Chapter Text
Day 3
Tuesday Evening
After his fight with Asmo, Satan skips dinner.
He says there's a book he wants to read. He tells the group chat that there's no need to bring him food; that he already ate.
(It's a lie, of course—he just can't bear to see anyone's face right now.)
Nobody pries further. Nobody asks questions. Nobody asks if Wrath is okay (because sometimes, it's safer not to).
Satan stares numbly at the torn-up bits of paper flesh scattered by his feet. "Catching" the "killer" would be easy—but he lacks the means or motive to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
And on top of it all, it was a library book… How inconvenient. He makes a mental note to replace the copy as he sweeps the bits together and disposes of the body in the nearest trash bin.
…
(No matter how badly the spine is damaged, a book is still a book until it can no longer be read.
...Except, he'd snapped the spine in four places.)
I'm definitely losing my mind, he thinks to himself. Definitely. His hands twitch. He grabs his pillow, and freezes—realizing just in time to catch and stop himself.
He'd been about to tear the stuffing out.
He'd been about to tear the fucking stuffing out.
…
I hate this. Satan drops the pillow back onto his bed, and flops face-down onto the mattress with a groan. I hate all of this…
Day -4
Last Tuesday
His problems began about a week ago.
…One week ago, Satan was telling you a story aloud. (He'd drafted it himself—nobody else knew.)
The premise: "In a city where crime stalks the streets in broad daylight and secrets pay for meals, tragedy strikes when a soon-to-retire detective takes on one last case for an ex-friend."
It had spies.
It had scandal.
(And, you? You were hooked.)
…He gestured enthusiastically as he narrated. You were leaning forward—head propped up on your hands, eyes sparkling. You laughed in all the right places, and cried in all the wrong ones. (You were both animated, that day.)
And then, I—
Day -2
Last Thursday
It took him two days of storytelling. Two days before he realized that the protagonist in the story felt too much like, well…himself.
Anger directed at himself; wrath directed at the world around him. A suffocating feeling of inferiority. These were traits the protagonist shared with Satan.
(These were traits that he didn't like.)
I can't tell this story anymore, he thought to himself. I have to end it—and soon. How can I end it?
…
That night, he went to bed feeling nauseous.
Day -1
Last Friday
He'll never forget how your face looked when he killed off the protagonist and let the villain win.
It's fine, he'd told himself at the time. I liked the villain character better, anyway.
"And, then what?"
"Hm? What do you mean, 'and then what'?"
"Like, what happens next? There's more to the story than that, right?"
"..."
"No…" You shake your head in disbelief—slowly at first, then more emphatically. "Is that—is that really it? Can't be. Come on."
"…Yup." Satan fakes a smile. (He's good at that.) "That's the end… Sorry."
He'll never forget how your face looked.
You rub your temples, staring at the floor. "No… No, no, no! The death was fake, right?! It had to be. There's more to the story…" You glance at him. "Right? …There is, isn't there?"
"…Not really."
He'll never forget.
"Why?"
"…" Satan opens his mouth to speak; to try and come up with an excuse. An explanation. But—
"Actually, you know what?" You get to your feet. "You know what? …Forget it."
"Huh—?" (Dizzy. He feels dizzy.)
"Sorry, Satan," you mutter. "…I need to go cool off. Talk to you later."
He won't.
(He can'̵t̶.)
You stop at the threshold, suddenly—and glance back at Satan. Your mouth moves, but you don't say anything—not at first. (It's like a TV on mute; the words just won't come out.)
Then, "I liked the protagonist, you know. I-I liked him a lot, because, well… He reminded me of you."
He'd wanted to be angry at you; wanted to shout that it was his story, and he dictated the ending.
But he didn't want to scare you.
He didn't want to hurt you.
.
.
.
(That Friday night, he dreamt of petunias for the first time.)
Day 3
Tuesday Evening
Satan lays awake, staring up at the ceiling; head propped up on the pillow he nearly destroyed as he goes over the events of the past week. He can't stop thinking about it; hell, he can't stop thinking, period! Everything's driving him fucking insane, and he doesn't know what to do about it.
I don't know, he thinks. I don't know, I don't know,Idon'tknow…
.
.
.
Ugh. Satan grips the edge of his blanket. For some reason, his arms are starting to itch. Rolling onto his side, he closes his eyes, and starts taking deep breaths.
(…Eventually, the itching goes away.)
That night, Satan dreams of a library. It's overflowing; dozens upon dozens of books are crammed onto each shelf, with hundreds more stacked on the floor. A sickly sweet scent hangs in the air.
Satan pulls a book off a stack at random.
…The second he opens it, that same sweet scent assaults him, stronger than before.
His eyes widen. All the pages in that book have had their middles sliced out—leaving a hollow space between the still-intact margins.
(And inside that hollowed-out space,
the mutilated book teems with petunias.)