Demon Stories

Saya: Angel of Death, 1791, France

Saya

Angel of Death

1791, France

The lady's hands are small in my hands. Drooping, flesh already white, drained. Her hands are so elegant and well taken care of. She must have loved her hands. The nails, just a few hours before, so rosy. Now they are dead white. 

I drag her to the cell down below. The slope of the hallway is perfect for dragging bodies easily. And how many bodies there have been. Countless, and countless bodies. No one notices the absence of people these days, especially not from the small country towns. Whole towns go missing. No one notices. This is why my Victor hates humans. He hates their selfish averted eyes. 

I'm all the way down here in the stone lined underbelly of the prison, but I still hear his slurping sounds. His hungry tongue resonates in my ears. Its sounds like a thirsty animal slurping up water, fast, so fast. 

I heave her by her wrist and ankle onto the others. Staying for a moment, I stare at them all. There is not one drop of blood on them. They look ghostly white, piled one on top of the other. It is hard to neglect to notice they are all dressed in their finest. Tumbling fine cottons, cheap smooth silks. You can't tell which limb belongs to which body. Men, women, children. And the most striking thing: none have heads. Their necks are cleanly cut. 

A sudden sound causes me to jump. A sound which cleaves the very air itself, a heavy whoosh which sounds like a blade coming out of its sheathe but too, too big. And it is a blade. The bloody guillotine blade. Immediately there is the sound of splattering blood, gushing and rushing all over the wooden floor of upstairs, the tap tap tapping sound of it, the liquid sound of it. And then I hear a sound which causes my heart to squeeze upon itself and makes me stop and lean against the wall, staring up at the ceiling wantingly towards him. His beautiful satisfied moan as he drinks so needfully. I can't move. I can't breathe. I can only hear his beautiful passionate voice.

Walking up the hallway quickly, the sounds get louder until my whole world is filled with them. The door swings open, and I know he has welcomed me back inside. This is the warden's office, but it has been gutted of course. The only object in the room is the lordly guillotine. 

The sight of him catches me by surprise even though I was expecting it, causing me to let out a short little gasp.

He is kneeled on the floor, his face buried in the neck of his prey, the red and maroon blood mingling as it gushes out onto his face and body from the headless neck. The gushing will stop soon, but I know this is his favorite part. His head moves elegantly and purposefully, like how one's would when French kissing. His position causes him to look as if he is praying to god. But it is his own god. His god blood.

The floor is drenched in blood. It looks like a blood explosion. My eyes wander over to the corner. There are the rest of the villagers. They are so scared they can't move. They don't even need chains to keep them subdued. So fearful they are, it is as if they have been petrified into wooden statues. It is easy to tell by their faces that they think they have entered into a situation which their bible warned them of. Perhaps they feel personal guilt, all of them, for some wrongful deed. Perhaps they are desperately wishing back their self thought awful sins. But I want to tell them clearly and carefully: there is nothing you have done. There is nothing you could have done to prevent this. You are human, and that is why you are here. You have had the unfortunate fate of crossing paths with my Victor. My Victor, who is obsessed with your blood and wants to make you go away. That is all. It is done. No use thinking of the past now.

The gushing stops and Victor sighs lightly in a pleasant voice. He rolls backwards onto his back and slowly smiles brightly, as if he were in a rolling green meadow and not on a floor covered in wet, warm blood. He spreads out his arms in it, stretching. His lovely long thick hair is soaked, the color no different than dry. His skin is flushed with healthy color, yet still ivory white in primary tone. 

"Saya, lay with me," he says in a sun-filled way, in his Mongolian mother-tongue, patting the floor space next to him lightly, with tiny splishing sounds. 

Of this I obey, out of necessity and desperate want. Stretched out with him, I close my eyes, breathing shallowly, wanting to hear his deep, joyful open-mouthed panting. I roll over and lean on my elbow, staring at his gorgeous face and upper body. His delicate eyes are closed, and he looks like a doll. There is not a single feature out of place. Not one thing which needs correcting. He is perfect. Beautiful in every way. 

I roll back, and then silently and secretly, my thoughts begin to wander and I slowly dream we are somewhere else. Somewhere warm and truly beautiful. I dream of better places. Of better things. 

Secretly, I want us to not be as we are now. I have heard of others like us. They are not monstrous. They do not prey on innocent towns like we do. Silently, I desperately wish we were like them. Living lives that are not good but at least not so evil. I have heard there are those like us who are viewed as fairies or even angels. Bringers of hope, taking out evil and hate. We are all the same type of being, but it is how we choose to use it is what sets us apart. The humans don't know it, but we are. I want to be part of the good ones. I want to be an angel. An angel of death, yes, but still an angel. 

And I feel immediately guilty for these thoughts. I am not different from the villagers in these self-loathing backstepping thoughts. It is blasphemous to go against my beloved. I want him to be happy. His happiness is my happiness. If we are both happy, why think to change it? No, if this is what he wants, so shall it be to forever. I'll take these thoughts and forget about them, just as I drag the corpses into the prison basement. To be locked away behind an iron cage door forever, and forgotten of. My iron cage, my heart.