by A. L. Mengel
“And I thought to myself, what a loud mouse!
“Darius could see the look on my face, or perhaps he was reading my mind, because at the precise moment that I thought about the loudness of the rodent, he looked back at me and smiled a knowing smile. He then spoke to me: ‘You will get used to your new senses, in time. You will start realizing that when you see things, and hear things, from where we are now, they are so much clearer to you. Everything.’ And then turned around and continued down the stairs.
“We approached what appeared to be a parlor suite which had sloping sofas with dark wood trim, in front of large, bay windows that extended out further from the room over which hung heavy cranberry colored drapes which were shut tightly. The room seemed dusty, and had a very damp and musty feel to it. Whoever this mysterious man was, he was one of the elite. I was used to living in modest surroundings with my mother and sisters without much privacy. This, on the other hand, was quite elegant.
“Darius led me to an additional sofa in the center of the room, and ushered me to sit down in the center of it. I was still slightly disoriented, and stared quietly ahead; my eyes remained glassy and I did not speak. We sat for a while in silence. It was so quiet that I could hear the repetitive tick-tock of a clock somewhere in the room. Darius turned around to face me, his face contorted in a smirk, and he brushed his dark brown hair to the side. He sat in a chair across from the sofa, glanced around the room, and prepared himself to speak.
“’You are now of another realm,’ he said. ‘You have been chosen for immortality, but the price for that gift comes duty, homage, and penance. This is not the gift of a vampire. We are not vampires. Vampires live like animals and drink the blood of the living. If we do drink blood – and you may if you wish – we do it only for sport.’
“He was quiet after he said that. Darius examined his nails. I did not speak. I could not speak.
“There was a low rumble of thunder in the distance.
“’You will have to kill to survive, and I do not mean for food. You must kill to prove your loyalty to Tartarus’ he continued, ‘and you will always be denounced by God and banned to Hell upon your destruction for all of eternity.’
“I hear the thunder crack, closer, and I could hear the rain begin to fall, although none seemed to be hitting the windowpane.
“I looked up at Darius.
“I felt the knot rise in my stomach, cursing myself for my being so vain. If I hadn’t been so easily swayed into sexual adventures and so easily drawn in by his masculine beauty, I most likely would not have gotten involved with him. My life was going to change drastically, I could tell. I did not ask for what was done to me, but I did not totally despise him for that either. When he sat and spoke to me about what I was, at first he seemed like he was very smug, like thinking ‘that is what you get for being intimate with someone like me, serves you right’ but then changed his tone as I became more interested in what I had become and where my new life would take me. As the hours passed and as he sat and spoke to me, like a father to a child or a teacher to a student, I became more accepting of my condition.
“My weakness and insatiable libido gave me this as a punishment, but I saw a ray of hope and a possibility that I could turn the situation around.
“’We are the Baal,’ Darius explained. ‘I created you, so I am on a higher level. I have deeper powers. We are immortal demons placed on this earth as outcasts from salvation.’
“Once Darius finished lecturing me on my do’s and don’ts, he rose from his chair. He reached out his hand to help me up from the sofa, and said, ‘Now it is time. I have told you what to do. Now you must go.’
“I couldn’t understand what I was hearing ‘Go?’ I asked.
“’Yes, you must go…you need to leave this house, and create one of your own.’
“I was not ready to go out alone in this new state! I was like a child! ‘Wait,’ I said, insistently. But he ignored me, and made his was to the door. ‘You must go, and you must go now!’ he said, more firmly, his eyes turning yellow.
“The one who created me, who gave me this life, was now throwing me out and away like some discard, to fend for myself after only a brief tutorial session. The look in his eyes told me that I best not protest any more. His look was very stern and angry. I slowly began to make my way to the door, not breaking my stare into his eyes, giving him my most frightened, sad look, with the hopes that he would have some care in his soul and let me stay.
“But he did not.
“I got closer and closer to the door, and drew out the walk and much as I could. The night was cold and nasty, but there was no rain like I heard before. I gave one more glance in his direction, and stepped onto the porch before me. I turned around, saw him against the warm glow of the light coming from the front door, my eyes pleading one last time to stay, but he spoke before I could.
“’This is how it is meant to be,’ he said and quickly shut the door.”
*~*~*
Antoine stopped for a moment, let out a long sigh, and draped his arm over the side of the sofa. Gazing out the window, he saw flashes of lightning through the trees against a rainy, dreary night that was the rule. The sun no longer shined.
“I am a demon, Sheldon, through and through. I am straight from hell, and I am going to hell when I am destroyed. I am more than an immortal. I don’t even exist in the same dimension that you do. I drink blood but I don’t have to. I do it because I am forced to by the Greater Powers. The most powerful demon is seeking me. And it’s just a matter of time before he finds me.”
“The most powerful demon?” Sheldon asked.
“Asmodai…” Antoine said, and shuddered.
“What does he want with you?”
“To collect payment.”
So it has written, so it shall be. No turning back. Never, not ever.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A sleek, voluptuous black Mercedes barrelled down the highway towards Anastasia Avenue. Hernan Perez was on his way home.
He had decided that he wanted to get home before the sun set, which was quite a rare thing for him. Today was not like any other day. He wanted to get home early and relax before heading back to the airport to fly back down to Caracas. He didn’t know why he felt so tired, but being as busy as it was at the Venezuelan Bank and given the stress, he decided that some time home between trips is just what he needed.
And a stiff drink.
When he pulled through the gates and into the driveway at First Street, the garage door lifted and he saw that his son’s BMW was not there. He let out an exasperated sigh, knowing the fact that he had a son that he could hardly control. He knew what Roberto was doing when he was out so late at night. Roberto even had the audacity sometimes to bring some of his tricks home, and that irked him to no end. When Roberto would have some respect for the house and the roof that he provided, maybe then would Hernan start to ease up on the beatings.
Many times, it saddened him to see his only son fall into a world of sex and drugs. He wanted to help him, but when the heat of the moment came, Hernan could not control his anger would become too confrontational. Roberto had a similar temper, and more often than not, Hernan would hit Roberto - calling him a faggot and a sissy who would not strike back.
Hernan parked the car and entered the house through the back kitchen door, rolling his eyes at a pop tarts wrapper and dirty glass that Roberto left on the counter for him as a welcome home present. He set his briefcase and jacket on the table, and proceeded to the sitting room to make himself a scotch and soda. He plopped down on the recliner, and flipped on the news.
Three scotch and sodas later, daylight now gone, Hernan awoke with a snort. He set his glass down on the table next to the recliner, then picked it back up, finished the remaining leftovers of melted ice and scotch remnants, and set it back on the table. He started wondering where Roberto could be. He let out an exasperated sigh. Up to that point, he had always respected Roberto’s room. But for some reason, th
is day, he decided to go through it once and for all.
Maybe what he would find would give him some sort of clue as to why Roberto was always so disrespectful. Maybe it would give a clue as to why Roberto sank into his world of drugs and sex.
Hernan padded down the hallway, a fresh fourth scotch and soda in his hand, and proceeded to Roberto’s door, which he found closed and locked. He heard something coming from the room- what sounded like some creaking noises, but he couldn’t make out what it was. He leaned in towards the door, and held his breath. It sounded like the creaking stopped. As he stood next to the door in silence, the only thing that could be heard were the ice cubes knocking in the glass as he took a sip of his drink.
He then retreated from the hallway and went to the kitchen to retrieve the spare key. He hated how Roberto would always lock his door. When he returned to Roberto’s door, he quietly unlocked the lock. The creaking had started again, and then it sounded like some sort of a deep, low moan was emanating from the room.
What is that? He thought. The door slowly opened, without a sound.
The covers to Roberto’s bed billowed out, with movement underneath, like a giant air balloon. Something was happening under the covers – something was in the bed – something big. There was a rhythmic and methodical fashion to the movement – up and down – back and forth – side to side.
But again he heard a deep moan, like it was coming from a distance.
Father? Father, are you there?
He crept quietly into the room, and reached around the edge of the door frame to turn out the hallway light and stood for a moment in temporary darkness.
A pause in the thunder and rain lent to a blue glow of moonlight that flooded through the drapes and shears as Hernan’s eyes gradually adjusted to the pale blue moonlit room.
There it was in the middle of the room, between the windows ; the bed, the same bed with a giant reaching pedestals, standing against the wall in dark contrast over the movement under the covers.
Dad? Dad are you out there? I am under here. Do you remember me, Dad? I am the same one who has always been here. You shot me into this world, and then you were there when I entered it physically. And then you weren’t there. You weren’t there when I needed you the most. The only one who was there for me was Eva.
Hernan could not move.
He knew, from the past – that Roberto periodically brought home someone, he knew what it looked like – and how the covers were moving so rhythmically it definitely looked questionable to him. But whatever was under the covers was so big. At least eight or nine feet tall, yet completely covered by the blankets.
I am under here but I know you won’t save me. I know that you wouldn’t save me if I were the last sick fuck on earth. Maybe I did things that earned me the sick fuck status – in fact, I think I have a ribbon somewhere in here that says “Sick Fuck #1” – but I guess now isn’t the time to go looking for it, is it? Because you want to know what’s going on beneath the covers…don’t you?
All Hernan could do was listen to an occasional faint cry. And then Hernan saw the source of the strange noises.
Something was transforming. What was under the covers grew high and wide, like wings were opening and spreading. The cover ripped to shreds which fell to the floor, bit by bit, as the giant, spiny wings spread and spanned the entire room, opening and fleshing out, reaching towards the far walls.
Hernan took another sip of his drink. He nearly choked on the scotch when he saw what seemed to be a huge lizard, a giant head rising to the ceiling, taught with green muscles and scales tearing through its brown skin, a slithery tongue darted in an out of its pursed lips.
The monster muscular arms engorged as the demon revealed itself; the remaining small pieces of torn blanket dropped to the floor like leaves. Growing to maximum, the monster almost reached the ceiling, and turned and looked directly at Hernan with icy yellow eyes, a grin on its face, its tongue reaching out like a slithering snake.
Hernan dropped his drink to the floor. The glass shattered in pieces, and the remains of the scotch and soda spilled all over the wall and the floorboards, mixed with ice. He dared not move.
A giant winged monster was on Roberto’s bed thrashing and crashing against the wall, showering plaster on the floor.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Paula sat against the wall in the dark room. The wall felt cool…and real. It was the only thing that seemed real in this strange world. Illuminated only by the intermittent strikes of lightning, the flashes through the windows let her see the contents of the room - the bed, the stereo, now all covered in dust and unkempt and seemingly untouched for years. She placed her head in between her knees, closed her eyes and wished she wasn’t there. And she wished that whatever was out in the hallway waiting for her, leaving her trapped in the house, was not there either.
But she knew something was out there…waiting for her.
Paula wasn’t necessarily scared, but rather confused. Of course, when she first heard the noise in the foyer, the crash of the vase on the floor - dead flowers everywhere - she instinctively jumped. It was the normal human thing to do when surprised of a sound of that magnitude against a silent palette. And of course, when she saw the figure in the mirror – her first instinct had been to run.
But her feelings have changed somewhat now since some time had passed.
Paula was frustrated, because she was mad at herself for being trapped in this house with god-knows-what. And two, she was confused, she didn’t understand who or what was outside the door, apparently standing guard, forcing her to stay inside this room.
The rainstorm appeared to be moving away, and it gradually got quieter. Paula continued to rest her head on her knees, as her state of consciousness drifted to the just-before-sleep stage - where one would be aware of sounds and happenings around them, but in a state of drifting off. And then her mind began to fill with thoughts of Antoine, and how they met.
*~*~*
She remembered the first time she looked up and saw Antoine’s face. He was so tall, so beautiful, and like that of an angel. Paula was lying on the floor of the Cathedral of the Gardens, tears streaming down her face. She was huddled in the center of the pews, lying on the floor hugging her knees up towards her chest.
Her clothes were tattered and torn, she had a bleeding scrape on her face just below her left eye on her cheekbone, and there were bruises and black oil marks on her legs.
The physical pain she did not feel, but only the shredding of her emotional fabric, brought the tears – that flowed, cutting lines through the dirt on her face, creating small roadmap of despair on a face filled with regret and torment.
It was the lowest point of her life.
Through the night, she was inside the church, lying on the floor, crying, wondering why her child was killed, why it had to be her that would suffer with so much pain, so much earthly torture. But that was when she was feeling selfish. Her pain came in waves and pieced together like a tapestry…each type of pain she was feeling.
Whether it be for her child or for herself, each moment formed a piece of the tapestry, the dark tapestry of pain, that she was weaving so well that night.
It was earlier that night that Paula wanted to take her life, but she wound up taking her child’s life instead. The baby, not yet two years old, was strapped in a car seat in the back of her small blue sedan. What Paula did not notice when she was strapping the child in was that she did not latch the belt over the car carrier, and she did not notice that because she had been drinking heavily. At the time she was doing this, Paula thought that nothing was out of the ordinary. In her mind, she was strapping the baby inside the seat, and she believed that she was on her way to her parents house to spend the night there, after ending things with Dominick.
Dominick, the baby’s father but not Paula’s husband, lived with her for a short time after the baby was born. He was a short, muscular Italian man with olive skin, a deep black goatee on his face, and a gol
d cross pendant hanging around his neck nestled in a chest full of dark hair; he always wore a tight white tank top shirt, which he wore almost always around the house with a pair of faded jeans.
Dominick was a mellow man; he was not violent towards Paula or the baby. He just simply did not pay them much attention. He was not employed most of the short time that he lived with Paula.
They stayed at her small, flat apartment in a building that looked like it had been converted from an old roadside motel near Calle Ocho. It was very small, very cramped and crowded. There was one bedroom in the back of the living room, with a double bed in the centre of the wall that she and Dominick shared - the same bed where the baby was conceived.
It was earlier that night, in that very bedroom that Dominick told her. They lay in the bed together, entangled in the sheets. Paula reached for a cigarette, and she could tell by the look in Dominick’s eyes that he was about to drop a bomb.
“I don’t love you, Paula, you know that,” he said. “I can’t stay with someone that I don’t love.”
Oh, the irony of it all. Of the whole situation. Just minutes after the torrid lovemaking had brought them both to bliss, Dominick so nonchalantly decides that he doesn’t feel like their relationship is working for him.
Paula just stared blankly at the ceiling. “I know.”
She knew this was coming.
Even though the two of them certainly were sexually compatible, she did not feel the love and compassion that she so much wanted and needed. As long as she had been with Dominick, and even more so after she carried and bore his child, she hoped, and clung to the thought that perhaps he would come around, perhaps he would become affectionate and love her the way that she desired to be loved.
