Page 14 of An Unexpected Ascension
It’s like the demon can read my very thoughts just by the look onmy face because he smirks as if to taunt me. Then, without breaking his stare, he grips the sides of Marty’s head and twists with brutal force before a bout of flames engulf them both, dragging them down to Hell.
He leaves us with a loud snap dancing in the wind. I hear it as if Marty’s bones popped right before my ears. It lingers there, that sound, haunting me just the way the demon wanted.
“Oh my Lord.” Sarah May gasps, clutching her chest. “I hate these things!”
“Mmm,” that’s all Will says.
I can’t bring myself to look away from the dais.
Chapter 4
The Demon
Marty’s body thuds against the terrain, but he remains unmoving. With a subtle grip around his neck, I mend the broken bone. Soon enough, he’ll wake and that’s when the panic will set in. He’ll cry and scream. Then beg until his voice gives out. During our journey to the gates, Marty will blame me for being the demon I am. Finally, he’ll realize this is where he was always meant to be.
I conjure up a cigarette, the need to do something with my hands unbearable as I wait in boredom for him to rise. My lips roll against the filter before I take a long drag, the fumes tasting like the scorched, punished bodies of those who are irredeemable. I could have easily been one of those rotting-flesh skeletons, melted to the walls of the canyon leading to Hell itself, but unlike most, I have a way with words and find myself to be quite charming.
Although, I must admit, it wasn’t my charm or wit that saved me from a fate worse than the one I’ve currently condemned. No, it just so happened that Lucifer and I had one thing in common: our mutual disdain for the Gods of Heaven.
As I flick the ash over Marty’s head, his fingers begin to twitch.
“’Bout fuckin’ time,” I grumble, dropping the butt and snuffing it with my boot.
It disappears the same as it came into existence. Marty rolls over to his side and stays in fetal position for a dramatically long time, so I use the tip of my shoe to encourage haste.
“Ow!” He snips, holding his ribs.
Oh, right, where there isn’t pain in Heaven, there is in Hell.
“Get up. I have things to do.”
He glowers at me, hate seared into those old weary eyes, eyes that on Earth would have had the need for glasses. It doesn’t faze me one bit. He’s not the first to hate me.
What’s that saying on Earth? Don’t kill the messenger?
That’s all I really am to him. The target of his hatred shouldn’t be the demon carrying out rules made by the God he worships. Take it up with that guy. If he’d ever bother to show himself.
Not likely.
Marty stands; his silhouette cast in the sky’s red glow. Here, our world cycles between day and night, for reasons beyond the construct of time. Hell was created with a turn of the sun allowing beasts to roam under the veil of darkness. Whereas in Heaven, the concept of time is saved by the Gods to hold their peasants accountable.
I hardly even notice the red skies anymore or that the days seem to blend together. I seek no comfort in anything mortal anymore. Hell, though a much fonder place than its counterpart, has hardened me into the soulless demon I am today.
Yes, here I am allowed to feel. I can mourn, I can rejoice, I can even lash out in a fit of rage if I wanted to, but I’ve locked those pesky beasts out. I’ve seen what they do to the fallen, to my fellow demons. They crawl under your skin like nasty little mites, eating away at the tendons that hold you together. Make you weak, cause utter insanity as they scrape away at the meat inside your skull.
I much prefer not to feel.
Marty? I can already tell his transition will be nothing short of torture – the self-inflicted kind.
We come upon the edge of shore, the black sand sinking beneath our feet. Slipping my forefinger and thumb between my lips, I call for Charon with a piercing whistle. Cutting through the fog appears the familiar wooden rowboat with a single lantern dangling, propped up by Charon’s scythe. It coasts forward in the murky waters, disturbing its glasslike state, ripples cascading on either side of the ferry.
It glides easily onto the morbid beach; the bones of lost souls' ground so finely they barely crunch beneath the weight of the ship. I nod to Charon, and he returns the sentiment.
If it weren’t for the melted skin dangling from his face, his nose merely two holes in a blackened, charred skull, he might be able to charm anyone. He’s quite the talker, but the recently damned don’t care much for getting to know the man whose bones are half exposed. He keeps them mostly covered in his cloak, except for his hands and face. Luckily, he still has one good eye that keeps him glued to his beloved rowboat.
I’ve asked him once, what makes him stay? We are free after all, yet he chooses to spend his eternity on this boat repeating the same journey on an endless loop like an echo that never quiets.
He told me,“Hermes, with the life I've lived, there’s no better peace than being alone on a boat in the water. It’s like floating in a void where I merely exist. Until you came along of course! Then, there I am, carting off these dead folk to the gates of Hell. Always crying, they are. Sheesh, never asking how are you, Charon? You’re the first to ever ask. I appreciate that about you, kid.”
