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I MADE A GIF LOOK AT ME 

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death (07/18/18)

I looked at the man in front of me, who was wearing a cheap black suit and tie, with a silver vest underneath. He had a cane, and held the top of it with one hand over the other, the stick sitting in the direct middle of his body. The man looked impatient as I thought, and cleared his throat once, then a second time, tapping the end of the cane on the floor.

“Have you decided?” he asks, his voice hoarse and quiet. It was almost as if he were dying. I shake my head, to which he scoffs and looks up at the sky, almost asking God for some kind of patience and help. I could almost hear his breathing in the silence afterwards, hear him chasing the thought of whether he should leave or give me time to think this over. I watch as the cane vanishes into a line of thin smoke, and a chair take its place behind him. The man sits, and stares, watching me with despair.

“I asked what you wished ten minutes ago. You have been standing here for nine minutes and forty eight seconds, which is much more than the average person. I gave my rules; nothing about more deals or sexual intents, nothing that could make a person fall in love with you. You’d think that if you really wanted to make a deal with a demon, you’d have thought this out a while ago. Did you really do this just out of boredom? You are wasting my time. Call me when you’re ready to make a deal.” The soft voice that had come from the back of his throat before was now louder, without a rumble that sounded like a drum was hidden in his vocal chord.

The chair disappeared as fast as it had come as he stood, and I held out my hand before he had time to do the same. He looks at me with a newfound curiosity, and says again, in the same soft voice as before, “What do you wish?”

I think of my answer for a minute before answering, “Death. I wish death.”

A small chuckle, a scoff, came from his throat.

“I wouldn’t wish death even upon my greatest enemy.”

I smirk, lifting my arms and letting them drop back to my sides as if in defeat.

“Well, you see, I am my greatest enemy.”

Within seconds, I saw flames and fire, and there started my deal with the well dressed demon of hell.

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the writer and the poet (07/10/18)

The writer and the poet. It was almost like the cynic and the idealist. They were complete opposites - she wrote to get an idea out into the open, to hold some kind of physical purpose. She wrote so that she could forget everything except the words that spilled onto the page, but he...he was different. He was poetic in a way that made the world melt away. Really, he didn't even try. Being a poet came natural to him, and every time he opened his mouth, something awe-inspiring came from it.

It filled her with jealousy.

She wished that she could just pick up a pen and let the words flow onto the page without any trouble, like he did when he spoke. Nothing he said was ever thought through, or even remotely planned. It just happened, and she envied it with such a passion that she thought she would explode. Day after day, she would sit with her notebook and think, while all he had to do was say something. It made her sick, but still, she loved him with all her heart.

There came a day when they were sitting around their apartment, doing nothing but letting the comfortable silence consume them. Days like this were common - they tended to lounge around and do nothing. Finally, she opened her mouth to speak.

"This has been killing me for weeks. How do you manage to be so...so amazing with words? I spend hours working on plots and twists and characters, I work so hard to make even just a simple sentence interesting, yet you can just say one thing that comes to your mind and it comes out perfectly. It's like perfected poetry, and I don't understand how you do it, it's -"

He laughed softly, a smile forming on his face. It made him look younger, happier than the normal, worn down face that usually placed itself on his head. She scoffed, crossing her arms.

"What the hell is so funny?" she mumbled, huffing out a harsh breath.

"Well, I don't expect the writer to beat the poet." His laughter still cut through his words.

Her brows scrunched towards the bridge of her nose. "What do you mean?"

"I mean." He adjusted himself in his seat so his body was directly facing her. "That you think too much. There's so much planning when it comes to writing. When you do a poem, it's based off of emotions, and when you write, you don't put your own feelings in it. You write the feelings of the character. Yes, if may reflect you personally, but it comes straight from your head, not your soul. Poems always come from your soul, and that's your problem. You don't let the words flow freely based off of your spirit, you hold them back until you find the right ones so you don't stumble. Does that make sense?"

For some reason, it did. He was right, of course. Her writings only reflected her like a reflection off the water. So, she nodded, even with the slight confused expression.

He chuckled again, shaking his head as he stood, holding out a hand to her. "Now come on. Let's get you to your notebook and see what you can do with your soul instead of your head."

She took his hand, following him to her notebook, hiding the small smile holding itself on her jaw.

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window (07/06/18)

It was midnight. There were no cars driving down the street, no one was walking the sidewalks drunkenly, there weren’t even any lights coming from TV’s from the living room windows of the houses surrounding hers. The only stretch of life seemed to emanate off of her, which was a first - there was always another being outside this late at night.

She sat on the small roof that hung over her window. It was easy to crawl out and up, usually without being noticed. Her mother was asleep across the hall anyways, and there wasn’t anyone else who could wake her up. So, around midnight every single night, she would crawl out of her window in a bulky sweatshirt and pull herself up onto the overhang. It wasn’t to look at the stars, because there were none - pollution had slowly covered the sky in a misty grey - or to see out over the houses, or even to meet someone. The girl sat on the overhang every night just for the sole purpose of silence.

No one knew she did this, except for one boy who she never caught the name of, since it flew over her head so quickly. She couldn’t even remember if he had said it, only that he had known her name and said that he would never find someone else as mysterious as her. This was a total lie; she wasn’t mysterious to begin with. Just a normal, quiet girl who sat on a window overhang in the middle of the night with no rhyme or reason. 

She remembered the night he had seen her, almost every detail. That night, her mother had been drunk again, yelling and shouting at the girl with everything she had, not caring what feelings were being hurt. Usually when her mother got this drunk, she tried to close her off in her room, wait for the banging against the door to settle down, anything that would help keep the older woman at bay while also leading her away from any sharp objects. This time though, she didn’t bother, for whatever reason; she just ran to her room, shut and locked the door, crawled out onto the overhang, and immediately started crying. It was already pretty late, so she didn’t have to worry about people calling out to her...or so she thought.

Within a few minutes, she heard the voice of the boy. Looking down, she saw him in her yard, almost directly under the window. Quickly wiping the tears away, she nodded at whatever words he was saying, insisting that she was okay, anything to make him leave her be without being too rude. In fact, the only thing she had actually heard him say that registered in her brain were the words, “You’re more mysterious than any other girl I know, Elizabeth. I’ll see you around,” and then he had left her to her own thoughts.

Elizabeth had never seen the boy again, and she could never pick him out at school or her clubs, or even out on the streets. But, she really couldn’t care. She had no eyes for boys anyways; she was more of a girl type.

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scar (07/01/18)

His chest was covered in what looked like claw marks, and on his back, there were two spaces between his shoulder blades that were smooth and red; they stretched slightly out to his sides, as if something had been on his back and the skin had been torn off when it was removed. His blond hair held a ring of smoky black, like it had been burned and the boy didn’t bother to fix the mess. No one had ever seen the scars, and that was the way he wanted to keep it, and he always came up with the excuse that it was a dye job gone south. No one knew the story, and even the rest of his kind didn’t know the whole story, or had seen the scars that he wore.

The story wasn’t gruesome at first. It wasn’t even a story, it was just his life. The boy had grown up running around in the golden roads of Heaven, watching as his halo glowed brighter and brighter with every birthday he had, seeing his wings ruffle in the wind that always seemed to follow him. Everyone loved him as he grew up, almost no one thought that he could do anything wrong. In fact, most of the angels in Heaven thought that he was the purest of them all. God even called to him multiple times to take care of some Earthly business, ones that the archangels like Michael and Gabriel took care of. He was flying with the big shots by the time he was a teenager, and that was big - it meant that he had power, and he always used it for good.

Except one time.

It was the middle of the winter, and the boy was told to guard over a girl his age; she had been suicidal, and his job was to watch her and send thoughts her way to guide her through the problems instead of hurting herself. For the first few nights, it worked. He kept her away from the things that she’d normally want to do, and she seemed to be getting better as if by some kind of miracle (of course, he was the miracle). About a week in, though, her demons starting coming back. He’d see them out of the corner of his eye, see them in the shadows during the middle of the night - one time he’d even seen one sliding into bed with her and slither under the mattress when it saw him. Sometimes, he would manage to banish them, but the small apartment was starting to get crowded. So, the boy did the sensible thing - he fought.

There was a day when her thoughts were darker than when he had first come down from Heaven. She was on the brink of just ending it, and everyone in her life could tell. The demons in the house kept coaxing her towards the edge, and that was when the boy decided that he was done. He was going to fight the demons, kill them if he had to. Yes, killing was against the rules, even when it came to demons, but he had to help this girl. It helped him with his objective, and if he could somehow get her out of this funk by sacrificing a few of Hell’s servants? Then he’d do it.

The boy took his halo from above his head and closed his eyes, feeling as the thin metal turned into a thick handle. When he opened his eyes, there was a golden sword in his hand, made of holy metal, which would kill a demon with one foul swoop. Even the light startled the shadows that had come to take up every wall of the apartment complex, but by then, they weren’t shadows. What had taken their places were the people that had once been good, but were corrupted by Hell and everything that could possibly be unholy. A mix of men and women, all surrounding him, now with weapons that the boy had never seen before.

My chance of winning is one in one thousand, but if I can just get rid of enough of them, maybe they’ll all leave, he thought to himself, standing in a defensive position.

Within seconds, it started.

Two of the demons moved in, wielding what looked like some twisted version a katana and a some kind of other sword that looked like even the best blacksmith couldn’t recreate it. Metal clashed metal, skin sizzling as the light from the boy’s sword burned the demons where they stood. The boy was cut a few times, but managed to rid of the first two, just as three more came forward, carrying similar weapons of the first two. The girl he was supposed to be guarding looked confused, but still slightly more relaxed than before - he was thankful that she couldn’t see or hear anything that was going on. He watched from his peripheral vision as she walked towards the kitchen, a small breath of air leaving his mouth in relief. She was leaving the room, which would make things infinitely better, because if she wasn’t near the demons, their energy towards her wouldn’t be as strong.

The fight continued, demon after demon being slaughtered. The boy used the sword and whatever extra godly power he could muster, trying to destroy every big of evil in the room. He was working off of an adrenaline and power rush, everything going to his head. He felt that his face was flushed and hot, his breathing heavy from what he had done. The bodies that were on the floor slowly vanished into dust, all of it floating lower, back towards Hell, or maybe Purgatory. Wherever dead demon souls went.

He walked to the kitchen to see if the girl looked better again, and to feel what energy came from her - if it was light, then she would be fine for the time being, and back to recovery. But, as he walked through the threshold, he stopped cold.

The young girl was laying on the floor, with glassy eyes and a paling face. He ran to her side, not noticing the shadow that was standing by the wall, that mysteriously took the shape of a person, a demon. Before he could even turn to notice it, the demon vanished into the shadows, back to whatever pit in Hell it came from.

The boy’s human that he was supposed to guard and help had died on his watch. There was now mortal blood on his hands, and he knew that the people of Heaven wouldn’t be happy, much less God himself. But, he needed to go back to explain himself, plead innocent on the trial that would inevitably take place, and hope that his people would look back at all of the work he had done over the course of life and take it into consideration.

Before he left, he sent a premonition over the girl’s family, hoping they would take it into their minds as something serious. Taking a deep breath, he let his sword fall back to a halo, and take its place over his head again.

***

A figure was waiting for him at the large golden gates leading into Heaven. Immediately, he knew who it was - God, and the righteous man was flanked by the archangels Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel. They held disapproving looks, with crossed arms and furrowed eyebrows. As the boy came closer, Michael stepped forward.

“Damian. We heard of your offenses. The trial will be held later today, but for now, you will have to come with us. Don’t worry - for now, we just want to talk. The other archangels and the leaders of the guardians are setting up the courthouse. But let those thoughts leave for now. Relax. Come.”

The boy, Damian, walked slightly ahead Michael, out of respect for the fact that they didn’t trust him anymore. It made sense - he had killed demons, and let a human die on his watch, both of which were highly illegal in Heaven. It was in the ten commandments for God’s sake.

It took a while to get to the marble mansion that sat directly in the center of Heaven’s property since they were walking instead of flying. God led the crew, with angels they passed bowing towards them. To everyone else, this was just the angel’s strongest five people walking together for some kind of...get together. They knew better.

As they entered the mansion, God turned his head to Damian.

“My boy, what is the sixth commandment that I have made for angels and humans alike?”

Damian hesitated, watching his feet walk towards a small meeting area. God’s office, almost.

“Thou shall not kill,” he muttered, letting his bangs fall into his face. The feet in front of him stopped and turned. Fingers on his chin, forcing his gaze upon God himself. Damian couldn’t tell what the look on God’s face meant. It was a mix between anger, sadness, disappointment; everything that the man wasn’t known for. A blob of confusion mixed with fright filled the boy’s throat, causing him to keep from talking, and it seemed to choke him with every passing second. Choking to death would be better than having to stare at the older man’s expression at this point.

“Ah. I see your thoughts. You are scared. There is nothing to be frightened of, my boy. There is just punishment. You’ve broken one of my commandments, and you’ve been corrupted. The darkness that was brought upon you by the monsters you so ruthlessly killed -”

“I didn’t do it to be ruthless! That girl was practically being suffocated by all of those demons, I had to do something! Sir, they were becoming too much for her to bear, so I challenged them. I will apologize from the bottom of my heart and soul for the girl dying on my watch, but I cannot be sorry for diminishing the demons that took place in her. They needed to be rid of, they had to...had to…”

By then, Damian found that he couldn’t breathe. He fell to the floor, trying to gasp for air. As he looked up, he saw his halo in the grasp of God’s hand, watched it become crushed into golden dust. His head started to burn, the ring where the halo was before now turning into black. The dust from the halo fell to the floor in front of him, onto his free hand. He could hear God laugh faintly from above.

“My boy, you have sinned against me, and all of your people. Without begging, there can be no forgiveness, and it seems as though there will be no begging coming from even the air in your lungs. For this, you will be cast down, just as my son Lucifer was so long ago, to live with the demons that you fought so...valiantly,” the word left his lips with disgust and sarcasm, “and you will reign in the burning, fiery pits of Hell. Goodbye, my boy.”

With that, the floor and the clouds that were underneath Damian’s feet seemed to disappear. He was falling, gasping for air - the halos were like the angels life force, and with it crushed, it felt like he was dying. Even so, the feeling went away the closer he came to Hell, until he was breathing normally again. He fell on his wings, grunting at the impact.

The gates into Hell were gnarled and black, with what looked like thorns and spikes surrounding the bars. A feeling came over him, and Damian looked back just in time to see his wings turning from a shining and clean white to a smoky, coal looking black. A small breath escaped his lips, and where his halo would have been, there were now small horns.

Something snapped inside him then.

This is what you did to him. This is what you did to my brother, to Lucifer, to all the other angels that were ‘corrupted.’ You damned bitch, this is how you ruin lives of every holy being up there, he thought to himself, gritting his teeth and looking towards the red sky.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a swirl of smoke. A man dressed in a black suit and tie stood there. He held a cane that was plain metal, except for the fact that it had a snake coiled around it. While its body was immobile, the head moved around, the tongue flicking out every few seconds.

The man snapped, and Damian’s vision was obscured by more of the same smoke. When it dissipated, he was wearing all black, and a leather jacket. Really, he liked this look better than the white and gold that he was usually forced to wear.

“So. You’re Damian. Welcome to Hell. Name’s Lucifer. Listen, I’m on a tight schedule, so here’s the deal - I’m going to save you the shit of killing my men and doing whatever you used to do for good ole Dad up there, and you’re gonna go ruin some lives today. Go make a slut happy, kid,” he said, and was gone again almost immediately. It was surprising - Damian always thought that Satan would be this man sitting upon his throne with succubi surrounding him, not a man who had a schedule and actually did things.

But, he’d see that everyone else was much different after he stepped into the gates.

***

Damian didn’t make it a day. Every demon in Hell knew what he had done for God as an angel, and weren’t as forgiving about it either. He had missed a step and fallen into a pit, to which all of the souls trapped in it decided to scratch and claw at him, tearing his clothes and leaving marks that would never heal properly. Most of them were on his chest, leaving the claw mark scars that no one now knew the story of.

A week went by, and then two, and he did his best to do his worst. Even with his efforts, he was still too good for Hell. Everything he did seemed to have something that would benefit someone, and Lucifer was forgiving of it...the first five times.

Finally, the King’s temper snapped, and he called Damian into his own mansion. Instead of the business casual that he had usually worn, the man was in the same as all the other demons that resided in Hell. His arms were crossed and his face just held extreme annoyance.

“Are you serious, or are you just fucking with me? You go to get some prostitutes helped out, you end up getting them arrested. You go up to bring some hell into people’s lives, you end up somehow helping them resolve their issues, the list goes on. And fucking. On. I don’t understand it. Every other ‘corrupted angel’ that comes down here has no issue wreaking havoc, but somehow, you manage to do anything but. What is your damn deal, man? You’re ruining my reputation down here. Figure you ass out, get your life together, do something, or - no. You know what. I’ve given you one too many chances, kid. I had high hopes for you, because of what you did for dad up in Heaven. But now? Man, who knew that Satan could lose faith.”

The man shook his head, scoffing. Then, he stepped forward, and behind Damian. The boy felt Lucifer’s fingers run along his wings, tugging them.

“You can’t make a life in Heaven, and you can’t even make a life in Hell. You don’t belong anywhere, Damian. So here’s the deal. I’m going to take these,” one wing was ripped off of the boy’s back, making him yell out in pain and fall to his knees, tears streaming from his face, “and you’re going to go to Purgatory to try and get your shit together there. I really do hate having to do this, kid, I really do, but there’s just no way that you can live here or there. I do hope you don’t end up killing yourself.”

His other wing was ripped from his back, and then he was spiraling down and down into an endless pit, towards Purgatory.

The scars that hallowed Damian were nothing short of painful. Of course, still, no one knew this. They didn’t even know the half of it.

Sure, he crawled his way out of the depths and somehow made it to the surface of Earth. But, between you, me, the scars on his body and the ones in his head? He wouldn’t even make it as a human.

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