The Devil On Our Shoulders

1

The Devil had left a matchbox for David. It was a small box filled with just five matchsticks. The matchbox vaguely resembled the kind David's mother used to buy when he was younger. He and his brother used to play with the matchsticks back then. They would strike them against the side of the box, bringing to life a small fire, and sometimes, they would just watch the flame burn down to their fingertips or just mess around by burning some nonsense. It was fun back then, but the thought only filled him with dread at the moment. Any sane person would be scared of setting themself on fire.

David let out a small controlled breath, and as he breathed back in, he was reminded of the smell of kerosene that hung thickly in the air. The Devil had also been responsible for that. The pungent smell rolled up his nose, fueling the fear that threatened to take over his body. He clenched his hands tightly around the matchbox by subconscious demand. He was just a few feet away from the door of his room. Every fibre in his body screamed for him to grab his bag and run away. He could leave everything behind and no one would ever know of the likely consequences for his action or inaction. Then The Devil spoke again, and David was reminded there was no running away from him. What was that thing his father used to say? The Devil was roaming about like a roaring lion, seeking whom to devour...

And The Devil had caught up to David, sunk his claws deep into him, and was about to feast on him.

Set yourself on fire, The Devil said. His voice wasn't cold, neither did it reek of any particular evilness. It was just like every voice David heard. Humane. Except this one somehow managed to convince him he would be doing the right thing by striking the match. Maybe he was.

Cold sweat ran down his face like condensation off a wine glass. Slowly, he slid open the matchbox and pulled out a matchstick. The tiny stick of wood seemed to weigh tons in his hand. His body was already beginning to turn on him. His eyes kept darting towards the door, beholding freedom. His feet also turned to the direction of the door that stood ajar, and every inch of him itched to flee the room.

David shut his eyes tightly and let out an aching scream through clenched teeth as he struck the matchstick against the side of the matchbox, like he'd done years ago as a kid. Only this time, it wasn't child's play. In moments, it was ablaze, a tiny inferno that lit up the dark room. He felt the reddening of his eyes and the tightening of his muscles as his body fought for him not to let go of the matchstick.

The matchstick made no sound as it hit the kerosene-soaked bed. David only briefly registered the sound of The Devil hanging up from the other end of the phone. The last thing he heard were his own screams as the flames consumed him. Another thing his father used to say came to mind at his final moments.

When you play with The Devil, you'll always get burned.

•

Pẹlumi shut his eyes briefly and opened them again. Then he looked Kacey squarely in the eyes. "I'm not drunk," he told her, but his words had barely came out loud enough for her to hear over the loud music that took up the night. Pẹlumi placed his elbows on the counter and rested his weight against the wooden structure of the bar, pulling his gaze away from the dark eyes of the bartender before him. He decided his half-filled Styrofoam cup was more worthy of scrutinisation. He, however, didn't expect the cup to be rudely snatched away from his presence and its content spilled on the floor. He looked up to Kacey with a frown on his face.

"You shouldn't be drinking too much, Pẹlumi," she said, chewing a piece of gum gently. Her heavily-lined eyes went over his poorly-clad form with her lips curling up in dissatisfaction. For someone who worked at a bar, Kacey could be a bit too judgemental. Could anyone be more hypocritical? "Do you even have any idea how much these drinks cost? Go home and focus on your project or something."