#demonc

[proncarts]

Goretober 7 + 8: Transformation and Oh So Many Eyes

ko-fi

[hellxhq]

“What a legend that guy is. A golden god.”

stats.

Name: Everett Jackson King Faceclaim: Ryan McCartan  Age: 19 Gender: male Pronouns: he/him Occupation: Cashier at the Grocery Store Possession Status: Never

about.

You were the big fish in a tiny pond, destined for something beyond the wasteland of pastel houses and perfectly trimmed lawns. You were the man back in high school with legions of peasants at your feet; they all thought you were going to go off and make it big, but after a year in the real world, you’ve come back home with your tail between your legs. There’s no room for a washed up legend here, but you’re hoping to launch a comeback.

biography.

Your father is a business man, and your mother his company’s accountant.  They called your father a man possessed before the crack even opened, but now you know they’re right.  You were fine before, when he was only obsessed with his work, but then he was obsessed with you and the perfect life that he needed to portray in Hell.  Because that was what mattered.  Your mother never seemed to see a difference in your father before and after the crack, but you know there’s something weird going on.  Then again, this is Hell.  Everything is weird.

You’re their only child, and you’ve never been possessed, though you’ve always thought that it was odd how everyone reacted differently to their demons.  You’ve always been interested in science, the seemingly random reactions when you mix two stable substances together has always fascinated you, but baffled you at the same time.  No matter how much you memorize it just doesn’t make sense.  So you leave the science fairs to middle school and you learn how to take a hit and how to run.  You try every sport there is at school freshman year, but it wasn’t until the football coach noticed you that you started to feel like you might belong.  The last quarterback was acting weird, they said.  He didn’t want to play anymore, just wanted to paint and etch his own skin like there was something underneath it he was trying to discover.  You said you didn’t care, but you wished that he hadn’t left the team before you got a chance to know him.

You felt like you belonged here, for now, but you knew it was all going to come to an end.  Hell wasn’t the end and you knew this, just like you knew the whole world couldn’t be a weird as Hell was.

Senior year finally comes, and you’re the captain, the quarter back, and the most popular boy in school.  The year is just starting, and your father doesn’t know about the camera you keep under your bed.  It’s not science like you wish you understood, and it’s not business like your father wants you to study, and it’s not football like you know you can do.  It’s something else, and you save those pictures to a flash drive connected to the zipper of your backpack that is effectively empty of the schoolwork you’re supposed to be doing.  They give you something to look forward to after you’ve sat in the tiny desks in the high school classrooms all day.

You found [CHEER CAPTAIN] junior year, when they first joined the squad and was dared to ask you out.  You, who was known for being so full of yourself that you never cared to take anyone out on a date. You went to the ice cream shop with them, and from that point on you two were inseparable.  They climbed the ladder of the squad, you went with them and when senior year began you two were the power couple of the school.

Popularity was a poison though, and it wasn’t long before people started asking about them. About what base he had gotten to.  Surely he’d gotten past second base, right?  Surely.  You hadn’t, but you waited until prom night, of course, when you thought it was fitting.  It wasn’t as easy as you had thought, and your face flushes redder than your football jersey when you can’t get there, when you let them down and the night ends with you dropping them off at home and spending the night by yourself with only your pictures and memories.  Maybe they aren’t for you.  Maybe you never really liked them for who they were.  Maybe you’re not who you thought you were.

You meet Peter, and the world isn’t so grey anymore.  You meet him and it’s not so bad, you think maybe this is who you were meant to be.  He promises you the world, he promises you wealth and fame and something, someone to be proud of.  You run with him to New York, the greatest city in the world, where dreams come true.  He takes you to new heights, he takes you farther than you’ve ever gone before, and then he’s gone.

His words were all lies when he takes everything but the shirt on your back with him and disappears into the night.  Where do you go?  What do you do, but return from where you came, return to Hell and try to forget what has happened.

Your parents think that you’re the prodigal son come home, and your father once again has the dream family he’s always wanted, the life that he needs.  It’s been one year, and you never graduated high school.  That doesn’t fly, you can’t get a job anywhere but the local grocery store without a degree, and you’ve never been good at tests.

You’re back at the high school, and your friends have all moved on by now.  [CHEER CAPTAIN] always gets in your checkout lane at the grocery but never talks to you, you still feel something there.  You don’t really know many people here, but that doesn’t matter, they know who you are.  They know your name; they know there’s something about you that they can’t quite place.  You may be a washed up legend but you’re still a legend in their eyes, and you plan on capitalizing on that.  You know you’re not the King you used to be but hey.  You may have been down but you’re far from out.

thoughts.

[EVERETT SITS WITH ONE ARM RESTING ON THE TABLE, LEGS SPREAD CASUALLY AND SLUMPED IN HIS CHAIR, NOT INTERESTED IN WHAT IS GOING ON UNTIL THE QUESTION IS DIRECTED AT HIM] “What do I think about this place?  I dunno man, it’s pretty weird.  But I’ve been here forever, so like.  It’s a normal weird.” [HE SHRUGS, LOOKING UNINTERESTED AGAIN UNTIL HE NOTICES HE WAS SUPPOSED TO SAY SOMETHING MORE] “Man, you know!  The crack is where all the crazy comes from, all these frickin ghosts and shit.  They’re not demons, that’s like, Exorcist type shit.  You don’t mess with that, that stuff will mess. You. Up.” [EVERETT DOESN’T LOOK SCARED OF WHAT IS ACTUALLY IN THE CRACK, JUST OF THE MOVIE HE SAW LAST WEEK] “Swear I had to sleep with the lights on for a straight week, man.  Can’t imagine what’d I’d do if that was real.  Hey, are you going to the football game tomorrow?”

connections.

Filthy Rich: business partner. You need someone to help launch your budding business. First, get funding. Second, get an idea. You think Filthy Rich is your key, but a demon has more sinister plans.

Buffy the Demon Slayer: curiosity. You wonder if she can actually pull it off. It’s the first bit of good news you’ve heard since you left Hell and you want to ensure that her experiments come to fruition.

Cheer Captain: ex-lover. They were a good rung on the ladder you climbed up in high school, but real feelings began getting in the way. You still care for them despite it all.

soundtrack.

Hey Brother by Avicii

Hey, brother / Do you still believe in one another? / Hey, sister / Do you still believe in love? I wonder

[hellxhq]

"What I wouldn’t give to be in that kid’s shoes. They’ve got it all figured out.”

stats.

Name: Sloane Lowry Faceclaim: Reece King Age: 19 Gender: Non-Binary Pronouns: They/Them Occupation: Barista at Cafe Book Possession Status: Currently

about.

You ride through life on silver rims with aviator glasses perched on the bridge of your nose. Everything comes easily to you, effortless, even, but you’re so blasé about it that some people say you’re cold as ice. Nothing seems to phase you, but the future seems anything but bright. There’s a darkness looming and it might have something to do with when you touched the crack last month.

biography.

Possession is so last month, anyone who’s anyone knows it’s all about suppressing your inner demons, both psychological and literal, this month! Just ask Hell’s local cool kid, Sloane Lowry, yourself.

They’re used to the ominous voice in their head making bad yet tempting suggestions throughout the day. It’s been there since they were ten after all; at first so strong and then silent for years after two weeks locked in their own bedroom with only the priest to visit and keep them company, flicking holy water and words of the Lord at them until they had been “cured,” as the holy man put it. But what was salvation when damnation had been the only fulfilling thing they had ever experienced?

It hurt and every day was like splitting their head apart over and over again, their wrists still scarred to this day from rubbing the skin raw against handcuffs that had tethered them to the bed. How could their parents do this to them? Sloane had found a parental figure, guide and friend all in one demon. This thing had given them more sense of purpose than anyone or thing in this town, what right did their parents have to rip that away from them? They had always done the bare minimum for Sloane, more interested in their own selves, why pick now to be parents? Sloane knew the answer though, he knew the moment neighbors started whispering about him and image had always been number one priority to the adults of the Lowry residence; they couldn’t have a child who whispered arguments to himself in public and was always causing trouble… even if no one could provide solid evidence Sloane did anything wrong. A weird child with an aversion to the Lord simply wouldn’t do if Mr. Lowry wanted that big promotion at the office!

It was so strange those first few days back, like waking up in an alternate dimension. His parents were always around now, hovering in his doorway, asking if he needed anything or if he wanted to go to the store with them. Sloane’s mother had held them tightly and sweetly cooed that everything was ok now, she would do it every morning and before bed, a gilded selfish mantra that Sloane would be a normal kid again now. And at first, that was true. He didn’t talk to himself any more, but then again, he didn’t really talk to anyone unless he had to.

It only took one look at Sloane to know they had changed from being just like any other rowdy kid on the playground. They were quieter, eyes always so listless and sleepy, but when they moved, it was with such languid grace any dancer would be envious. The few people who knew about the incident insisted the kid was better now, the demon was gone and daily suburban life continued. After having a demon in their head for months, things were too quiet. Sloane grew restless, but refused to seek out any companionship. It wasn’t that they hated people, it was just that they had a hard time connecting and most attempts just left Sloane with the impression that people would only disappoint you in the end. On top of that, they didn’t have the nerve to gain anything that they could grow attached to only to lose.

With nothing and no one to entertain themselves with for miles upon miserable miles, Sloane took to riding their bike around town, loitering and losing whole days to wandering the streets by their self in a haze until night fell, searching for something even they weren’t sure they could put a name too. Years passed in an empty haze and somewhere along the line, people started watching Sloane again. They would whisper too, words like ‘cool’ and ‘handsome’ replacing past echoes of ‘poor thing’ and ‘probably possessed’, but Sloane never paid attention. He valued integrity, putting your money where your mouth was, and was sick of these people with their Barbie & Ken plastic Dream Lives, so fake and unoriginal. Suburbia was a disease that bred hive mentality and everything that made up Sloane’s corporate parents. And if he couldn’t bring himself to forgive much less like the two people who had given them life, how could he bring himself to like his neighbors and everyone around him?

Eventually, it felt like the only place safe from prying eyes and people trying to latch onto them was around that strange crack in the earth. People avoided it, whispered about demons and maybe that had been the other half of the appeal. Sloane no longer cared for the idea of possession, indifferent to it as they had grown to many things. Hanging around the demon hotspot beg a lot of questions they couldn’t help but ponder. Like what would it be like to have a demon in their head again? Could they handle the extra voice in their head now that they were older? At ten it had nearly driven them insane, had wrecked their body with scars and a broken bone or two along the way. Yet the moment Sloane slipped for the first time in nine years, they touched that cursed crack and at least one thing had become clear:

Their old demon had never left.

All these years, it had bid it’s time to return to a stronger body to tempt and get in and out of mischief. A part of Sloane had wondered so much, thought it was just their imagination when they swore they thought they felt it’s presence. But if this demon, who had left him to be hurt over and over again, thought Sloane would rejoice for it’s return, it didn’t take into account this host had developed an aversion to intimacy and an unforgiving nature - especially to those that have wronged and abandoned them. Once mutual affections were now blatantly one-sided and Sloane only tolerated the demon out of a sense of ownership. They weren’t relinquishing control so easily and hadn’t become the coolest kid in Hell by being mentally weak.

thoughts.

Sloane sits quietly at the table, silent and unmoving as they read. The only sign they were aware of company was in the way they snapped the novel shut. “Hell is exactly as I picture hell. A white picket suburb full of people who don’t know how to form their own opinion,” Sloane gives a pointed look at this before smiling as they back in their seat, taking any warmth that had surrounded them just moments ago and leaving only a chill. “Like seriously, why is everyone always asking for my opinion on this place? Form your own opinion for once maybe, yeah? A little free thinking won’t kill you… the shock of individuality might,” their eyes crinkle with mirth, hiding a pearly white smile behind their hand. “I just don’t get the hype, it’s just like any other suburb… The only difference is if the housewife two houses down has a breakdown during a tupperware party and starts throwing dishes and shit everywhere, she’s called possessed instead of neurotic. You’d think people would aim for more pious and enlightened lives, but they don’t. It’s all about appearances and shit, but what can you do about it? I’m chill as long as no one or thing inconveniences me. Now. I have a job to get back to in fifteen minutes and a book to read in the meantime, so…” Sloane waved a dismissive hand as they refocused in their book, making it clear this conversation was over. They didn’t want to think about this town any longer than necessary.

connections.

Cruel to be Kind: partners-in-crime. She’s not about to give up her chance to be a one-woman show any time soon, but you’re the closest Cruel to be Kind has to an ally in this world. Tough love is a hard relationship to swallow, but you like to keep it interesting.

The Visitor: a connection. You were the first person they met when they breezed into town and you find them odd, but not completely unusual. Hell is an interesting place, but they’re not here for the scenery.

Saint Suburb: friend. He’s an odd duck, but you like them that way. Anyone who finds the suburbs exciting is batshit crazy, but normalcy and stability are becoming more attractive every day. You might check out that kissing booth after all.

soundtrack.

A/B Machines by Sleigh Bells

Got my A machines on the table / Got my B machines in the drawer

[hellxhq]

“A perfect student if I ever saw one. They’re going places.”

stats.

Name: Elias Crowley Faceclaim: Ezra Miller  Age: 17 Gender: Non-Binary Pronouns: Believing gender to simply be a method used by the human mind to make sense of what cannot be made sense of, the fickle thing that is gender, it does not offend him to be called by any particular pronoun. However, both to himself and in conversation he uses and answers to male pronouns. It helps him to mentally separate what is his consciousness from the them that lives inside him now, as well as keeps him out of conversation he doesn’t want to have with others around the town. Though he understands that gender is not a black-and-white, categorical classification, he does not have the patience nor desire to explain it to those around him. If they want to call someone with a penis a man, so be it. He can’t be bothered. Sexuality: Pansexual // Believing love to be a chemical compound and infatuation to be as fickle as gender, he holds a very “attraction is attraction” mentality.  Occupation: Student [SENIOR] // Tutor Possession Status: Currently

about.

You aren’t a genius, but you are organized to a T; a place for everything and everything in its place, including you. You were not meant to lead or educate, but to absorb all of the knowledge possible and to follow orders. Being studios is another type of warfare that gets you a lot further than blazing guns. The demon inside is a patient creature and your work in tandem, never ceasing, for the brave new world.

biography.

You are only three when you learn your times tables. It comes as easily as suckling your mother’s breast, as breathing to fill the sorry excuse for lungs in your chest. Your mind far surpassed your age then as it does to this day, but in the middle-of-nowhere, what does it matter? You’re stuck here, in high school, waiting out the clock.

It’s almost over. You can almost escape this blistering hell.

It wasn’t always like this, you suppose. When you were young you took the intellect of those around you for granted – you assumed everyone thought just as you did. You had not yet learned how to be cynical. The world was bright and open – full of possibility – and you were a taker, you’ve always been a taker, so you took as much as your mind could handle and as soon as it was busting at the seams, you added something else. Your pleasure was in learning - you were a late bloomer like that.

Your mother didn’t like you much. She never was very bright – you could out think her by seven years old. She was simple, like everyone in Hell was simple, but you loved her and you wanted to afford her the freedom that your intellect allowed.

Each misstep in your cause was a leather belt across your thighs. A swift slap to your cheek. An acute split to your lip.

As, thus far, you had learned through experience most things in life, you assumed this was what the rudimentary must take love to be. You bore the burden of her backhand with patience. She was simple. She would soon succumb to her simplicity and you would mourn. Not greatly, but you would mourn.

From then on it was your father who looked after you. You assume the seeds of your intellect came from him, though, him, too, you surpass early on. He is always away, out of town, doing something. You don’t know what – you don’t care what. Extraneous information. The fatal difference in your beings was found in his mind. His intellect did not bring him the comfort it brought you, no, it drove him insane. Calm walking through the door and in a rage ten minutes later, this was his curse. You could go weeks without incident – be making up a story about how you tripped down the stairs a day later. Not that anyone really cared to ask what had happened to you. You were not made to lead, nor were you outfitted to teach and so you faded into the scenery just like everyone else.

Well. You suppose one person cared enough. You knew [RESIDENT RENEGADE] in a far different point in time than the point in time in which you both exist now. They were softer then, you think, and your age had lent your mind to naivety. A late bloomer on pleasures of the physical kind, the first time they slung an arm around your shoulders and tugged you into their side had resulted in half a journal’s worth of observations. Softness was not something you knew. You did not understand.

You could not stand not understanding.

[RESIDENT RENEGADE] was patient with you in a way no one else in Hell was prone to. You were eccentric – are eccentric – and social pleasantries never had been something you’d cared to study in-depth. You remember [RESIDENT RENEGADE]’s hands being calloused when they skirted across yours now and again and each time they hugged you they hugged a little tighter than before – you note this, writing down that the further intertwined individuals become with those for whom they have developed affections, the stronger the bond both physical and psychological becomes. You write a lot of observations during this time. You learn how to be human during this time. Every day [RESIDENT RENEGADE] comes home with you. You two do homework. You talk. You laugh.

You haven’t laughed in a while.

It’s a Monday afternoon, some six years into this hellish comradery, that your almost brother relationship veers into a course you didn’t expect. They kiss you and you let them and they find it endearing that your journal the experience immediately, that you insist they do it again, for science.

It wasn’t really for science, that second time.

You father finds you with your hand up [RESIDENT RENEGADE]’s shirt and for the first time you feel something like selflessness as you find comfort in the fist on your jaw which gives [RESIDENT RENEGADE] the opportunity to escape out your bedroom window.

Each and every action is a catalyst for disaster,you write that night, a fresh bruise on your chin. Through many different actions I have been able to catalogue one universal law – disaster always finds a way. There are tears smudging the ink, but you keep writing, feverishly, fervently, like you always have.

I am tired of appeasing disaster.

It’s not hard to develop a child abuse case on your father. One that not only won’t sink in court, but will sit his ass in prison for years and, what’s worse (by his standards anyways), ruin his social standings within the very pits of Hell. As an intellectual man, when you present him with this, he looks at you as if looking at death himself and in that moment the power in the household switches. You do not expect to be hit again.

You are not.

Still, you understand that disaster, albeit inevitable, can be calculated and taken advantage of, but to begin to control disaster, one must first minimize the possibility for it so that when it comes in to play it is not only expected, but likely intentional.

You cut all the strings. It is you and your mind. [RESIDENT RENEGADE] tries to level with you. You will not be persuaded.

Your curiosity has always been insatiable and it never ceases – so when a crack in the ground appears in your middle of nowhere town and continues to grow, well, of course you have to take a look.

You have journals on journals dedicated to the way the crack looks, the way proximity feels. The way your body ignited as someone – something – came to reside in your head, the devil on your shoulder. You breathe properly for the first time.

They’re unexpectedly polite for a demon, as you come to find out that they are, and they are just as curious as you. You’re a dangerous team, but a team nonetheless, making you hesitant to call it a possession. They see what you did to your father, convince you that your knowledge for the sake of knowledge is wasting you. You agree.

Why collect information that one does not intend to use?

thoughts.

[A BRIEF MOMENT OF STARING. ELIAS HAS A TICK – A QUIRK TO THE RIGHT CORNER OF HIS MOUTH. THIS QUESTION TRIGGERS THE SLIGHT TWITCH]

ELIAS:

[DRYLY] You’ll excuse me. I’m not used to being asked my opinion.

[HE TURNS, FLIPS ABSENTLY THROUGH A JOURNAL ON HIS DESK – EVASION OF EYE CONTACT]

ELIAS:

[FLATLY] Hell is, biblically, the most horrific end possible to this game we’re playing, this life. Lucifer and all his little playthings stay in their special little microwave, sent out sporadically, as tests and derisions, and we, the poor, unsuspecting pawn, must wallow in the misfortune of the King. Well, the would-be King, I suppose, if we’re keeping with the biblical analogy. The real King, Revelations tells us, will come in one day, an undisclosed date, to rid the world of Lucifer and his creatures so that we may live in eternal bliss.

[NOT MUCH ONE FOR EYE CONTACT, ELIAS TURNS AND LEANS AGAINST HIS DESK, EYES FLICKERING UP TO FOCUS ON THE CEILING]

ELIAS:

Mindless drone doesn’t really give me a blissful feeling. Does it give you one? [TWITCH OF THE LIP] I don’t understand why Hell is such a terrible place. Eternal pleasure. That’s what God warns us about, is it not? Giving in to pleasure is giving in to sin. Giving in to Satan. Eternal pleasure, unadulteratedpleasure, sounds fairly pleasant to me, all possible outcomes considered.

[UNCHARACTERISTICALLY, HE LOOKS DOWN, MEETING HIS CALLER’S EYES]

ELIAS:

It’s certainly better that this Hell, don’t you think? [TWITCH OF THE LIP]

connections.

Airhead Extraordinaire: student. He stupid, everyone knows it, but you know that you don’t need to be smart to act smart. He’s suspicious of you, you know that too, but you won’t cause him any harm. Yet.

Homecoming Queen: lab partner. She’s flighty, nervous, an emotional wreck. You try to get your work done and instill order, but it’s hopeless unless she learns some order herself. 

Resident Renegade: enemy. You used to be one in the same, almost brothers, but there came a time when you put away childish things and they were one of them. Now childish things want you back.

soundtrack.

Daydream in Blue by I Monster

Daydream / I fell asleep amid the flowers / For a couple of hours / On a beautiful day

[orifice-torture]

By Wes Benscoter