Only a devil would be unfazed by things I have done. I imagine him now: crystal brandy glass in hand, the facets gleaming golden in the low light of a candle, perfectly debonair and all too intoxicating as he gives me the smallest of smiles. I see him raise(more) his glass in salute of my latest debauchery.
We are opposite sides of the same coin, he and I- the intoxicating and the intoxicated. He is the face of beauty and beguilement where as I am the loathsome and pathetic backend of all things terribly wrong.
I sit alone at the bar and raise my glass to his imaginary reflection masking my own in the silvered surface of the polished mirror- so clean, so deceitful in its illusion of space and intimacy. The colorful bottles filled with their honey and amber liquids multiple themselves and I count the spots on the back of my hand to keep it from shaking. Two more today than yesterday. They match my sins, but only a devil would know that.(less)
It's raining tonight, old man.
I know you can feel it.
Your joints are weak and your bones creak and you can feel the dampness in your legs, in your arms, in your chest.
Your body is failing, and it's not just age. It's a gift from the people.(more) Your people.
You thought your people had forgotten you, hadn't you?
No, the people don't forget promises. And you promised them everything. You really were a shining hope to believe in, you know?
But you betrayed your people for riches, so your decrepit body could lie here today on this satin pillow, looking at the rain through velvet curtains. While twenty years ago, your people lay in the muddy streets, dying of disease and tumors the size of cantaloupes.
But that was twenty years ago. And this is today. And if you feel their souls staring up at you from every gold coin you posess, that's just your old age finally getting to you. Because that was in the past.
Only a devil of the past, you say?
No. The devil always keeps on eye on his investments.(less)
Only a devil would think that way; in images of blood and darkness, in words screamed and pleaded, in feelings of pain and sadism.
Only a devil would act that way; cutting skin and grinning while watching it bleed, relishing in terrified screams and pleas for mercy, enjoying the(more) feel of the knife sliding through organs and tissue.
Only a devil would be that way; loving pain, causing fear, killing freely.
I guess I'm a devil.(less)
"You're here late again," she says, tapping her pen on the edge of her clipboard. "Visitor's hours ended a while ago, you know."
Adachi glances up at her out of the corner of his eye; he's seen her before, but this is the first time she's deigned to speak(more) to him. She's smirking, which really pisses him off. Nevertheless, he sits up a little in his chair and forces a sheepish grin onto his face. "Sorry, I must've fallen asleep a little. Lost track of time." He stands off and brushes off his suit in a perfunctory way.
She sticks the end of her pen in her mouth and Adachi wonders if that's supposed to be an endearing gesture. "I didn't say you have to leave. Visitor's hours only apply when you're visiting patients." She's flirty, but Adachi notices the way her fingers tighten nervously around the clipboard.
"Is there anyone else here to visit?" Adachi asks, deciding to play coy. It's not like he has anything better to do.
"The cafeteria is still open," she says, flashing a smile over her shoulder as she spins on her heel and starts to walk down the hall.
They have coffee together in the deserted hospital cafeteria. She opens up to Adachi right away, rattling off dozens of inane facts about herself in some puerile attempt to make herself sound desirable. Police work has taught Adachi the fine art of cataloging facts without really listening, as well as an innate sense of when the other party expects you to chime in with a smile or a nod or other meaningless platitude.
"I should get back to work," she says after what seems like hours. She prods his arm playfully with her pen. "And you should go home and get some sleep."(less)
"Mom, can you pick me up?" She cracked into the phone, clutching it tighter to her face. "I don't know," she sobbed.
Many Months Later
(more) "-Defendant Peter Dean, not guilty." The gavel shattered her, ringing in her ears much longer than possible. Her hand fell from her mother's who stood up shouting, their attorney her holding back.
She saw his family hug him and cheer as the jury stood to leave. They were all leaving her, the world was moving on without her and she wanted to tell them to wait. Couldn't they see her? Didn't she matter? How could he get away?
Several Months Later
"Here are a few comments on the tragedy that took place on Walter Street from various social media sites."
Some of Dean's friends had this to say:
'I knew Peter, and he didn't deserve this. This is why I hate feminism, it makes entitled girls go crazy when no one believes their bull.'
'She only wanted to get money out of him, everyone knew it. Her actions only prove everyone right.'
The reporter continued, "The school's superintendent Charles Colin has released a comment on the incident saying:
'This is why we try to handle every alleged assault with extreme caution. We want families and students to know we will be instituting a one day waiting period to all assault claims, to defer false reports and save money on a hasty use of investigative resources. We want to prevent losing any more bright futures like Peter Dean's.'
"Perhaps most the upsetting comments comes from the victim's own mother, well-known community member Patsy Dean who told reporters:
'I want people to know how hard this is. I will never get over the loss of my son. Only a devil could do something something so vile.'(less)