I was told once that humans will say anything they can think of to explain things they don't understand. Before they invented machines to view the skies at night, they thought their planet was the center of the universe because of the way they saw the stars. Light mysteriously appeared when they struck rocks together, so light must have come from the gods and clicking the rocks was some kind of secret summoning. They had never seen a demon, so demons must be hideous creatures who shrivel in the sunlight and have frightening powers to control destiny and the very moons themselves.
We demons are not afraid of sunlight. The weakest among us are afraid of the dark. You were afraid of the dark once, when you were young, or so I have been told. I could not afford to be afraid of something such as that, being as small as I was, and so I grew up reigning the powers of fire and making light for myself. Others tried to kill me constantly. I was weak at first, and they wanted a slave, I always thought. But I dodged them all and killed some more, making a name for myself. Still more came to try their luck. I killed them all.
But life was never boring.
My days are so monotonous now. When I think of the hectic life I led before all this—before you did this to me—I can barely imagine that I am the same person. Maybe, in certain ways, I am not.
Everything has a method to the madness and nothing surprises me anymore. I am certainly not exactly the same. Before, I would be surprised by few things, but there were some.
It wasn't always this way; it was never this way in the past, farther back than I can clearly remember. But this isn't that past, is it? No, this is the present, this is the now. This is the future.
Am I confusing you? Good. Think of it as my payback, you bastard.
Oh, now, that's not very fair of me, I suppose. Calling you a bastard when you haven't done anything wrong. But you have done something, don't you see? You were my friend. Of all those you tried to push on me from your new life, you were the only one who managed to get through to me. And now you've left me here, dying on the inside where nobody can see it and nobody can help. I hate you. I hate you and I hope that when you die, I'm there to watch. Hell, I hope I'm the one to drain the last of your blood. The last divine joke. My ultimate revenge.
I bet you didn't know I was so sadistic. We all know demons are sadomasochistic asses, loving the thrill of blood and pain and torment and hate. But you, you and your friends who were supposed to be mine, all of you thought that I'd changed to someone kinder, someone with stronger morals. I know you did. Don't deny it.
You wanted me to change when you did, I bet. When you tore your soul from that dying body you inhabited for so long and you ran off to the human's realm, you wanted me to come with you. But I was barely even born yet, much less dying, don't you see? I was barely even four hundred years old, far too young for a creature of my caliber to lose his life. But even then, I was too far gone, too far beyond the innocence I may have had, once, to change.
You may have changed, but I ask you: can one really alter who they are inside without forging a new shell? That's all you did, you know. Snuck on in and blended your soul with the broken one of a stupid little child. That's what you tell us, at least, and who am I to question it? You bought yourself a little more time with a new outer casing for your sadomasochistic soul, your soul that's just like the rest of us. Your soul that loves to watch blood flow from an open wound and doesn't care where that wound resides.
I'm not lucky like you. I can't just pack up and snatch some unborn kid's half-empty body. I'm a thief of objects, not lives. I thought you were, too.
You think it's odd, don't you? That I would seemingly care so much for some pathetic little human child. Truly I don't care for the boy. I care for you, in an odd sense, and I care that you stole another creature's life. Not killed it; this I could understand, for I have done the same. You didn't take it and let it die in your hand. No, that would be too good for you. You took it and let it writhe, let it squirm and shout and plead for freedom, and then you made it dance to a music you created, a music you changed whenever you were feeling wicked.
You warped it to suit your own twisted game.
I used to think you were good. Deep down, buried under all that fakery and all those lies.
I guess, if I wanted to learn, all I needed was some time.
Because time has a nasty habit of moving on, even if it leaves us behind. Fucking with our lives as it moves forward in its sinful way. And time moving on gives us chance after chance to learn things about each other and ourselves, and the rolling of time's wicked dice taught me more than I could ever want to know.
About you, mostly. I learned that you, demon, didn't just sneak on in and save some poor, doomed child by bonding your soul to his. No, you swooped down like a carnivorous hawk and snatched up your refuge, tying your souls together and locking this kid in to a fate he never should have been forced into because you were selfish. Yes, that's what I said: you were selfish. You wanted to save yourself, and you stole this kid's life from him because of that.
I know how you pass it off. "Oh, this is not a possession, it's a merger, and we are part of each other. I saved this child from being a miscarriage. I give him strength and intelligence far beyond what his human existence would allow him." I hear all that, and it makes me ill. You make me sick.
You didn't save the kid, you trapped him. There never would have been even hints of a miscarriage if you hadn't taken up your home in that body. Humans don't require the same sorts of intelligence and power we do, and he would have had sufficient strength to get along in their world. A fox cornering his prey, you ensnared this defenseless boy and took his life from him. Then you had the nerve to pretend you had done him a favor. I cannot stand to hear this from you.
I cannot bear to hear these lies.
I, the sinner, the skeptic, the deceiver, I cannot bear to hear these lies, and it is hypocritical, you might say. I have lied in the past, you know. To survive, I have done horrible, unspeakable things. You have too, I'm certain. All creatures of the demon realm harbor black pasts they would rather not remember; it is our way.
Just as we are all sadomasochistic, just as we all lust for the kill and the blood of our enemies and ourselves, just as we are all shadows with blackened pasts, we are also creatures of our own means, and we do lie and twist our words often. I would tell the same story in ten different ways to five different people if I knew it was what they wanted to hear.
But more than being simply unable to hear these lies, for there must be more—as I've said, and as you know, I am the sinner, the skeptic, the liar.
No, the problem is that I cannot bear to hear them from you.
You who are the silver fox, the object of everyone's desires and the perfect son, the perfect student, the perfect fighter. You who are the perfect everything. And in being perfect in everything, you are something you never would have wanted, never could have wanted. You have built this child's life pretending to be just that—a child. You are anything but. You are the perfect lie.
Unless you did want to create such a façade. Oh, I understand. You did want it. I can see it clearly now. You, playing your games, toying with minds, tearing down souls, you intended this. You orchestrated it all from the start.
Except for one thing. You never meant for the human concept of emotion to leak its way into your heart. You meant to leave, didn't you? You meant not only to leave, but to sadden the family and leave them broken at the mysterious loss of their precious son. Your brilliant master plan backfired on you when the mother showed you kindness.
You, who have all the answers, must be wracking your brain now, trying to realize why I am so uninterested, my days so repetitive. My life no longer contains anything to keep me tied to this world of humans, yet the demon's realm is nothing but killing weak nothings who sneak onto my territory. Everything is the same. And it's because of you.
You are not repetitive, of course. That is not you. You are new and different all the time, and every day with you brings a new adventure or a new fact of some sort. But what now? Now, now that you're…
You broke the rules.
You're not allowed to just get up and leave.
I hate you.
I know what you're expecting now—you're sitting there in your prim little chair, your hands folded neatly on your lap, your patient emerald eyes watching me with every understanding and every condolence, waiting for me to say that what I hate most about you is the fact that I love you. Well, you know what? Not everybody loves you. You aren't perfect. You have your flaws. You're commonplace, just like the rest of us.
It hurts, doesn't it? It hurts to hear that you aren't unique. Hurts to hear your hands are drenched with just as much blood as the rest of us, that you've stolen just as many lives and torn down just as many walls. It hurts, it makes you bleed inside, and it makes you feel.
Don't think I don't know. Don't think I don't know that you've never told the truth once in your life. Not once in your gods-forsaken, left-for-dead, half-fake life.
Life is a funny word that way. Any scientist of any sort would tell you that you are alive; your heart beats soundly, your breath flows with the wind and you are literally alive. But I know different. You lying, cheating bastard. You aren't alive. You haven't been alive since the day you were born. And even then, I'm suspicious.
If you aren't alive because of your deceit, your pretended life, then what does that say for me? That all my lies have left me less than alive? Less than dead? I am some nameless void taking up a cavity of space that could be used for better things.
And it's all. Your. Fault.
I hate you.
You make me learn things about myself, about the people I live around, and I don't want any of it. It was you who made me realize that I am not worthy of this world, that I am not worthy of the people you tried to let become my friends, that I am not worthy of the kindness showed to me by the people who call themselves such.
I am simply a waste of the precious resources of this world, and I do not belong.
In your own way, you don't belong, either.
Do we belong together in that way? In the fact that neither of us truly has a home? When the lords of our land called for me and my strength, I had left you, supposedly, for the lust of power, the thrill of being at the top, but I would have come back. One day. Maybe not in your lifetime, but someday, I would have returned. You didn't believe me when I told you that. You thought I'd left forever, and maybe to you, I had.
You are selfish, and you would not care if I came back if I did not come to see you. If I were to come back here, to this very city, to this very street, this very house, this very room, and you were not here, you would not care. It would not matter that I had made the effort to return because you were not here to see it, and you are selfish that way.
But I would have come back to this world one day, and that is what matters.
Why would I return? I don't know.
Why would I return to see some random human living in this house where I used to visit you? Sentiment, maybe.
Why would I return to this house long after you had died? Houses cannot lie, but show me things as I remember them.
Why does any of this matter?
It really doesn't, you might say.
But I like to think that somebody will care.