White Devil

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White devil

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MOTHER: I believe …my son… it’s time for you to know of my coming. How I, and so you, came to be here.

This is not our natural homestead. We are living now, and have been these many days and nights, in our opposite- our brother, to our true home. These mountains, the white air that bites and wind that whips and howls; it’s the element of nothing. Our home.. My home, as you’ve only known these mountains, was of everything.
where fire roamed in passion across great valleys, where there is no sky but endless rock high above and far below, aglow with red, orange and white. Beings of many, many sized and colour, distortions and appearances, gambles and played, fought and roamed, decimated and desecrated one another as easily as it were to skin a hare.

This was of the norm, for you see, it was a place of demons. And demons, my child, are not born, they are made. Out of suffering, out of pain; disappointment, aggression, despairing grief, tragedy, dishonor, defilement, revenge; Demons are born from the roiling energy that soaks in the bones of the living, and when the living take to the ground, the bones sink- and sink- to those pits of fire, dark and painful as they are, to live through another birth.

I was human once, many, many years ago, just as your father. A slave girl, a petite thing, I didn’t know a word of what was spoken, but I learnt fast what was expected of me. The house lady would whip me iif something was off-task; the maids, those with far more respect than I, would ignore my existence, and few times, giggle behind petite hands when the lady took to her beating me.

worse by far, however, was the lord of the house. He would beat me, drag me by carriage, and defile my being almost every chance he had. He was aslimey, horrid man, and terror followed him throughout the house hold. It wasn’t just me; a few maids had come and gone, tossed into the cold by the jealous lady when their bellies began to swell.

Mine too, one day, began to bulge. I couldn’t survive on the street, but less than, they wouldn’t let me go. But what to do with such an abomination growing inside me?

It was my hope. Something untouched, something brand new, pure, innocent. I was never one to imagine motherhood, but as the signs grew, I became nervous, and cautiously optimistic, that this new, sprouting life would assign for change.

Then the lord of the house, took matters into his own hands.

I survived the fall, but my child did not. There was never such a rage, my love, than in the moment I knew it.

I would kill the man with my bare hands; I would do everything he did to me, and worse, ten-times over and over again, and I knew I would. I knew in my soul.

The days beatings got worse, and one day, they locked me in the cellar. I was starved, visited only by the lord, and my rage.

It was my last night when I heard screams; distant, though they were, I recognized them.
The lady and He,were fighting; it grew closer. The door slammed open, thick alcohol permitted the air; He was drunk, raging, and she with black eyes, was screaming.

I suppose he’d planned to kill her; a gun in his white-knuckled hand. It wasn’t her though, by my empty, bloated stomach, purple and blue, that grew holes and oozed blood.

I felt a sick peace, sliding to the ground, their noises draining away. All the hatred, all the rage; it dug into his boots, and my eyes burned, starting at him. I would see him again. I knew it.

I woke up screaming.

The lava spewed from my gut, and my joints felt heavy; spines and bones jutting from them at terrible angles. I clawed my way to the top of the cliff with a strange strength, and gazed around with new eyes. The dungeon felt so far away, but the world around me was lucid- real. I ached, and I knew. I ached, and I hated, and I waited, because I knew, I would see him soon.

And then, he came. I was elated; I knew now countless ways of torture. Of destruction and damnation, of what rage does and could do and would do. But when I saw that soul, wreathed in barbed wire and dried up, sobbing, I felt a light curiosity, like a questioning, and a hollow pity. It almost felt like nothing. The thing was not as I remembered; there was no enemy here, but a sad, shaking, little ghost. I was reminded far more strongly of a weeping child than of a ghoulish horrid man, and after all these countless eons of learning torture, to condemn that man that I could vividly recall…i wasn’t sure this was what I wanted to do.

My mark burned on his shins and bound him to me, this shaking, weak, bloodied and sputtering thing, the iron chains keeping him to my feet. A sad, pitiful thing.

“This is your chance, and your choice. You get to decide his fate.”

The orb of his being, his soul, quivered in my talons, while his form weakly cried and pleaded, curled into the dirt, talking to no one but his own desperation.

I held his soul for a very, very long time, contemplating.

I cannot describe to you, with all my known and unknown understanding, of the emotions and thoughts that spun round like a hurricane of possibilities. Through it all, emotion after emotion, I simply…watched. Unable to be turnt by the wind or pulled in the turmoil, stuck to that first, fleeting sensation of a lost, desperate child, I held his soul, and looked into it. The terrible past, the falsehood adulthood, and the slow decent into desperation by his own madness.

I decided he would be reborn; he would become a star, and feel burning like no other; eons alone in the cosmos with nothing but his own thoughts, his own heat, and his own soul. I knew of nothing else I could do.

The demons around he jeered, and I felt nothing for them. I was done, feeling listless as the soul, white and new, faded. He would be reborn, like the child I lost, like everyone else is.

Demons aren’t born, my dove, but created. I molded myself out of a pure desire to see him tormented as I was. Yet with that chance gone, I was without purpose, and I swayed between the worlds available; unsure of how to connect to my new devilish brethren when I had, in al the sense, forgiven what had made me what I was.

I took to searching for new choices in life, new ideas, and it was on that journey my son, where I met your father.

But it grows late, and my bones grow weary. The story of my creation is at an end, and this is where yours begins. We will continue tomorrow, after the days hunt and drink. Come, lets be off to bed; I am ready for a long nights rest.