A Guy and His Demon

Day.

After day.

After same day.

If you asked him what day it was, what month it was, what year it was, he wouldn't be able to answer you.

It was just yet another void for him.

A void he'd been unable to fill since childhood. 

I arose from bed at 8 am, just before the alarm went off. Dully I slammed a fist on the clock to stop it from sounding, then got up, got dressed, all that daily stuff.

I'd been like this for what, several years now? I dunno. Past a certain point you just stop caring. Stop living. Waiting for the next episode of pain to come and go, come and go. 

Obviously it's not all like that, but in my brain that's how it is. I do have a life. I do have friends. I do have a job I mostly enjoy, as much as you can enjoy herding richer people than you in the right direction.

But the daily routine makes the mind blank.

So I didn't notice I wasn't in control until I was rifling through a drawer looking for something, muttering to myself.

It's a very weird thing, not being in control of your own body yet still seeing everything. Almost like a dream. To be honest, I half thought it was all a dream until--

Anyway.

Seeing myself pull out the pistol I had hidden for so long in the back of a cluttered cupboard was disturbing. Like, come on, why am I doing this? Why is my dream self picking this up?

Then I put it in my coat pocket and went to work.

Without breakfast.

How dare I.

I didn't say anything all the way to work on the bus. Nor when I entered the underground car park. Nor when the first rich people of the day showed up and I waved them in the right direction.

Eventually though, I growled.

"Shut up."

To no one. 

There was no one there.

"Yeah there is. You."

Apparently I was now talking to myself.

"Would you like, stop thinking for a second? It's annoying."

Yes, I'm annoying. I knew that already.

"Oh for the sake of all things unholy."

I got up from the bench I usually sat in and returned to my little kiosk shed. It housed a kettle, all things for making coffee and emergency chocolate. I sat down on the trunk where a spare change of clothes was kept, my back to the window.

"Please stop thinking. It's irritating. I have a job to do and it doesn't involve you right now. You can have your life back after I'm done."

After I'm done?  Look if I'm done then that's me done. I am me and me is I. Or whatever.

"Mike."

Ayy, that's my name.

"Shut up."

It's me. I get to do whatever I want with myself. Yeah, I've told myself to shut up before but--

"I am not you. I'm a demon. I've been ordered to do a job here in this world and you were the best person to possess to get it done."

I'm possessed? Well that's a first. Something to tell the none existent grandkids--

"Mr. Faust?"

"Yeah?" 

I stood up and went to the door, coming face to too close face with someone who looked like they needed a coffee. Or sleep. Or both in either order.

"Do you have--"

"Coffee? Yeah."

"I mean--"

"Yeah."

I beckoned the guy over to the kettle and subtly handed him the pistol. He took it without acknowledgement and promptly left. I watched him from the window as he walked to the elevator.

Why did I-- this demon thing give him my pistol? I want it back. Preferably without a crime being committed with it. Blood is a pain to get off.

"It was a command."

By? I would like to know who my bosses are thank you very much.

"Hell."

Hell hell or Hell Hell?

"How the Hell is that meant to make sense?"

Like, actual Hell or another hell. Corporate hell. Boss hell. Commander hell-

"Both."

Hellpful.

"My part is done. You may have your life back."

I walked out of the shed and across the car park. Or to a clear part not far away. It's still counted as walking across it. There, I dramatically raised my arms and called out--

Or not.

More like a soundwave without sound.

Weird.

"It works better in Hell."

I bet.

You bet it does.

What??

"Hello, sentinal."

Hello young demon.

"I'm not--"

This ain't me.

No it's not.

Why is it in my voice?

'Cause I'm using your head.

Aight, who are you then?

I am the sentinel of an underworld--

An underworld?

"Mike, shut up."

No, there's more than one underworld? There is actually an underworld?

"Mike--"

A gunshot.

So loud it rings sharp in my ears. So close I felt it. Felt it in my chest.

Actually in my chest.

There's red spreading on my uniform. Bright, sticky, warm, wet.

So warm. So wet.

No breath to breathe in. No breath to--

No breath--

Pain-

No pain-

White hot-

Ice cold-

A blockage in my throat impossible to clear.

Yelling, droning, an engine.

Hands over my head. Curled on the floor.

Concrete floor.

Not dirt.

Concrete.

Not war.

A car park.

"Sorry." I hear someone faintly say. Then; "Micky?"

Someone is by my side and have their hands on my arm, trying to see if I'm okay. Gentle hands. Not the other ones. These ones are nice, soft. Kind. 

"Micky?"

Hands on the back of my head, my shoulders. Pulling me into a hug.

"You're okay. You're okay. You're not there. You're here."

I don't say anything. I can't. I can't respond. I can't move. The pain in my chest is a tight ball. 

But no blood.

No red.

No red...

"Imma get you home."