Lucien

They say that pride comes before a fall. Believe me, I know how that feels.

All I wanted was a little parity, acknowledgement of the effort that I’d put in. Sound the trumpets and sing Hosanna, for He made the Earth in six days and on the seventh He rested? He wasn’t alone in creating the first of the Worlds but as I found out well enough, you can’t argue with the Good Book. With the apology hardly out of my mouth, I fell.

Once the first had been created, you, His image unknowingly made the others. Your dreams, so real and rich with life opened tiny fissures in the fabric of creation which stretched and grew over time to become the other worlds that you glimpse each night but never truly see.

My original name is misunderstood here on Earth so for now I am Lucien and as I sit here sipping coffee in the park on a hot sunny day I wonder how the hell I’m going to get back. The last time I spoke to one of those still above watching over you, he mentioned that there was talk of Him relaxing his stance a little. The longer the world turns the tighter people seem to wind and the scales are starting to tip away from Him. He may therefore allow some of us back, an end to our ascension detention if you will.

You wander past me on your way to work, happily unaware that they walk among you. The lesser demons mostly, either escaped through small tears in the surface or summoned. Those that call them have but an inkling of what they do. They read through the ancient texts and recite the words of summoning. With power comes responsibility is not a mantra that they seem to heed. On the whole though, they’re relatively harmless, simply revelling in the freedom and mischief they find on the outside. They use your nightly travels between the Worlds as highways, hitching rides until they find something somewhere to entertain.

Occasionally though something altogether more ancient and flagitious arrives. They reside within the perverts and the paedophiles. You see the stories in the newspapers, on the news and can feel their vile touch. The stories that make you huddle just a little closer together, discussing in hushed voices. The ones with children, the innocent taste the sweeter.

Like the one I’m watching now in the café opposite.

It hides itself well. It’s within the man in the grey pinstripe suit, the one with the crisp white shirt and black horn-rimmed glasses flicking through the newspaper. His head is angled slightly and a slight smile coats his lips. His languid movements do not betray the turbulence that I know lies barely beneath the surface as it stalks. His fingers tap on the table top, dancing to an invisible song, a pause, it sees someone.

He stands and his arm brushes against a young woman in a pale yellow dress transferring to her. She hesitates as the sudden change momentarily stuns her, then seeing the prey ahead reaches out to touch the jogger in the grey tracksuit as he passes. This is how they move in daylight. The human contact that you crave bringing you comfort, reminding you that you belong to something bigger, turned against you.

I see the target, a child of around five with blue shorts holding his mother’s hand as they head towards the swings. The jogger excuses himself as he collides with her and disappears around a bend. The mother stiffens and changes direction suddenly pulling her son along with her as she heads back to the street, her son complaining bitterly. I follow at a distance, trying to keep them in view without it seeing me. My caution seems to be unnecessary. She doesn’t look back as she walks dragging him crying behind her. Her everything is in her hands.

They come to a halt at a white Victorian semi detached house with flowers in the garden. She unlocks the door and I notice thankfully that no dog comes bounding out to greet them. As they enter I cross to the gate attached to the side of the house and close my eyes concentrating on the lock on the other side. Once through and at the back of the house, I stop and steady my breath. I can feel it moving through the house within her. I enter through the back door. The house is quiet; the kitchen that I’m standing in has an ordered feel to the surfaces, clean and functional. The toys scattered on the floor in stark contrast. I hear the creak of the floorboards above and head for the stairs.

I take out the knife and climb. One step at a time, I concentrate solely on the movements, lightly placing my feet, breathing shallowly through my nose. I must keep quiet. As I reach the top I can hear them talking behind the closed door to the left of the landing. The doorframe splinters as I crash through the door. The boy is wide eyed and screaming as I plunge the knife into his mother, I really don’t want to kill her but only when trapped within a body can it be destroyed. I tear and rip at her insides and can see it behind those frightened eyes looking for an exit. It tries to flow into me, but pulls back when it realise what I am. Holding her to me I feel the life drain away with the blood until I’m holding a heavy empty shell.

I watch her shining soul drift away on the air. The acrid stench in the room slowly dissipates as it flows back to the darkness from whence it came. My task complete, I turn smiling to the boy who is trembling in the corner of the room. He doesn’t speak but makes small noises shaking his head in disbelief.

Wiping the blade on my trousers I advance on the boy apologising to Him once again.

Even angels need to feed.