My Personal Demon

17:10

The demon's words echo in my head. I turn them around in my mind, repeating them until they lose meaning and dissolve into nonsensical noise. Whether I was innocent or guilty of my husband's death was something I could only decide.

We still slept in the same bed. He's made it a habit to hold me until I sleep, cradling me gently until I dissolve into the darkness.

He didn't mention the kiss from yesterday and I haven't pointed out his reaction. He holds my hands as if nothing had happened between us, not squeezing them more or less tightly than usual. If he felt any affection for me, he didn't show it.

But something had changed between us, or at least within me enough to see him differently.

From the moment I saw him, I've been projecting the feelings I had for Charles onto him. The resemblance was uncanny, his disguise flawless as far as my human eyes were concerned. But at some point, I couldn't pretend that this nameless entity and my dead husband were the same people.

"I'm going to give you a name," I tell him over my coffee. He was long overdue for once, begging for a sound that wasn't an awkward pause when I wanted to call him.

He takes a sip of his English Breakfast, raising an eyebrow. "What name? I already have one."

"One that you refuse to tell me because you say that I can't pronounce it. I have no choice but to give you one that I can say."

"You can just call me 'demon.' You already do that in your head, right?"

"It would be rude to continue," I said, heat rising to my cheeks. "You deserve something less demeaning."

"Like?"

I think for a moment. Suddenly, I'm hit with a bolt of inspiration. "Jesper. I should just call you that. What do you think?"

"I almost rather you stick to 'demon,' " he laughed.

"Jesper is a good name. It will grow on you. Consider it your human name while you're stuck here."

"I was perfectly content with no name at all." Still, a smile plays on his lips.

I got the name from an old childhood friend, the boy next door who used to play with me on my parent's lawn. If it weren't for him, my early years would've been a lot lonelier. It was a shame that he had to move, but I never found out where he settled down. I still remembered his name, which I thought was fitting for a widow who only had a demon for company.

Through him, I would resurrect my old friend and learn to find myself in the complicated knots of grief.

Jesper, newly named, insisted on cooking again for me despite my protests. I've told him that everything he makes loses flavor after two bites, but the challenge only spurred him to cook more.

"Sit and drink your coffee," he commanded. "You're going to taste everything I make today. I promise."

I wasn't sure how he planned to reverse the strange effect his presence had on my tastebuds, but he was persistent enough to persuade me that he could change that.

So I sat and drank the coffee, the brew with two sugars and one cream, and watched him toil over pots and pans, shaking spices and stirring sauces like a madman. He was possessed by a frenzy of activity, his hands moving faster than my eyes could see.

I look down at my hands clutching the mug. Even with his new name, every time I looked at him I only saw my husband. I knew they were different people. They had different histories and mannerisms. I was also a different person to each of them, a wife versus a fellow inmate. But that didn't change the way I still ached for Charles.