Page 10 of Demon's Cruel Desire

These late-night kitchen sessions become our unspoken truce, a sanctuary from the rage and fervor of the day. Here, in the quiet intimacy of forced politeness and shared vulnerabilities, we start to see each other not just as adversaries, but as complex individuals

The kitchen becomes our reluctant meeting ground, night after night, each encounter marked not by warmth, but by a cold mutual acknowledgment of each other’s presence. Here we’re stripped of our defenses and illuminated by the soft candlelight, that we begin to truly understand each other.

The space is dimly lit, the only light flickering inconsistently overhead, casting long, dancing shadows that seem almost sinister. We sit across from each other, the table between us laden with the invisible weight of our silent battles and unspoken histories.

Tonight, the silence feels especially charged, dense with the residual tension of our past interactions. I break it, not out of a desire for conversation but more from a restless discomfort that demands some sort of vocal acknowledgment.

“Can’t sleep either?” The words come out more accusatory than I intend, reflecting my own irritation more than curiosity about his state.

Dagon shifts in his seat, his chair scraping slightly against the tile floor, a sound that grates in the quiet. He looks up, eyes narrowing slightly, clearly annoyed by the disturbance. “Does it look like I’m sleeping?”

His tone is edged, conveying more than just sleeplessness—there’s a deeper, raw irritation there, perhaps with the situation, or maybe just with the fact that we are forced into this shared inconvenience of the night.

I let the question and its barbed delivery hang in the air, unanswered. Instead, I tear at the edge of a napkin, the repetitive action a small outlet for my own frustrations. The tearing sound seems overly loud in the tense silence that follows his retort.

A few moments pass before he speaks again, his voice softer but still carrying an undercurrent of that earlier annoyance. “Do you think it’ll ever get better?” It’s almost as if he’s speaking to himself, the question rhetorical, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the kitchen window.

I consider his words, the heaviness of their implication, and my response is equally subdued. “Maybe it will, or maybe we’ll just become better at pretending it has.”

He nods, almost imperceptibly, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something like understanding—or perhaps resignation—in his eyes.

We lapse back into silence, each retreating into our own thoughts. The conversation, if it can be called that, is strained and awkward, a reflection of the complex and uneasy dynamic between us. It’s clear that while the night forces us into proximity, the day’s resentments linger, unresolved and potent.

Tonight’s exchange, though brief and fraught with tension, marks a slight shift. It’s not warmth or a breakthrough in our relationship, but rather an acknowledgment of our shared reality, uncomfortable and unwelcome as it may be.

The recognition is there, unspoken but palpable, that we are both trapped in this cycle of restless nights and uneasy interactions, each grappling with our own demons in the oppressive quiet of the kitchen.

10

DAGON

I've been drawn to Callista from the moment I saw her dip into that alley that first night. I can't explain what it is about her that compels me to start opening up to her.

Maybe it’s the way she listens to me without judgment in our late-night meetings in the kitchen. Or maybe it's the way she anchors me when my temper and trauma rise to the surface and threaten to pull me under. Whatever the reason, I find myself slowly revealing more about my blood-soaked past than I ever have with another living soul. The moment I start to speak, I'm acutely aware of the way those violet eyes take me in.

The confessions begin to spill out, transforming the kitchen into a sanctuary where shadows from my past seem less daunting. Callista’s silence during these moments isn’t empty but filled with an empathy that wraps around me, a silent support strengthening me against the ghosts of my memories.

This unexpected catharsis, driven by Callista’s serene acceptance, challenges the walls I’ve built around myself. Each story shared not only lightens my burden but also subtly stitches the frayed edges of my spirit back together. In her presence, I am both vulnerable and strong, haunted yet hopeful.

One night, I feel the urge to tell her the details of the things I’ve done. The gory memories of my past linger at the tip of my tongue, and I feel compelled to let her in, to let her see there’s nothing fucking redeemable about me.

Maybe that’s why I tell her. Maybe I want to push her away more than I want to pull her close. As I sit across from Callista, the shadows of the room seem to creep closer, eager listeners to the horrors I'm about to disclose. The memories I've kept shackled in the darkest corners of my mind begin to break free, each surfacing with vivid, relentless clarity.

"The first time," I start, my voice rough like gravel, "it was in the heat of battle. An enemy warrior stood before me, all snarling rage and swinging steel."

I pause, the image so clear I can almost feel the weight of the damp, blood-soaked earth beneath my boots. "Our swords clashed, sparks flying. But it ended with my hands, not my blade."

My fingers twitch unconsciously, remembering the feel of crushed bone. "I grabbed his helmet, twisted... until," I swallow hard as the sound of his skull giving way echoes in my mind like a gruesome symphony.

Callista remains silent, her face a mask of moonlit marble, eyes wide, reflecting a morbid fascination and horror.

"And the screams," I continue, the words tumbling out like dark whispers. "The cries of the warriors I captured, tortured for information. Their pleas, their sobs... they begged for death long before I granted it." The ghostly echoes of their despair fill the room, and for a moment, I'm back there, in the stench of fear and iron.

I look away, focusing on a crack in the wall, but it's no use. Another memory surges forward, unstoppable. "There was a medic," I murmur, "young, too young. He stumbled upon a scene of carnage, trying to save those beyond saving." My hand goes to my throat, mimicking the motion I used on him. "He looked at me, eyes wide, understanding too late. And as I slit his throat, the life faded from his gaze, leaving nothing but a blank nothingness."

A single, heavy breath escapes me as I finish, the silence after feeling more oppressive than before.

Callista shifts slightly, her voice a soft, strained whisper, "How do you live with those memories, Dagon?" I lock eyes with Callista, the weight of my past igniting a fierce anger that simmers just beneath the surface.

---