[ continued with @lostambition ]
Just another day on the job?
There’s a rift between them. Not because of lack of empathy ( though it’s an easy guess ) and certainly not because of ignorance. No, there’s a rift in experience and knowledge.
He knows, through tales, through work and outsider collections. That what she feels right now, the gripping at her chest, the desire to rip out pieces of her head to show the world their labels are wrong. To smack her eyeballs onto another’s just so maybe, maybe they will see that they’re in the same hell. That she doesn’t understand why she’s surrounded by burning bodies and rotting flesh and everyone around her seems nonchalant.
They say the Devil walks among them, disguised and feeding on the light. Only those with purity see him, while everyone with a little darkness swallowed walks by him. So while she’s screaming everyone has boxed their ears.
He knows of this pain, he’s seen it, heard it, toyed with it, snatched it but he doesn’t quite feel it. He doesn’t think he ever will. He isn’t granted that luxury either. To touch her and want to writhe in her agony, share the agony, curl into the ground and shake the earth with his screams. He doesn’t even know what pain sounds like coming from his mouth. The fantasy is one of masochistic nature, everyone like him has a little bit in them. Especially those grounded as he is.
So he knows. He knows exactly what she’s experiencing, he grabs hold of her and sees the nightmares that plague her. He’s the one open ear when everyone else is deaf. It’s another day on the job, the snarling at the demons stretching towards her mind, demons disguised as what this time? Her mother? You would think he would know a little of pain and desperation when he’s seen it in so many eyes before.
His grip tightens as cars whiz by ready to take his assignment from him. For a moment there’s an appealing thought, but he would never. Passing thoughts, passing demons. The touch of the Devil. He can only shake his head, his words becoming as her cries are to others. Worthless, meaningless. But he won’t let her go, because her life depends on it.
“Listen to me Minha....” he’s as calm as possible, and his presence alone can cause the crowd forming to disperse around them. They blend into the mass as quickly as they stand out. “If I let you go, your mother will cry.” And it will rain. and he will fail. He turns to face the intersection, immediately seeing the monster plaguing her mind.
“I know you miss your mom.” he imitates the symphony she thought she heard in his own voice. “But that, that is not your mom.” Almost on instant, the demon is revealed for who it is, the disfigured, bleeding figure of her mother dissipates into a grotesque skeleton, cackling and laughing at them both.
Just another day huh?