skull.

“Jordan,” I hear Deak shout. “Stop it—”

I’m blacking out. Losing myself. Slipping down the black hole at the very center of myself and it feels so fucking good, so freeing, just let go, let it all out, let it all bleed.

“Jordan, Jesus Christ, stop it, stop—”

Where’s this darkness coming from? Have I been holding onto it? Why do I feel so happy? So free? So wet and red and warm? I haven’t felt this good—this alive—in ages.

“Jordan, you’re going to kill him!”

If only Lilith could see me now.

She does. Look at her. So horrified.

The crowd presses in, ready to break it up, or maybe throw a few fists themselves, who can tell, and I’m caught in the riptide, this sea change of bodies, dragged further away.

Away from Lilith. Or whoever the hell she is.

Lost at sea all over again.

pomegranate juice

Lilith & Jordan

The pomegranate dribbles down our wrist, its juices bleeding. Seeping into our skin. We are quick to lick what we can, the rest lacing our arm in red rivulets.

We had cracked the pomegranate open with our bare hands, digging our thumbs into the rind until it split down the center. We scoop the ruby-red seeds out with our tongue. There’s that satisfying crunch of arils between our teeth, puncturing their flesh. Such a percussion of crisp pops. The juices fill our mouth, its sweetness running down our throat.

We feel the pith stuck between our teeth and we want more. So much more. Fill our belly until it bloats, our skin sticky with its juices, tacky and saccharine.

“You’re going to pay for that, yeah?”

The voice comes from behind us. We turn to find a bearded man standing behind the rest of these fruits and vegetables presented to us. His expression is one of impatience. A stern temperament. His decorated arms are crossed at his chest, adorned with archaic ornamentation that he hardly knows the meaning of. Primitive patterns of ink.

His tattooed flesh doesn’t appeal to us. So garish. A coloring book for kids.

“Of course,” we say, grinning our warmest smile, as our sticky fingers graze across his forearm, tracing the tattoo along his skin. We immerse ourselves in his mind, his thoughts—There’s no way we’re gonna break even this season, I’m gonna take a fucking hit, I just know it, how in the hell am I supposed to stay afloat until the fucking fall—for just a brief moment. Enough to bear witness to what we crave. “Name your price, Calvin.”

Sweet Calvin steps back, adrift on his own two feet. His irises slacken, two apertures opening wider to the woman standing before him, unnerved by us. We know his name, know what keeps him awake at night, know his deepest, darkest fears. The things he tries to hide, even from himself. We’ll drag those fatty secrets into the light, sweet and salty.

Tip the scales. Our gift to him. To all humanity.

You’ll do terrible things one day, Calvin. Awful things. Just you wait...

I sure will be. Waiting for you.

Some of us wish to contribute to the abyss below. It is in our nature to go foraging. Find those willing souls easily corrupted and lure them down, where we can all feed.

Mankind has always been suggestible. Such impressionable beings. So soft. Fruit begging to bruise. Corruptibility is a part of your own nature, so eager for your own demise.

You all yearn to burn. Who are we to quibble?