The Demon and the Thief

The following morning, Peter forced down half a can of baked beans. They were cold, for he did not dare go up stairs and heat them. He put the can away, and huddled beneath his blanket. It was getting seriously cold in the basement, and he had trouble sleeping lately, because it was freezing. He lay down, trying to fall asleep again, knowing he needed his strength. He decided on keeping his secret hidden from the demon as long as he could – the longer Peter did, the more time he could spend on loving the demon spawn in his belly. Peter needed to love it, needed to feel needed in a state of purgatory where his life, his soul was otherwise superfluous. He needed a light in his life, a hope, something positive. There was another aspect to consider as well – when the child was due to be born, then Peter would cease to exist, he would be torn open and his body would die, and he would fall down into the hellish abyss, to spend eternity there, forever tormented. The demons of Hell surely could not be as attractive as his current demon master, they couldn’t be, could they? He would certainly not fall for them, something which meant that he wouldn’t have to have his heart crushed everytime he came face to face with one. If he had a bit of luck, they’d all be mindless giants, not understanding when he talked, and then he could talk and talk without them caring.
Eventually it became time to get up and make tea for the demon. He was feeling cold, his feet numb of cold, and he put on some socks to clear away the worst of the cold. The demon was already in place in the living room, pouring over the same paper again and again, looking up as Peter ventured out from the basement door. Keeping his head down, only glancing to see the master’s feet, Peter shuffled away to the kitchen, putting on the kettle. The demon’s eyes were like hot iron needles in the back of his neck, and Peter could not understand why. The demon came to lean by the kitchen doorway, his arms folded across his chest in a what –are –you –up –to? kind of manner. What did Peter do to deserve his scolding? Was he late? Should he have made tea sooner? Was there something he should have paid attention to? The thoughts swirled about in his mind, making Peter nervous and alerted, expecting a blow to come his way anytime. He halted to listen as a paper was crumpled in the demon’s fist. It meant he was angry about something, and Peter was probably to blame. The tea was finished, and Peter turned towards his master, the cup ready in his hand.
Peter imagined that the demon would probably swipe it out of Peter’s hand, making the hot tea scold his flesh. He imagined himself writhing in pain on the floor, his flesh red and swollen, boiling away while he watched. But he could not put the cup down. He’d have to act as normal, and attempt to carry it out into the living room as usual. He was surprised to find that the demon actually moved out of his way, allowing Peter to venture out with the cup and place it on the table near the armchair. The living room had a pleasant room temperature, making Peter sleepy. He dreaded having to go down to the basement, but there was nothing more for him here now, unless his master wanted to have him. But the demon made no sign as to want the body, he simply stared at Peter curiously, making Peter highly uncomfortable.
“Take off your shirt” the demon finally spoke slowly, eyeing him closely. Peter undressed hastily, pulling the recently acquired shirt over his head, taking it off completely. He peered down to the floor. There it was. The swell on his belly was quite obvious. He tried to firm up, to hide it, but to no avail. It hadn’t been so big yesterday, had it?
“You’re kind of skinny, wouldn’t you say? Not so attractive anymore, as when I first laid eyes on you. And these” he continued, motioning at Peter’s nipple rings, “doesn’t really become you, do they?” He walked over to Peter, and Peter immediately felt his knees go weak. He tried to stand his ground, bracing himself for some level of pain which was sure to ensue. It always did. He felt it tingle between his thighs as the demon fingered his nipples, removing the doubloons and the nipple rings. It was as if a heavy burden was lifted, and Peter sighed relieved, sighing silently, for he could not afford to display emotions.
“Now go and put on some more clothes. A pair of pants maybe, and a sweater. Something becoming” the demon said in a friendly manner. Peter bowed his way out of the living room, covering his modesty with his shirt. What was going on? It had to be a new game. The demon was bound to do something to build Peter’s hopes up a little, and then tear them down. He always did. Always.
But Peter did as he was told, and went looking for clothes. It felt good to have them on. He felt safe in them, covered and protected, shielded away. Human. But the pants were getting a bit tight in the waist, and it made him realize he needed another pair. Where in the world would he get money to buy another pair of trousers for him to wear? Perhaps he could find a second hand pair of sweatpants. A few holes didn’t matter. He got dressed, and then put himself beneath the blanket again, closing his eyes. The demon sometimes made him dress just so he could come and tear them off, all violently, cutting them up, inducing him with fear for the dagger the demon always carried with him. This was his last clean sweater. And the thickest one. If he lost it, then—! The door creaked, and as Peter peered up to see what was happening, he recognized the boots of the demon. That certainly didn’t take long. Getting new clothes would cost Peter a fortune. He was obviously in for a round of terror from the demon. Well, no way back. Peter braced himself, following those by now very familiar boots on their way down stairs with their owner inside. Peter had come to know every seam, every nook and cranny on those leather boots. He’d learned to hate and fear them, having been stepped on, kicked at and nearly had his windpipe crushed by them. He looked away as the demon came to sit on the last step, the wood creaking in reply as he did. For the longest time, he did not speak, but sat there in silence. Peter felt his eyes on him, felt the burden of the demon’s contemptuous stare, and Peter so desperately wanted to plead his innocence, to tell him, to promise to be a good and decent slave, to never trespass on another human being ever again! But to speak was not for Peter Drinkwater. He was to suffer in silence, that much was clear to him. And this strange love he’d come to feel in his heart, would never be answered, would never be fulfilled. Sitting now, fully clothed and at attention, watching the boots of the demon, watching his legs, his linen clad arms, the billowing shirt and the muscles flexing beneath it, made Peter warm and giddy inside just as he felt his heart about to burst with gratitude, with love, for his demon master was most beautiful, yet so intimidating, for Peter was able to steal glances of him, storing away every detail, the ruffled hair, the way the trousers made crinkles, caressing those strong thighs, the faint smell of sulphur, the outline of his jawbone. Moments like this, when he could feel some kind of relationship and closeness, and pretend in his mind that they were lovers and comrades, equally devoted to one another, revitalized Peter. He could live for weeks on one memory alone.
I sit at the foot of the stairs, down in the basement, which he’s made into his little world. He’s withdrawn from me, and by making this little patch of home down here, he’s telling me he has resigned to his fate, resigned to the pecking order which dictates that he belongs down in the dirt. He isn’t trying to be my equal in any way. I sit and watch into his world. He’s furnished parts of the walls, and isolated the floor to the best of his ability. I smell his urine in a makeshift latrine standing close to the farthest corner from here. And there’s a fresh scent of dirt over there, where he digs down his droppings once in a while, probably at night. I turn my head abruptly, catching his gaze in the blink of a second. Then he looks down, shaken and scared. Those brown eyes, glinting in the half dark, they spoke volumes to me. We both know the hidden truth which lies safely nestled in his belly. Picking stray thoughts from his mind, I learn that he’ll never tell me. He’ll keep it hidden for as long as he can, thinking that he must protect it from me, that I would somehow conceive the idea of hurting it. His tenderness towards the child, a child which could lead to his ruin, is, at best, breaking my heart, dumbfounding me, for his devotion is unquestioned. He has embraced it, and is willing to die for it, all though the soul and person inside is yet unknown to him, as it is to me. I feel trapped. I feel tied on hands and feet by responsibility, and something else too; A newfound desire. A desire to protect and love whatever rests within Peter’s womb, a desire I share with him. Never before, have I found myself in a situation like this. The prospect terrifies me, for something tells me the rest of my kin will not take lightly on these news, if they were to know. I have terrorized and maimed my soul’s true love. The offence is inexcusable, and I will be scolded for it. I have raped his body a hundred times and more, starved him and put his mind to waste. It is not his fault. Our souls were destined to meet, to become one and create another, I understand that now. Only a soul’s true love can bring a demon to his knees, my father would say with a grin on his lips.
“Did you eat today?” I ask him. I watch him tense up, paying attention to my words. But there’s no reply. I see his eyes wander across the dark basement. He’s thinking about it, about my words, wondering what they meant. I reach within my waistband, and pick out the letter he once wrote. I unfold it, skimming the handwritten words. ‘Gaze into your lovely brown eyes without fear’. ‘Experience real lovemaking’. ‘Sit and talk over a beer’. Utterly hopeless and useless. So naïve. So fucking ridiculous, it makes me mad. But I know it is a piece of his mind. It’s what he craves, what would strengthen him. But I know I can’t bring myself to sit down with him in a comradely fashion and have a beer. He needs to eat though. He’s had only half a can of baked beans.
“Upstairs with you, slave. My tea has gone cold” I say, glancing at him. Again, our eyes meet, and electricity floods through me as I meet the blackness of his iris, a tiny, tiny pinhole of a window into his soul, and I catch it staring at me just before Peter turns his head and looks away. He shifts his weight restlessly, fearing a blow to his head. I see it in his mind. It has already happened inside his head, me coming at him, my fist striking through the air, connecting with his jaw, sending him reeling to the cold floorboards. I understand that the physical violence is no longer necessary. I’m inside his mind, striking at him there, punishing him. He’ll never be free from me, even if the flesh were to drop from my bones. I would live on inside him.
I watch him crawl on hands and knees over to me. I do not move, yet he attempts to sneak past me, to snake his way somehow unseen, and I catch a thought from his mind. It’s a prayer. ‘Please do not hurt me. Thank you for this moment. Thank you for this moment. He shrinks away from me, clinging to the wall, expecting me to lash out at him. In his mind, I grab him by his jawbones, thrust him to the wall so he sees stars, before I tear off his pants. Then I thrust into him, inducing pain to the small of his back as I bend him down on the steps of the stairs, and I fuck him hard, squeezing his windpipe. I follow the images rolling through his head further on, watching from the outside as I reach my climax, and as I come, I squeeze in his eyeballs with my thumbs. Then everything blurs, drowning in his death screams. Returning to the real world, outside his brain, I remain in limbo, and let him pass, shaken by the fact that in his mind, he just died, but on the outside, he makes no display of the turmoil and horror inside. I hear his steps quicken as he gets past me, and soon, he’s on his way across the living room, fetching the cup of cold tea, walking towards the kitchen. I sit for a good while on that step, in his world. I look down at the letter again, and somehow, the words written there, are no longer ridiculous. I’ve planted a world of terror into his mind, and he lives in it every day. Like my winged uncles, the mercenaries of the Lords of Heaven and Hell, who live in an unnatural world all day long, and upon returning to the Sparrow Mansion, to my grandfather’s arms, they crave only the simple things, like a good clean shower. Peter’s no different. He fights for his sanity every day. Keeps his despair at an arm’s length away, makes him want to live another day. With this in mind, I get up, realizing how I am freezing. He’s been living like this for a long time, starving, and being cold. And didn’t I know it?
When I come upstairs, he’s no where in sight. The tea is hot and steamy, ready for me by the armchair. I walk into the kitchen, worried of his whereabouts, and I feel a draft. He’s at the front door. It’s open. Just as I com out into the small hall way, I see a black cat leap from his arms. It stops in the middle of the courtyard, turns to stare at me, and I instantly recognize those golden eyes. My father. He’s been here before. He knows Peter!
Peter is concerned I will destroy the creature he thinks is a cat, he turns, shuts the door hastily, and the contact with my father is broken. I watch Peter cower before me, kneeling deep, hanging his head in silent prayer. I look at my hands. They’re shaking, and I realize that my heart is beating fast with terror. I take Peter’s left arm, and get him to stand. I lead him into the living room, while I listen to the grumbling of his stomach.
“Go sit in the chair” I order him. I watch him obey. He’s filled with questions in his eyes, going from fear to wonder and on to borderline panic. “Drink the tea. You must be cold” I say to him. I try to put kindness into my words. I watch him sit there, his eyes working across the floor, everywhere but on me. I can see it on his face; He’s wondering, asking himself: What did the demon say? Was I to drink his tea? His inaction provokes me. Why will he not obey? “Didn’t you hear me? Drink the tea while it’s still hot. I’ll find you some food” I say to him, fighting the impulse to hit his face. I feel like fucking him, but I wait, and I haste out into the kitchen. He puts it in there, right, in the fridge?
Having tea was like drinking a haven of flavours and sugar. How much would he be allowed to drink? All of it, or a few sips? He heard the demon rummage around in the kitchen. Looking for a knife, perhaps. Or something he could use to torture Peter with, to make him regret having the tea. Best to leave it, then, to ease his conscience. Peter sat on the edge of the armchair, not feeling comfortable at all. He’d probably already overstayed his moment there, so he decided it was best to sit on the floor in stead. But hadn’t the demon told him to stay in the chair? Peter cursed himself. He needed to learn to pay attention. It was all just too difficult, though, for there were so many things and thoughts in his head, so many black holes to fall in, he could hardly remember if he’d eaten breakfast. He would wake up every morning, in a state of terror, worrying about the master’s tea, or getting the net meal, or the next chore, or how to stay out of trouble. Then it was the walls. The concrete walls kept moving, changing their patterns, turning into demonic faces, wringing and twisting in the shadowy areas, snickering and whispering to him about his uselessness and incapacities as a man, taunting and frightening him. Being with his master was the closest thing he could come to safety from the voices and the ghosts, yet being with the demon represented another kind of terror: A far more physical and real terror. And perhaps just because it could be felt directly on the body, made it all the more bearable and more real, and thus easier to relate to. Anything just to escape his own mind for a minute or two.
The demon seated him at the kitchen table, and Peter kept his gaze cast down, with his mind hard at work, trying to figure out what it all meant. Yes, the answer hit him shortly after. The demon wanted him to sit there, all worn and hungry, and watch his master eat. It had happened before.
The demon had tied him to the bed upstairs, and then cut him all over his body. Tiny, tiny incisions in a patchwork all over. It hurt, God how it had hurt! Then, he’d been taken hard, taken brutally, with a rope around his neck cutting off his air supply. It had been one of those times, Peter was sure he was about to die. And just as he was about to pass out, the demon had let him loose, and he’d been dragged down stairs to be forced to cook up a meal, preparing a roast with his fingers stinging, his body aching from razor thin wounds all over. Every fingertip had a cut. Whilst the roast was cooking in the oven, the demon had seized him anew and pinned him to the ground, drizzling salt all over his body. The pain, the agony! The salt gathering, clinging to his open wounds, and the more Peter writhed, the more it ached. He had not been allowed to run off and wash it away from his wounds. The demon had simply tied him to the kitchen chair, and made Peter watch, biding his time, eating the roast, enjoying every slice. It had been one of many, many occasions where Peter had to learn patience, slowly mastering the hatred which filled him every time such an event took place.
Another memory quickly came to mind, and he fought to suppress it as he watched the demon fetch the cup of tea, placing it on Peter’s end of the table. He expected to be grabbed any moment now, to be tied down and to have the cock-ring forced into his mouth, holding his jaws apart, and then to have the scalding hot tea poured down his throat. Peter shivered at the memory, deciding it was worse to have hot tea down his throat than to have his tongue sliced. His throat had been raw for two weeks straight, and he’d hardly been able to drink a glass of water. After two weeks of hiding in the basement, living on a diet of demon sperm and water, he’d been so delirious with hunger; he’d eaten pieces of Bible paper, washing the meal down with his own urine. Eating had helped keep the ghosts and the dead people at bay. He’d been able to keep a clear head, and argue with them when they wanted to come out of their shadows and their corners to suck out his soul. He’d made them change their minds, all though he’d found himself at the top of the stairs in the end, gazing down at them, talking to them as they’d closed in on him, scraping with their bony fingers on the foot of the stairs, looking up at him with greedy, eyeless sockets, their skulls gleaming sickeningly grey in the dark. Peter shut his eyes hard and attempted to will the memory away.
To his horror, he realized that the demon had fetched the tea cup from the living room, and was now sitting down in the chair opposite Peter. He seemed restless. Almost nervous. He was resting his elbows on the table end, his fingers working constantly.
“Listen, listen to me” the demon said gravely, “eat, savvy? Eat. And tell me, how long have that black cat been around?”
Peter glanced around for some way to answer the demon. He saw some paper, and found a pencil, and scribbled an answer and then put it on the table in front of the demon. It felt surreal to be sitting at the same table, and it made Peter extremely uncomfortable. He wanted nothing else but to retreat to the basement.
“With the first snow? You mean to tell me that the black cat came with the first snow? That’s when you first spotted it?”
Peter nodded meekly, understanding that he was now going to pay for having consorted with another creature, possibly another demon in animal shape. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so desperate?
“That’s some four months ago!” the demon blurted out, clearly upset. Peter watched the demons hands clench into fists. He did not dare to look up. That beautiful face had surely changed into something hideous by now. Peter kept his hands folded in his lap, his shoulders slumped down with the burden of mankind’s collected sins.
“They say that only a soul’s true love can bring a demon to his knees. It would seem, that your soul has managed to do the trick” the demon said, his voice shivering with rage, or something else, something which Peter failed to discern. His vision was filled with the image of the demon’s clenching and opening fists. He could not hear the words, only the tone in the demon’s voice. Peter guarded it, prepared himself for the storm, waiting for the signal to scramble for cover, to brace himself, to take the pain which always ensued. Something about souls. Peter already knew his soul was doomed. He didn’t need to be told again. He’d learned the lesson. He understood there was no hope for salvation, no hope to ever ascend to God’s feet.
“You must understand this” the demon told him, “now eat.”
Peter looked at the food. Eat what? It was the demon’s food, wasn’t it? Was he supposed to help himself with the demon’s food and basically invite the demon to retaliate?
“Are you not hungry? Must I feed you myself?” The demon told him. The threat was obvious to Peter. He could see it before his eyes; The demon forcing a loaf of bread inside his mouth, forcing it down with scalding hot tea, or pressing it down his throat with an object, a candlestick. Peter clenched his eyes shut, feeling his stomach churn. The vision made him nauseous. He moved his left arm up onto the table in apathy, lifting the tea cup to his lips, whilst eyeing the demon’s movements at all times. He tasted the lukewarm tea, drinking all of it in one gulp, feeling it fill his stomach with pleasant warmth. Peter wanted to say ‘thank you’, wanted to show his gratitude. He put the empty cup down carefully, without a sound. The demon sighed, shifted his position, putting one knee over the other. The movement caused Peter to jump out of his chair, and he backed away towards the kitchen sink, his breath hitching, feeling dizzy.
“Sit down…, uh, ‘Peter’, right?” the demon told him. He didn’t seem even the slightest angry, yet Peter felt like fleeing. Instead, he turned his back on the demon, finding the kitchen cloth, wetting it absentmindedly, buying himself some time to calm down, before he obeyed and returned to the table. He cleaned parts of the table with shaky hands, attempting to do something, to make amends for something, anything which might appease the demon, anything to escape the distressful situation. The demon leaned forward, levelling with Peter’s gaze, meeting his eye for a brief second, before Peter looked away. He picked up a knife. Peter felt his heart get caught in his throat, thinking that this was it. Now the punishment was coming. Instead, the demon took the bread, and sliced of a chunk which he handed to Peter.
“Eat, I said, eat. Now listen, our souls may like each other and they may think it’s a great idea to join one another and have great fun, but I still don’t like you. I still think you’re nothing but a useless maggot, a leech on the face of the Earth. When this is over and done with, I’m getting rid of you. Permanently. I will not be bound by another creature, but I have to suffer this situation at the moment because my soul is on the inside and I have to do as it bids me. Now eat!”
Peter accepted the bread with reluctance. He levelled it to his mouth, but found himself unable to have a bite. He wanted to savour it, to enjoy it instead, in solitude, without the evil gaze of the demon hanging over him. Peter’s not to receive any love, so what else is new? He tried to think of the child, to hold on to something positive, and by doing so; he found the will to have a small nibble. The demon presented chunks of ham and cheese, some fresh salad leaves and orange juice together with cold fried chicken bones. But Peter could not see the food. His vision was blurred with tears, as he forced his thoughts over on the child, nibbling at the piece of bread, staring at the floorboard beneath the soles of his feet.
“You’re moving upstairs, to the bedroom, where it’s warmer” the demon suddenly said, adding: “you’ll need a new bed, a larger one, with a thicker sleeping blanket. And a pillow. I’ll arrange it. I’ll lose all my assets because of you and your cursed soul” the demon added sourly. Or was it nervousness? Peter wasn’t sure, couldn’t quite distinguish the tone of voice. “You’re not to sleep in the basement ever again, you understand?”
Peter nodded faintly, knowing moving upstairs meant more sex, more torture, less sleep and no more place to hide. He’d have to look for another spot. He felt he was being punished for something, that the demon was tightening the leash, giving him even less freedom. There was surely a reason for it, yet Peter could not see anything obvious. Had he behaved improper lately? Or disobeyed? Or was it the child? Did the demon know? Peter pictured himself strapped to the bed, screaming and pleading as the demon pricked his stomach with a large needle, sticking it deep into his flesh, into the child. The child’s cries rang in his ear, bringing tears to his face, picturing the terror of having to feel it die inside him, the little creature crying for help, helplessly in pain, impaled on the large needle.
Peter was startled, and jumped as the demon shifted in his chair, getting to his feet. He got up, bracing himself though he was still shaken by the vision of the child’s death. He watched the demon fetch a tissue, and handing it to him as he said: “No need for tears, ‘Peter’” the demon said, and Peter imagined him to grin maliciously, though he hadn’t seen the smile directly, he simply assumed it so. To expect any kind of benevolence is folly.
I try to be benevolent. Speaking his name feels like chewing toilet paper. It’s so trivial, so unnecessary, such a waste. Souls are nameless, enduring entities, a lifeforce within the living machinery which is the physical form. The body is simply an exoskeleton. The soul stays untainted no matter what the body says or does through its lifetime, a rule generally misunderstood or not understood at all by the human race. They’ve been scared into believing the opposite simply because it benefits society to have a population consisting of well-behaved citizens. Christianity is simply well-oiled propaganda machinery designed to be the pillars of society. But it does not heal people’s minds. The wounds within. They stay unhealed, for the human race is taught to do upon others as they would have others to do upon them. So they all turn into sanctimonious creatures, thinking that they believe that they are benevolent, good hearted people, that they have monopoly on truth. And sooner or later they turn into fanatics. Look to the true followers of Satan. Now there’s a handful of people who understands what it’s all about. You want to heal society, to be benevolent towards others? Well, you have to start with healing yourself, to find enlightenment within yourself, to find the truth, and then dare to look yourself in the mirror afterwards. True Satanists know this. They find their soul’s sound, and so they leave their earthly names behind, for it no longer has any relevance. My slave does not understand this yet. To him, his earthly name still holds relevance, still is a vital part of his identity.
Later during the day, the mattresses and the bedframe arrive by truck from Causton. I steal glances at Peter, seeing him hide away from sight as the truck arrives. I watch him storm from the kitchen and into the living room, running like the dog he is, with his tail between his legs had he had any. I let them inside, allowing them to put it all in the living room. There are too many secrets up stairs, which I do not want them to see. Once they leave, I do not allow Peter to help me carry it all upstairs. He disobeys me a little though, moving the bags containing winter blankets and new pillows to the foot of the stairs, moving boxes with screws, clearing away cartridge and plastic wrappings, trying to busy himself as much as he can, wringing his hands when there’s no more to do, walking restlessly to and from, eyeing the unfamiliar mattresses, the wooden frames, the company labels, his mind working to make it all out, all the whys and what ifs and what I will do with its. I have to smile at him, yet inside something cuts through me like a cutlass gutting me, and I feel weighed down, troubled by the fact that he’s troubled. He shows no excitement, no happiness. I sense no gratitude from him, and perhaps I deserve none either. I can’t really tell. Feeling guilty hasn’t been my thing of late.
Evening came, and Peter had once again to endure a meal with the demon. To sit opposite that devilishly handsome man filled him with a potpourri of emotions. The unfairness of belonging to someone so breathtakingly beautiful, whose insides were of such bestiality, was maddening, and Peter tried his best not to think his desire to throw himself into the demon’s arms, to be his committed lover, to give him anything he craved for. He feared losing control, knowing if he laid himself open, the demon would ravage him and call him just that which he did not want to be. A whore. Perhaps he had been so in the past, sleeping with women for money, telling them lies. But now his heart was set on only one person, someone who did not want to love him back, who brought him nothing but tears. The day’s unexpected events heralded difficult times.
Peter performed his duties diligently in the kitchen, hoping the demon would soon tire from staring at him. Sitting at the table, Peter wondered if there was something wrong with the food. The demon would not help himself with food, but instead insisted that Peter started. Peter knew he’d be punished for it later. The demon loved to scrutinize him, finding flaws in every move Peter made. He’d be beaten, and told he was being punished for his greed at the dinner table. The thought of this made him hesitate, but when the demon actually bent across the table, handing him the casserole, Peter could not refuse. He began to eat, wondering how long it would be, before the demon would make a hurtful remark, either about Peter’s appetite or the way he ate. The list of flaws felt like it was already miles long, and there were so many things to remember about how to behave and how not to behave.
He did his best, keeping his elbows off the table, his back straight, slicing his food in small pieces, really small, so he wouldn’t be gaping over the fork. He kept his gaze cast down on his plate, taking care not to chew too loudly. The meal was quickly done, as Peter had only dare to fill his plate a quarter full of food. He hungered for more, his stomach seemed like a bottomless pit, but he kept the impulse to ask for more, in check. He couldn’t be so impertinent, so rude. So greedy.
“Do help yourself to more, ‘Peter’” the demon said, grinning at him.
Peter shrank at the sound of his own name. It was spoken with such malevolence, and it felt strange and uncomfortable to go by that name again. Why he was being called Peter again, Peter didn’t know, didn’t want to know, didn’t care. He cared only for the way the demon pronounced it; Infinitely cold, with distance, as if one tried to name some oddity, or having decided to call an animal by something other than its real name. Peter was a body, with two damp and warm holes. It was living, breathing flesh which could be used as amusement or as a breeding sack for one’s young. Take your pick, but by all means do not give it a name. Names are strange, Peter thought, real people have names. But Peter was a no longer in the real world, no he was in purgatory, here, outside Midsomer Mallows.
“You must eat some more, ‘Peter’, I will not like it if you don’t eat some more” the demon’s voice was grave, almost threatening. Peter helped himself to some more food instantly, wishing he could express his gratitude. He wrote a ‘thank you’ on one side of a napkin, and presented it shyly to the demon. “Whatever. Go to bed afterwards, you need to sleep”.
Peter showered for the first time in many months. Before that, he’d kept himself clean by washing his body using a cloth soaked in lukewarm water and soap. It had sufficed. Now he found himself standing in the shower where it had all begun, where the demon had first laid eyes on him. Now Peter felt the comfortable hot water pouring down his back. He closed his eyes hard, sighing quietly, taking a moment to pretend that he was all alone in the bathroom, that the demon was not standing outside the door, watching him, his perfectly rounded ass, his back, the back of his head, his penis-less front. Peter kept his back to the demon, attempting to preserve his modesty without behaving rudely. He could not remember when the demon had taken a liking to watch him in the nude, other than just to humiliate him and torture him with being cold. Did the swollen belly show? Peter kept on turning away from his gaze. Upon finishing rinsing his hair, he turned off the shower and quickly made for the towel, covering his stomach, venturing back into the shower to dry off there. The demon snickered at him.
“Don’t exaggerate your performance, slave, we both know you’re not exactly a pristine virgin.”
Peer blushed despite himself, quickly sneaking beneath the thick blanket filled with warming goose downs. It was pure bliss for sure, and he closed his eyes and sighed again. His stomach was full with food and child, he’d had a nice hot shower and now he was allowed to slip onto a nice brand new bed. The demon sat on the edge of it, not making any sign of undressing.
“I…have to leave you for the night. There’s some money on the kitchen table. If.. I have not returned to you by morning, then there are instructions for you to follow in a letter” the demon told Peter, “and remember to have food from the fridge. I need you to eat.”
I kiss his forehead, laying my right hand casually on his belly. His damp curls tickle my nose, and I smile at him, a sincere smile. There is a quite inexplicable warmth in my heart, and as I feel the child answer my touch by kicking with all its might as if to say: I am here, father, I am here, I’m almost driven to tears. A tenderness nearly not bearable, seizes my entire person, and I gather all my willpower to stand up from the bed and leave him. I walk downstairs to the living room, glancing at the kitchen table before I open a portal. On the other side awaits my father and my doom. Should he prove merciless, then Peter and the child will at least have a head start before they’re caught and destroyed.