A demon’s whisper is the sweetest yet most terrifying sound one can hear at the end of their life; especially one filled with sin. The life of a writer is one filled with many adventures (most off the page) and trials and tribulations, but there are those moments of eternal bliss one experiences while in the trance of creation.
The loss of the sense of time, the screen that plays in the imagination, the psychological makeup of a character coming into form right before your mind’s eye. However, should a character become so real that you can sense their presence among you? Even when writing is the furthest thing from your mind (well, it’s never really the furthest thing if you’ve done it as long as I have, stories are all that play in my mind these days)? No? Well then, I say luck is on your side because that’s been the case for me; yes, very much the case.
I’m in my study, sitting at my desk, writing after a long weekend of alcohol, tobacco, and sexual indulgences. Nothing special, just a regular night in the bar with fellow men who work five days of the week and seek to release a little tension on weekends. It’s raining very hard outside yet the sound is soothing in a way.
The pitter-patter of raindrops along the window behind me play like a metronome inside my head reminding me of the steady tick-tock of a grandfather clock. Speaking of, the grandfather clock that sits to the left of my bookshelf that stretches along the center of the wall to the right (if you’re facing the door) is ticking in sync with the sound of the raindrops creating a harmony only god can illicit for coincidence is one of his greatest musings.
The door remains open as I live alone. Yes, the life of a writer can be very lonely once one reaches the pinnacle of success but more often than not it makes no difference to me. Everything I could ever hope for is within my grasp should I desire it. My publisher’s are willing to write me a check of any amount so long as I continue my work. And I will, at least, for as long as I’m alive to continue it.
Tonight is different from any other; I can feel it. Something is in the air, something sweet yet terrifying. I keep feeling surges of exotic ecstasy yet great waves of terror. The air in the study flows in and out of my body imperceptibly; I can hardly tell I’m breathing at all. And yet, goosebumps spread along my arms like a plague aiming to wipe out an entire population.
What was once smooth, brown skin has now become a topographical map filled with mountainous terrain. I look through the open door and at first there’s nothing; then, as if part of a mirage or hallucination, a figure starts to form from thin air. A girl, it looks like (a very attractive girl at that) and she seems to be holding something in her hands, something large, an instrument it appears to. A harp. She’s holding a harp. Suddenly, a chair from one of the other rooms starts to move toward the figure and stops just under her as she sits on it and begins to play. She starts singing.
♩Your time is coming, you know you’re going
To die. In the meantime, listen to this lullaby.
You’ve had success people only dream of
And now your soul is damned, the devil
Has his hands, in your demise as your luck
As your luck has run its course
Will you have a painful death?
The answer is, of course♩
She continues singe but starts to fade in the thin air she emerged from. The lullaby isn’t all that great but her voice makes it so. The sweetest sound I’ve hear in all my travels. Like a goddess sitting in a tree in a field of flowers on a warm spring day, her hair blowing in the pleasant breeze and reveals her dazzling features. Radiant hazel eyes that shine brighter than the sun and little freckles on her cheeks spread like constellations in the night sky.
Sumptuous pink lips that gleam in the sun as the rays wink on and off them. Lips that once kissed by them make you forget your troubles and takes you to a place not many people get to experience, surges of godly ecstasy and euphoria spread throughout your body that fills you with lust so incredible and total that it transcends itself and turns into love.
The kiss of the demon is the sweetest kiss, second only to the kiss of a goddess which is even sweeter still. The lullaby plays in my head even long after she’s gone, bringing me back to that scene of the woman in the trees in the field of flowers with the radiant hazel eyes and the star lit freckles and the sumptuous lips. I believe that is how I might die, kissed by a demon so beautiful once can’t help but embrace their death with open arms.
Why would the devil arrange such a beautiful death for a sinful writer such as myself? Probably because I’ve promoted him for my entire career. See, I’ve said my life’s been filled with sin but I haven’t explained what the sin was. The sin was that I became the devil’s advocate.
His personal advocate.
****
I was a young man, in my early twenties, and my parents have just kicked me out of their home for having a woman in their bed while they were away. I still don’t know how they found out but they did, so they kicked me out. I’d taken a train to California (rather I snuck on a train to California) and decided to start my career as a writer. I’d first applied for newspaper jobs around the various cities I’d visited and endured many rejections.
I read and wrote every single day, not taking a single day off. I’d spend nights int he library for days on end, desperately trying to improve my craft. On the fifth night I was at my wits end, I’d read three or four gargantuan books dedicated to writing but I still wasn’t satisfied. I’d taken notes on punctuation, grammar, storytelling, article and academic writing, yet still I felt something was missing. Something elegant and graceful, something beautiful.
And then, she appeared.
The girl with the radiant hazel eyes and the star lit freckles. The long, dark brown hair flowing majestically when she sauntered into the library. I’d only looked up because my neck was stiff from looking down so long when my eyes fell upon her. Cupid’s arrow struck me immediately. My eyes locked on her face and my mouth agape as if frozen in time. She had on a simple, plain green dress with a gold locket around her neck.
Her deep caramel skin accentuated her hazel eyes even more, making them look a shiny, emerald green. Those sumptuous lips were moist to the point the lanterns light caused them to shine. She was a demon disguised as a goddess. I didn’t know that then; however, if I had a chance to do it all over again I probably would’ve had her just the same.
She noticed my gaze and I froze like a deer when a hunter spots it. We gazed into each others eyes for what seemed an eternity (which was only ten seconds) and she made her way to me. My mind had been a complete blank (and for a writer, that’s not good) as my eyes undressed her body and wondered what she’d look like naked in my bed. Lust wasn’t the only thing on my mind, I’m sure, but, at the time, what else was a twenty-year-old man to think when he was in the presence of a goddess such as this?
“Hello, are you William Byzantine?” She asked.
“How did you know–”
“Your name?” She finished for me. “Don’t worry about that William,” She extended her hand, “My name’s Lily. Lily McDougal.”
“Hello Lily,” I shook her hand and it felt silky soft. “What can I do for you?”
“I need you to write a book.” She said with an expressionless face.
“A book?”
“Yes, and not just any book.” She said. “A book about the devil.”
I jumped back in shock, “why would I do that?!”
Lily leaned on the table and tapped it with her index finger and my seat pushed me to where I was before. She leaned in until her face was inches from mine. I could smell fresh fruit on her breath which made my heart start racing, Those radiant hazel eyes and star lit freckles and sumptuous lips up close was too much for me to bear. My loins were on fire and my hormones were ravenous. I wanted her. And at that moment I realized I would do anything to get her, even if for just one night. Anything.
“When shall I start on it?”
“You’ll start immediately.” She said as she planted the sweetest kiss I’ll ever have in my entire life. It was only a brief on, if that, but, the moment our lips touched my life changed forever. It was as if she’d given me the power of a devilishly great writer.
“I’ll come of the book three months from now at this exact spot.” She turned and walked away and I didn’t see her for three months.
When the allotted time passed and I’d finished the book with burning loins and ravenous hormones, I returned to the library and sat at the exact spot where she said she’d collect it. It was a few moments later she walked in and spotted me. My loins flared up and my hormones were more than ravenous. They were carnivorous. She had on the same plain, green dress with the gold locket around her neck. Those radiant hazel eyes and star lit freckles and sumptuous lips lighting up the dim and rather dark library.
I pushed the manuscript over to her side of the table as she approached and she picked it up, flipped through it, nodded at certain places, and even smirked at a page or two. My loins and hormones quieted suddenly and a wave of terror came over. Not soul-damning terror but the normal terror when an editor reads a manuscript and you’re afraid he’s going to kill all your darlings, tell you your writing’s rubbish, and never step foot in a publication again.
She closed the manuscript and placed it on the table where it burned to ashes right in front of me. Three months of nonstop writing, eight to twelve hour days, slaving in a lodge on obscenely hot summer days, just up in flames as if it were nothing but a discarded piece of garbage. I was too shocked to react for a moment. My mind would not allow me to process what had just taken place, it wouldn’t allow it. There was not way three months of hard work just burst into flames, no way.
No, I didn’t believe it.
I didn’t want to believe it.
Lily stood there with an angel’s smile on her face and even started to laugh. I’ll never forget that laugh. It was an innocent, girly, childish laugh. It actually made me forget about it for a little bit.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Lily said, “your manuscript’s not destroyed. It’s being published.”
“What?”
“That’s how my publication does it,” Lily said as if this were perfectly normal, “you are now the devil’s personal advocate. And your reward, is massive success as a writer and anything you want.”
“What? How?”
“Just give it one month,” Lily said, “and your name will be known all across the United States.” She winked, “And, as an additional award, you’ll find something you’ve been wanting in your lodging tonight.”
She walked out of the library, leaving me dumbstruck.
That night, when I got into my lodging I saw Lily siting on my bed. She had the most beautiful smile on her face where those freckles shined brighter than the stars and those hazel eyes were now a deep, emerald green. Her lips gleamed in the night as the moonlight winked off them. The gold locket around her neck reflected off the candlelight by the bed.
“Are you going to claim your prize, or not?” Lily asked.
At that moment coherent thought was no longer an option. My loins and hormones seized control of my mental faculties and I claimed my prize. I claimed it with a ravenous and animalistic joy.
About a month later, I received a check for one hundred thousand dollars. The issuer’s name was anonymous but when I went to the bank to open and account and deposit the money the check was perfectly valid. I moved out of my lodgings and purchased a house in San Francisco and from there my writing career took off.
Publishers were sending me telegrams, my mailbox was filled with letters from literary sponsors and agents, editors were coming over to my house to discuss possible contracts. It was a catastrophe. My life had turned from that of a struggling artist to a massively sough after one overnight. My mind couldn’t process the sudden propulsion into success and for a moment I feared it. I feared it would destroy me as it had so many other rich people such as Andrew Carnegie, David Rockefeller, J.P. Morgan and the like. But it didn’t destroy me. In fact, it elevated me to the person I wanted to become.
The first ten years of my success were a blur, a sequence of events happening at the same time yet separately. One moment I’m in a saloon drinking with fellow men in a night of debauchery and sexual indulgences with women and the next I’m in my study reading lore about the devil and religious texts in the Bible, Quran, Old Testament, and writing books in a style that makes the devil sound like the best thing to every happen to the world.
One moment I’m with Lily, reaching the peak of sexual satisfaction, ecstasy, and euphoria, and the next I’m in a bookstore asking the clerk to give me every book he has about the devil. Every moment of those first ten years came and went at the speed of light. My success elevating to a point where the papers were asking if I was getting too big for my own good, if I would eventually run out of ideas and fall off the face of the planet, if such success could last forever. I, of course, didn’t. I was too busy partying, drinking, having sex, and writing about the devil.
And I loved every minute of it.
The latter ten years were when things began to quiet down. I went to parties less frequently, bought this mansion on the northern part of San Francisco away from the people and the spotlight, coming down only to get my groceries and other essential needs. I stayed to myself more and became less social. I still talked to my sponsors and editors, of course, but, as for meeting new friends and such, no. I preferred to keep to myself (besides, when you’re the best writer in the world not many people want to befriend you, and those who do only want to ride your coattails and rise to fame themselves).
It was only five years ago when I started to hear that lullaby, the devil’s lullaby. Up until then I hadn’t seen nor heard from Lily. It was as if she’d never existed. Whenever I finished a manuscript and put it on the center of my desk it would burst into flames like it always had, and within a month the masses would be raving about my latest and greatest work. Every night I would think about Lily and when I did the lullaby would play right along in my head. I only thought about Lily on rainy nights for some reason.
The grandfather clock I’d bought three years before would tick with the pitter-patter of the raindrops along the window in perfect harmony. I supposed I knew that success like the kind I had came with a price, and that price would have to be paid in full when the day came. However, twenty long and healthy years of massive success and exceeding basic needs for the mind, body, and soul are more than what most people get in a lifetime. I supposed I should’ve been grateful for that and I was (and still am).
****
♩Your time is coming, you know you’re
Going to die, in the meantime listen to this
Lullaby. You’ve had success people only dream of,
And now your soul is damned, the devil has his hands,
In your demise as your luck has run its course,
Will you have a painful death? The answer is. . .
Of course.
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