December 2019 – Pen of the Damned

Beads of sweat become streaks down my tired face. I approach the home of an ‘afflicted’ child, feeling the evil emanating from within. Always seeing, watching, hahaha! We see, can’t hide – the voice echoes through my skull, reverberating off every open chasm and back into my spinal cord. I shiver, grit my teeth, and knock on the enormous wooden door. It flies open and I’m greeted by a man, his face mirrors the exhaustion of my own, his eyes beg for salvation. A plea for help! A cry, a cry! My thoughts swim in pools of depravity, the voice taunting me – so vile, but yet, its power…

The man walks me past other family members who are just as weary. Their heads bowed and chanting under their breath. The voice laughs loudly in my ears, almost causing me to miss a step; I wonder if anyone else can hear it. We make it to our destination, the scent of rotten meat fills the air. I thank the man and tell him it will be alright soon – he seems to believe me and half smiles as he returns to join the rest of the potential mourners.

I step through a doorway into a ground of unholy fire, though most believe hellfire burns hot, the fact of the matter is, they’re colder than ice. My breath puffs in front of me as I look around the room: baby blue walls spattered with unknown filth, action figures that create a path to the sleeping child. So innocent, so deliciously corruptible, ours – ours! My stomach lurches into my throat and I turn to the dresser to lay out my tools. Turn… Around….

Spinning on my heel, I move too fast and knock the holy water to the ground, “Oh!” I mutter and look at the child. No longer pressed against the bed but upright facing the wall. His head spins toward me, eyes glow red and a toothy grin spreads across his face. I hear a crack and watch as his body contorts backward in the most inhumanely manner.

“Demon, I cast you out in the name of our savior!” I shout and thrust my cross forward. The boy screeches and skitters back. “Out you damned beast!” He hisses as I reach down to grab the holy water, spraying what little is left over him. His flesh sizzles and the monster within growls. I press the cross to his chest and recite several prayers – he writhes in agony. The voice screams; it growls and shouts obscenities – I can’t be sure if I’m hearing it in my mind or out.

At last the chaos ceases, there’s only myself and the boy in complete silence. His breath is shallow and his body relaxes against the cross.

The voice cries out from within me again, I watch as a figure darker than night slides through the room, closing in on me. “Begone foul creature!” I demand, but it’s too late. I’m engulfed in darkness, no longer in control of my body. The holy book in my hand changes, and I stare in awe as an eye peers at me from the cover. It glows.

I stare into the mirror above the dresser and see myself smirking. I hear the voice again, this time it comes from my own mouth, “I win, Father.”

∼ Lydia Prime

How would you live the rest of your life, she had wondered, if you knew you only had a finite number of days left? How would that change things? Would it make the sad, lackluster time sweeter? Would something shine?

Jesus Christ knew the number of days left before his death. So did killers on death row. Did it change things? Make the quality of your final days differ? She wanted to find out.

She gave herself ten days. Ten final days, and what would she make of the rest of her life?

Ten. She quit her job. Not only did she quit, but she quit with joy, with verve. She said, “I quit,” and did a little dance on her boss’ desk. She threw her head back and laughed as she was escorted out by security. She flipped the building off and stopped for a midday ice cream on the way home.

Nine. She slept in. She got out of bed to answer the door and eat the Chinese she ordered. She ordered everything on the menu that she had ever wanted to try. All of the shrimps and the sauces and everything delicious. She laid in bed with her food around her, watching lame reruns on the TV because she could. She ate trash, watched trash, and let the trash of the day pile up around her.

Eight. She spent the day throwing up trash, trash, trash. She wanted to simply forget day eight.

Seven. She showered and shaved and plucked. She powdered and perfumed. She put on that darling dress in the back of her closet that she’d purchased for a special occasion. There had never been a special occasion. Today wasn’t that special occasion, either, but she looked at herself in the mirror with clear eyes and a small smile.

Six. She called her mother. She called her best friend. She called the guy who had given her his number a few months ago. He was surprised to hear from her, but still remembered her.

“I’ve had your number in my wallet ever since the party, just in case I decided to call,” she admitted shyly.

He laughed and it was a beautiful sound. “I’m so glad you did,” he said. “What changed?”

She didn’t answer but asked him if he wanted to go to a play with her later that week. He agreed. She bought tickets and also wondered what she should wear to her funeral. Most likely the special occasion dress.

Five. She bought the grand piano she had always wanted. It was glossy and gorgeous, and they brought it right to her home. The piano tuner tuned it, and then played the most intricate music she had ever heard.

“I think I’m going to cry,” she told him, and when he played the old song her father used to sing to her, she did.

Four. She played the piano.

Three. She played the piano. She slept beneath it that night. There was plenty of room and her dreams were ethereal.

Two. She pulled on her favorite scarf and went to the park. The trees were bare and the wind bit at her, but it tasted fresh. She had always wanted to go to Iceland, or to Finland. She wanted to drink the purest water in the world and watch the aurora borealis. She felt a tight pang in her chest when she realized that would never happen. Was this sorrow? Yes, it was definitely sorrow, but then she saw a fluffy white dog and there was no room in her heart for any type of sadness. It was full of oversized paws and soft fur and a warm puppy tongue and everything inside of her heart fit perfectly.

One. She wore her special occasion dress and met her date at the theater. He was charming and his eyes squinted when he laughed. The actors were talented and she caught her breath during the play several times, but it caught most when this kind man gently took her hand and held it. He held it for the rest of the show and as they walked outside into the moonlight.

“I wish it didn’t have to end,” she said, and the beauty of the world was nearly too much. There were grand pianos and fluffy dogs and delicious food. There was art and plays and friends she didn’t even know existed yet. She wanted to see the Northern Lights. She hadn’t wanted anything in years.

“Who says it has to end?” he asked her, quizzically. “This could just be the beginning to everything.”

The beginning or the end. She would stay up tonight and decide. She blinked at him and her eyes reflected the moon.

∼ Mercedes M. Yardley