Page 66 of Devil Inside

What will he find?

We have crawled up to him. We have reached the altar of his body. This temple of injured flesh and broken bones, healed now but still hurt. Still holding onto all that pain.

Look at where the soul goes, how far it travels, in death. Only to return. Volleyed back to this vessel. Poor Jordan, all broken. How empty he must feel now. How alone. To see the things he’s seen on the other side, such a long journey, then to be expelled.

To survive. How lonely it must feel tolive.

He doesn’t move, his back still pressed against the wall, head pinned in place. He may as well be a work of art suspended from the wall itself, hung up for others to admire.

Let’s take him in. His broken beauty.

His knees are drawn to his chest, a bundle of limbs. One hand is wrapped around his shins, the other planted against the mattress. He doesn’t move. Barely breathes. He won’t make any sudden movements. He knows there’s danger, a risk inherent in our proximity.

We sit upright, kneeling before him. His eyes follow us. He refuses to break eye contact, to blink, sensing we might pounce at any moment. And do what? Rip him apart?

What does he assume we’ll do? What is it, exactly, that we want to do to him?

“I see... something behind your eyes.” His voice is barely there. “A shadow.”

“What is it?” we ask as we lean forward. “What do you see? Tell me, Jordan.”

“Something else... Something lingering.”

“Look deeper.” The distance between us dwindles even further, every inhale from his chest pulling us in closer,closer, riding the riptide right into his lungs. “What do you see?”

There is so little protecting him. His body exposed. Just skin. His flesh, the final barricade. He has rendered himself utterly vulnerable to us. As an offering? A sacrifice?

Would we take it, this offering, if it were given willingly? Is that what we want? The alms of his body?

“I see... darkness. An abyss.”

Home.

We keep our eyes on his, our stares locked. “Are you afraid of what you see?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

Our hand lifts. We find his forearm. We wrap our fingers around his wrist and pull, and much like plucking the bow on a present, tugging the ribbon until it unties itself, his arm releases its grip on his legs. Each knee tilts slightly, no resistance, no longer held up.

He doesn’t struggle. Doesn’t push us away. Only his eyes remain locked. Focused.

On us.

We ease forward. Mere inches separate us. His breath becomes ours, sharing the same air. His chest rises, lowers. We can see the thrum of his pulse along the side of his neck. The very palpitation of his veins. The frantic tattoo of his heart beating out its rhythm.

We are so close to his lips now. See how they glisten.

Perspiration rises from his skin, summoned by our own body heat. Pebbles of sweat form along his brow and we findourselves thirsty. We want to lick the sweat from his skin. We wish to drink every last drop his flesh has to offer, each pore a chalice filled to its brim.

His eyes still haven’t left ours. It’s disarming, his insistence. He won’t look away. He penetrates our gaze. What does he think he’ll find behind our eyes?

He wants to see. See the demon within.

See... me.

“Can you see menow?” we ask as we tilt our head, whispering right into his ear.

“Yes.”