The Demon and the Thief

Even the shadow-filled corners seemed alive. Ghosts lurking behind every chair. Even the house itself seemed alive, creaking, bending with the wind, whispering to Peter Drinkwater until the deeds of his life as a small time criminal seemed to have accumulated into genocide, blaming himself for the misery of human kind. He might just as well have been Hitler, responsible for the deaths of billions. The Demon made sure to remind him of it every night, so Peter would be going to bed and the final thoughts in his head would be about his incapacities to be a good man.
His house had never looked so clean. The demon forced Peter to scrub the floors, cook a proper meal and keep the tables clean. Peter could not remember ever working so hard, especially with domestic chores which earlier had been something of a bore. He took care to stash away candles, canned food and warm clothes, preparing for many lonely nights in the basement. There was no escape, he saw that. Even in the streets, he was being watched. He could see the demon lurk in the shades of a narrow alley; saw the reflection of his demonic face in the dirty water of the gutters. There were police cars as well. That inspector and his sergeant asking questions. He could see it in their eyes. ‘You’ their looks told him ‘we know what you are, whore! You’re nothing. Give us a fingernail and we’ll wrench your arms out of your sockets.’ He stayed clear of them, knowing they’d put him away for murder. But he couldn’t remember if he’d ever murdered anyone, but since the house and the demon whispered of his crimes, he was bound to have murdered someone. Seeing Jack Dorset once in a while, who’d wave at him from across the street, shouting out what could only be obscenities and insults. It made Peter’s blood freeze in his veins to see Jack again, knowing what he’d done to Peter, and it always made him hurry home, shameful of having been treated so by the one he’d considered a friend. He wasn’t angry at Jack. Only feeling terrified and feeling betrayed. Jack had been his hope for salvation. And now Peter had no hope left. Meeting the gaze of the townspeople made him cower and lower his head in shame. He often wore the hooded sweatshirt, so no one would see his stigma. He felt like a leper, a man carrying some infectious disease. He couldn’t get himself to go to his aunt. She had always disliked him, never understood him, and she would certainly not understand now.
The months passed. The world grew cold around Peter, and time dragged itself by all the while he slowly learned the virtues of a good slave. The demon changed his patterns, and would sometimes leave Peter for days. But he couldn’t get himself to escape. The eyes of the demon were everywhere, and the walls of the house told lies about Peter to his master. Peter kept on cleaning already clean floors, scrubbing every nook and cranny. He would take the moments when he was alone, to go downstairs and prepare some more, cleaning sleeping blankets, furnishing, making a floor to tread on. Then he realized he was getting awfully short on cash. Would the demon allow him to get a job? Peter remembered the stolen goods, instantly seeing profit. But what had the demon taught him of improper virtues? Greed and theft. The shorter would his wait be for the real hell. After living under the constant threats of the demon, he knew there was indeed a hell waiting for the likes of Peter Drinkwater. It was the ultimate ending for him. No sight of heaven. Peter hated the very idea of having to go to hell. It terrified him, alienating him from the real world.
Then one day, he came across a worn bible when he was cleaning in the basement. It was torn, and pages were missing. He sat down and began to read, then quickly hiding it as he heard footsteps above. His master had returned. The sound of the footsteps was almost welcome, after all those days in solitude, and Peter felt warmth in his heart which he couldn’t name. It was as if the heart in his chest grew, and he hurried upstairs. Just as he got out and closed the door behind him, he saw the demon coming to a stop in the living room, removing a knee-long waistcoat in tweed. He was having trouble with the hem of his sleeve, as the button seemed to have become stuck in something. Peter felt brave, walking up to him. The demons unruly hair smelled of breeze and seawater, and Peter could not help but to wonder.
“My Lord” Peter greeted him respectfully, bowing his head. He couldn’t help a slight smile on his lips, seeing the demon with fresh eyes. His laced shirt in starched cotton was impeccable as always, revealing a suntanned chest beneath. The demon obviously never bothered to do up the buttons. His face was human, yet grave and contemplative, not acknowledging Peter’s presence at all. Peter had failed to see it before, but now he noticed the thick lashes, the pouting full lips and a trace of a mustache on his upper lip. Peter so desperately wanted to talk to him, to tell him about his thoughts and his discoveries, and he was thinking of getting a job. For getting a job, that was a virtuous thing to do, right?
The blow to his cheek caught him unawares, and immediately brought tears to his eyes. It stung, and the force of the blow made him see stars. He tumbled to the floor and immediately pulled backwards. The demon’s handsome yet angry face turned awkward and obscene, as he exploded into fury.
“Mindless little worm! If stupidity could manifest itself, it would be you! Don’t touch me with your filthy hands!”
“I’m sor...sorry!” Peter stuttered in fear and shame, waiting by the door to the cellar, “I didn’t mean to upset you, Master, I only wanted to talk to you. It’s been so lone—“
“—silence. Another word from you and I’ll have your tongue!” the demon snarled, spitting at Peter. The saliva hit him in the face, and he jerked back, his breath catching in his throat, and he quickly left for the kitchen, wiping away the spit on a cloth. He stopped to look at it, suddenly feeling quite warm between his legs. Oh God. He was horny. He’d been looking to shag the demon! The revelation hit him dead in the chest, and he put the cloth away, trying to focus on other things. He cleaned away some cups, put them into a cabinet and closed the door. He turned aimlessly, turned again and opened the cabinet again, removing the cups and closing the door, looking to place them somewhere else. They didn’t fit in anymore. Like him. He put the cups on the kitchen table, wiped his tears and made a decision. Peter went back out into the living room where the demon had finally managed to untangle himself from the jacket. Seeing him there, seeing his master back to normal, looking indescribably gorgeous for a male, left Peter speechless. But the daze of being able to find beauty in another male, quickly faded as the demon looked him square in the eye and said: “Why are ye staring?! What’s this? Have you cut your hair again? I told you to leave it! I don’t like your hair that short! It’s disgusting. Get me tea, on the double!”
“I—I didn’t—“ Peter tried.
“—did I say you could speak?!” he snapped at Peter, closing the distance between them. Peter had to force himself to act, willing to do anything to avoid the demon’s wrath.
“Pl—please” he began, undoing his sweatpants, and dropped them to the floor. He hoisted himself up to sit on the kitchen table, spreading his legs. Peter felt a lump in his throat, felt it grow as his dignity shrank to a new lower level. “Please. Don’t be mad” Peter whispered. He tried to look at the demon, tried to invite him, to seduce him with his eyes, but failed miserably.
“My tea. Now. And get a shower. You smell worse than a pigsty” the demon brushed off his pleas. Peter sat up and did up his pants. His heart had sunk to his knees, and his sadness over such rejection was overpowering him. His tears began to fall, and he made the tea for his master while crying silently. He served it to him with shaky hands, waiting obediently in the living room until his master had finished the large cup.
“My Lord? May I speak?” Peter then asked meekly, trying not to sound hurt.
“I cannot fathom how anything you might have to say, would have any matter at all. Remember, you’re a criminal. You have no place in human society.”
“Pl—please, Lord. About that? I would like to return the stolen goods, if you don’t mind” Peter ventured, speaking quickly.
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last couple of days?”
“You—you did that for me?” Peter replied in disbelief, looking up to face the demon. Brown eyes met brown eyes, and it prompted the demon to get out of his chair. He walked resolutely over to Peter, who winced, but was too late to avoid the blow which sent him reeling into the closest wall.
“Don’t you ever look me in the eye! We’ve been over this before. And no talking. Slaves do NOT speak unless spoken to!” the demon snarled, anger burning in his brown eyes. He produced a knife from somewhere, and set one knee on top of Peter’s chest. Peter coughed for air, shaking in fear. “Once more, one more sound from you, and I’ll cut out your tongue bit by bit” the demon growled, holding the knife up to Peter’s mouth.
Peter boiled water in a large casserole, later that evening. He did it as quietly as he could, feeling the demon’s eyes on him the whole time. He poured the water into a bucket and carried it upstairs to the bathroom, where he stripped and cooled the steamy water somewhat. He closed the door unwillingly, not wanting to be alone. Loneliness was eating him alive, and it was proving to be more difficult to handle than any series of rapes. Peter had no one.
As he cleaned himself with a damp cloth, scrubbing his countless bruises time and time again, he let his tears fall, watching them mix with the hot water. It was soothing though, for he was constantly cold, as if the entire house did everything it could to keep warmth on the outside and chill on the inside. Reverse functionality. Or simply black magic.
Anyone can live forever, Jackie. The trick is to live with yourself. How do you live with yourself? How do you live with yourself when there’s no hope? No light in the end of the tunnel? How do murderers live with themselves, knowing what they’ve done? There’s no hope. In the end all are alone in this world. No one is truly united. All alone—!
Peter stirred in his sleep. The creaking in the basement door had woken him. He was instantly awake as he understood that the demon was coming to see him. Peter sighed, turning around to lie on his back. He felt the hairs on his back rise as he saw the slim outline of his master walking down the final step. Awkward anticipation mixed with fear, filled him, and he actually felt something resembling joy flutter in his stomach.
“I see in the dark as if it were daylight, so don’t even try to challenge me by staring at me” the demon said sourly. His moods hadn’t improved much. He was holding the mouth-ring casually in his left palm. That, and a familiar piece of rope. There would be little sleep for Peter Drinkwater.