The Demon and the Thief

Things had seemingly gone from bad to worse. The demon wouldn’t leave him alone for a minute, and his appetite for sex seemed stronger than ever. Peter felt like a machine – putting food into one hole while being fucked in the other. He couldn’t understand why it hurt so much, and why it hurt differently than before. He’d come to a point where he’d separated himself from his body. It belonged to someone else, someone other than Peter, a whore’s body – something disgusting and alien. Peter could no longer tell reality from dream. To him, it was all the same, just as terrifying wherever he turned. The demon’s eye was on him constantly, scolding and mocking. If Peter only had dared to look closer, he would have seen that the demon often looked at Peter with wonder and amazement. It was like his master’s eyes had been opened to something new. The little things about Peter intrigued him, like the way the curls bounced whenever Peter moved, shielding his neck as they grew longer. The smell of Peter’s skin was enthralling, and the demon would often take his time to lie on top of Peter, and while being inside him, the demon would nuzzle the skin beneath Peter’s earlobe, getting high on the smell, nibbling at the earlobes. Peter would lie completely still, staring at the ceiling all the while praying the demon wouldn’t bite his ears off. Peter would stare at the window and the moon outside, or listen to the autumn rain. He began to take joy in the little things that managed to distract him all the while being taken, often having long conversations with himself in his head, pondering about the colour of the faded wallpaper, or the sound of mice crawling up the walls. Soon, that habit followed with other chores of the day as well, and it helped Peter to elope in daydreams. He often dreamt of an alternate version of his life as it had become. An alternate reality where he was the demon’s lover, and the love they shared was genuine and passionate. Peter dreamt of late night dinners with candle light and wine, of making the demon proud by going to work and keeping their house clean, dreaming of them as equals, in a loving stable relationship, not a destructive one. Peter always kept coming back to what could have been between them. It made him sad, and he often cried when thinking about the dreams. But it was all he had to turn to. And the thought of the alternate, good and loving demon soon became a bright spot in his mind, the one thing he had to look forward to, for it was a love story happening right there inside his head, and it seemed to be keeping his spirits alive, wishing for a better tomorrow, although it never seemed to come. The blurry image of a faceless, loving demon in Peter’s head, was the reason Peter kept on trying to please his master. There was a tiny fragment of hope that if he just tried hard enough to become how the demon wanted him to be, then the demon would love him. Peter was imperfect. He was a criminal and a whore, a leech on the world’s surface, and although that thought made him despair, he knew now that it was the truth. He didn’t deserve any benevolence. Not from anyone.
When Peter was taking out the trash one day, he was approached by a black cat with yellow eyes. It sat down on his doorstep, gazing up at him expectantly before it meowed. It was a true beauty, and Peter felt like feeding it some milk. He kept stroking it while it fed, feeling the soft fur slide beneath the skin of his palm. When it had finished, he lifted it up carefully, and it settled in his lap, purring contentedly, not despising him at all. Peter felt his eyes flow over, and soon his cheeks were wet with tears of gratitude of being able to hold another living creature, letting out all of his so far restrained love on the cat, cuddling it, feeling its warmth and soft fur against his skin. Being able to again feel so close and having a kindred spirit, a friend however brief and in the shape of a cat, was indescribable to Peter. The world about him seemed to diminish until its centre consisted of just the two, and for just a moment, Peter felt free of the demon. For the longest time afterwards, Peter thrived on the feeling of having a friend.
The demon was making a point of joining Peter at the dining table, or wherever else that Peter decided to devour his food, like on the toilet, if that was the place where he could get a moment’s rest from the constant fear which drove him. To Peter, the demon’s stalking behaviour could only mean one thing: Peter was eating too much. Why else would he constantly be interrupted and scrutinized while he ate? And from that conclusion, Peter drew another one: The demon wanted to starve him to death. Another torture method. It made sense, Peter said to himself.
One day, the demon gave him a Visa card.
“You’re well enough to leave the house now” the demon said, flashing a fang-filled grin at him. “Go and buy some proper food, and soap and tea. Don’t forget my tea, or you’ll be sorry you were born.”
Peter nodded and accepted the card. He dressed himself nervously, feeling the coarse fabric of his sweatpants against his thighs, and the soothing heat the sweater provided. He promptly ignored the bandages around his wrists, but drew down the sleeves of his sweater until they were concealed. It was freezing outside, and the harsh daylight cut deep into his brown eyes. He went inside to look for his jacket. He found it on the peg in the hall, and by accident he gazed at himself in the mirror hanging there. What he saw, startled him, and he looked away quickly. Dead man walking. That was it. A dead man. Walking. An image in the mirror, of a skeleton wrapped in grey, withered skin. Peter shuddered, and went outside. He couldn’t tell what it meant, and wanted to forget about it as soon as he could. He contemplated about the car. If using it, then he could bring back more groceries. But if he did, then the demon could have an accident happen to him and send him straight to Hell. If he walked, then Peter could exercise and perhaps loose some fat, showing the demon that he was in fact loosing weight, like he’d ordered. For the demon had told him so? Right? Peter couldn’t remember the exact words. Maybe there hadn’t been any words at all, just the looks. Yes, that was it. The scalding look in the eyes of the demon. The tell-tale looks telling Peter that his efforts were never appreciated. He couldn’t say when the last time had been that he’d actually looked the demon straight in the eye, but he imagined it was probably there all the time.
He decided to walk in to town. He drew the hood of his sweater on top of his head to shield the ears from the cold, zipped up his jacket and trotted on, eyeing the snowflakes and the small sparrows chirping from the trees. It felt damn good to be out and about. He then remembered the credit card, and fished it out of his pocket. He stopped to stare at the name, spelling the signature to be ‘John Sparrow’. An old fashioned sort of hand-writing, the way old people would write their names in an elaborate style. Was that the demon’s name? Or had he taken the card from some other damned soul? Upon arriving in town a good forty-five minutes later, he walked over to the bank, where he stood to wait in line. While waiting there, he was approached by a woman. He could tell from the legs, as he was continuously staring into the ground, wondering how he’d manage to face the officer at the counter.
“Peter?” A female voice asked. He looked up to find a pair of lovely green eyes framed by glasses and dark brown hair. He remembered kissing her lips. At some point. He sensed his emotions running off again, feeling panic set in. Her face would change anytime soon, now, just like before in the dream, or perhaps it hadn’t been a dream? If he looked at her again, her face would start melting and worms would come pouring out of the eye sockets, just like when she’d come to visit him in the living room, back then. Peter remembered having fallen asleep on the couch, and he’d woken up to the sound of her voice calling his name. He couldn’t forget the ghastly squishy noise as the worms poured out and hit the floor, along with the remnants of her brains.
“You don’t look so good. Is your ‘boyfriend’ keeping you up all night? I don’t know what to say, Peter. I thought we had something” her voice was full of scorn and hurt. Just like he’d expected it to be. “You could at least have told me.”
“I’m sorry. For everything” he whispered, and he continued to stare at her feet. He glanced up to find that she was wearing that favourite denim jacket of her, with a thick blue woollen sweater underneath, looking all nice and warm.
“Did our thing matter to you at all, or was I just another shag to you?” He could hear tears in her voice. Her lower lip was shaking.
“Every moment I spent with you, Caroline. Every moment mattered, I know that now” he whispered to her with regret in his voice. He’d spoken those words to the shadows of the basement so many times, and he knew he’d be speaking them again, for all of this had to be but another nightmare. It was all too real.
“Then—then why are you with another man?!” she wailed, quickly drying a tear from her right eye.
“Be—because I did some terrible things, and I don’t deserve you, Caroline. He’s not my boyfriend. Or lover” Peter added , the regret heavy in his tone.
“Then what is he?”
“Could I ask something of you, Caroline? Just one thing, please?” Peter whispered, moving forward with the line.
“What?”
“Could you ask the parish priest to stop by the Windy Whistle Farm, please?”
“The—priest?!” Caroline replied surprised.
“I’m going to die” Peter said quietly, “but I guess you knew that already, right? You all want me dead. Promise me, Caroline, please, send him to the farm?”
“I—uh, yes…!” was all Caroline could say, before it was Peter’s turn. She stood for a while, watching him fidget with what looked like a credit card. Then she noticed the bandage around Peter’s left wrist, and the way his hands kept shaking. His hair had grown longer, and he seemed so tired, so worn out. The tall, dark and handsome always confident to the tips of his fingertips Peter Drinkwater was but a shadow of himself, and he’d spoken so gently to her, like he was afraid she’d hurt him or something. She’d never seen him act like that before. He looked downright…subdued, was the correct word, she mused. But then her mother, mrs. Devere entered the room, and she had to leave him and not look back. Inside her previous anger towards Peter had faded, replaced with wonder and the feeling something was wrong with him. Seriously wrong. Was he ill? Maybe he’d gotten cancer? Or aids? Or ammonia?
Peter put forth the credit card, glanced briefly at the lady sitting behind the desk, and asked as kindly as he could: “I’m sorry to bother you, but I would really like to know who this card belongs to” he said, smiling shortly at her.
“Well”, she began while picking up the card, “it says right here, it belongs to a John Sparrow”.
“Yes, but could you be so kind as to look up that account number for me?”
“Is this not your card, Sir” she replied briskly while punching in the numbers on her computer.
“It was given to me by a friend. But he didn’t say who he got it from, if it’s his card or not. If there’s money on it, then I can buy groceries. And tea” Peter said, daring himself to glance at her again. He was baffled as she motioned discreetly for security, and they were soon guiding him past the counters and into an office.
The manager came shortly after, and he spoke with the lady, glancing to and from where Peter had been seated. This wasn’t good. He was told they’d called the police. Peter was extremely nervous, wishing himself back to the Windy Whistle Farm and the demon. Anything better than this! Now he would have to go to jail, -and that meant that the demon wouldn’t be getting his tea! Peter wiped away the sweat from his forehead with one nervous hand. There was talk outside, and Peter thought he recognized the masculine, strong voice of the Chief Inspector. Seeing him appear through the doorway actually made him happy, and Peter could have jumped up and hugged him, had he not been so concerned about the label he felt was etched into his forehead, spelling the word ‘whore’. He was the demon’s property now. The demon’s property, he kept chanting inside his head, hoping the demon was aware of his efforts to stay loyal.
“Glad you were around, Barnaby” the bank manager said, glancing at Peter.
“Well, yes, I happened to be in the building to settle some insurance papers. What’s this about then?”
“We believe this man has stolen this credit card” the bank manager said, producing the credit card from the demon.
“Ah. Tell me from the beginning, then.”
“He came in here, asking about the account, you see, Chief Inspector. And it’s not his, but belonging to someone called John Sparrow, you see.”
“Well, I can honestly not say that I see any crime in that. People can lend away their credit cards if they like. Or did you simply steal it, Mr. Drinkwater?” Barnaby said, turning towards Peter. The stern gazes of the Chief Inspector made Peter bow his head instantly, regretting he’d looked up in the first place.
“Sir”, Peter said, clearing his voice, “as I told the nice lady, it was given to me, so I could go shopping.”
“For what?” Barnaby replied instantly.
“Groceries. And tea, Sir” Peter said, trying hard to be as polite and meek as possible. He withstood the impulse to undo the buttons on his trousers and drop down to his knees, giving himself away in an attempt to upease the angry demon, uh no, this was the Chief Inspector, Peter reminded himself. It was an act so usual to him now, that Peter had to focus to remain in the chair, fighting what otherwise proved as a safe method for forgiveness.
“Sir, this credit card is a free access to an account holding five million British pounds” the bank manager spoke low and in awe to Barnaby, “and the account certainly does not belong to the likes of Mr. Drinkwater.
They spoke over his head, but it didn’t bother him. He was used to being ignored by now.
“And the account really belongs to this John Sparrow then?”
“The Sparrow family which owns the Sparrow Shipping Company have separated accounts, and this account is earmarked for three users only, and trust me when I say that Mr. Drinkwater is NOT one of them. Mr. Drinkwater simply cannot have been so lucky as to have befriended one of the world’s richest young men. They don’t live around here” the bank manager said, adjusting his glasses once more.
“Well, my friend, I think you might be wrong. If you don’t mind, we’ll settle this matter nicely and quietly by contacting Mr. Drinkwater’s benevolent friend, here.” Barnaby put out his palm, demanding the credit card.
“You’re not going to arrest him?” the bank manager said hesitantly, looking from Barnaby and to Peter and back again.
“For what? ‘Suspicion of theft’? It depends on what his friend says.”
So it was that Peter was driven back to the Windy Whistle Farm by Chief Inspector Barnaby. Upon arriving at the house, he got out of the car, feeling his heart dropping to his toes. He returned empty-handed. No tea. No nothing. Barnaby knocked at the front door, and soon, the demon opened it. He was clearly surprised to see Peter in the hands of the policeman, and Peter begged in his mind to the demon, being ready to fall to his knees for forgiveness. Again.
“Is there something wrong?” the demon said with wonder in his voice. Peter had never heard his voice like that before, speaking with concern. “Peter?! Are you all right? What happened?!”
“Peter is fine, Sir. He was stopped by security inside the bank. Now I’m a little embarrased to say I don’t recall your name, Sir, but I would very much like to see some ID. A passport if I may?”
“A passport? Uh, aye, do come in to the kitchen. It’s freezing outside” the demon replied, showing them in. Peter kept his distance, not daring to look the demon in the eye once. There would be hell to pay once this was settled, he just knew it. How foolish of him. He should have just walked straight to the grocery store. “I’ll just be a moment” the demon said before wandering up stairs. He returned after a brief moment, flashing a classic red passport. He gave it to Barnaby, eyeing Peter.
“May I inquire as to what this is about?” The demon spoke while Barnaby studied the passport.
“Is this your credit card, Sir?” Barnaby said, producing said card, holding it up.
“Aye” the demon replied.
“And is it so that you gave it voluntarily to Mr. Drinkwater here?”
“Aye, I did” the demon said in reply.
“I suppose that you’re aware of the amount of cash on this card?”
“Aye, I am.”
“Then you must really trust Mr. Drinkwater” Barnaby mused.
“Of course. He’s my… uh, boyfriend.”
“Say, Mr. Sparrow-Monterey, “Barnaby glanced about, “with such resources available, don’t you think it would have been a good idea to pay some bills so you could have some warmth in here? It’s about as cold in here as it is outside, I dare say.”
“Really? I haven’t noticed” the demon flashed a smile, laughing politely, “but now that you mention it, it is in fact a little chilly.”
“Well, sorry about the inconvenience. Have a nice day.”
They remained in the kitchen while watching Barnaby drive away. Peter was relieved. But the relief was short-lived as he remembered he’d come home without the tea. Peter sighed, and grudgingly began to remove his clothes. He was tired from all of the excitement at the bank, and just wanted to tuck in between some warm sheets and sleep. The trousers fell in a heap on the floor. Peter stood naked before the demon, breathing deep, closing his eyes, preparing for the insanity and the horror. It really was cold in here. Barnaby was right. Peter felt it now, and the cold was biting into his skin.
“What *were* you really doing in the bank, slave?” the demon said to him. The contempt in his voice was unmistakable.
“I—I was tr—trying to, I—just wanted to find out if your—your name was J—John” Peter said, feeling himself slide down into a kneeling position quite automatically, “I didn’t,—I swear, I—I’m” he stuttered on, “I just wa—wanted to know your name…” Peter’s voice failed him, “I don’t know who—who you are” he whispered.
“So you were trying to find out my name, for what? So you could bind me with some spell?!”
“No! No!” Peter wailed in reply, “I just—just, just don’t know what to reply when p—people ask about you” Peter sobbed, delirious with fear, “and—and it would be nice to, to know your na—“
“—you don’t need to know my name. All you need to know, is that I am your master, and you are my slave” the demon retorted angrily, “now put those clothes back on, I want my tea!”
I growl at him, sensing my face turning in the process. He shies away, shrinks back to a corner in the kitchen, dragging his soaked clothes with him. What was that?! I dive down to him. My slave screams in terror, and I grab his thighs, adding another set of bruises next to the ones already there. I stare dumbfounded at his crotch. The remains of the penis are finally gone, along with all other signs of his manhood. Gone is also the gaping hole in between. Gone like it was never there.
What did you do?! Where’d it go?! I snarl at him, launching a blow which sends his head banging into the wall behind him. I feel extremely deprived. He begs for mercy, not knowing of what I speak.
The only thing that made you worth anything! I hurl the words at him, seeing the effect it has on him. He shrinks even more; his face is rigid with fear. I force myself to leave him, reminding myself of what his soul is like; pure and divine, a taste of paradise. Ruining his body will ruin my access to his soul.
When I have calmed myself and return from the living room, Peter has dressed himself. The tears have dried on his cheeks, and his face is dry and open with remorse. He’s freezing, shaking and teeth clattering. His clothes are wet, sticking to his skin and probably very uncomfortable. There is something lurking in the back of my head, something I ought to remember, something which is important, but I can’t. Something about change.
“You do realize that you brought this upon yourself?” the demon said to Peter, as he sat down on a kitchen chair.
“Ye—yes, I do” Peter replied.
“I don’t think you’ve quite yet understood what it means to cross me, slave. I’m wondering what it’s going to take for you to understand, to finally give me what I require from you, which is complete obedience. I’m wondering—if I should lend you away to one my associates, so you may learn what the phrase ‘going to Hell’ really means” the demon snorted, “before I actually send you there.”
“I—I just wanted to kn—know your name…! I’m—m curio—“ Peter’s voice trailed off as he saw the demon get up from the chair and fetch a kitchen knife. A large one.
“Now about that tongue…” the demon said, eyeing the broad blade, “I have to say I’m growing increasingly weary with your continuous outbursts and feeble explanations. Kneel.” The demon turned to Peter. “Already on your knees, good” the demon smiled, “now open wide and say ‘aaa’.”