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The room was still. Too still. It refused to move. Nothing dared rustle and disturb the silence. The dust hung in the air as though frozen in place. The curtains covered the apartment in an even dull pink glow that somehow sapped what little life was left in the room. The forgotten beer bottle on the floor had stopped dripping some time ago and now laid there, forlorn, just like the rest of the apartment. Not even the human, curled into a ball in the corner, dared breathe too sharply.
That was a lie. One thing did move. He just wasn’t real.
The demon traversed the room, picking up the bottle. You really don’t clean up around here, do you? Hah! Pathetic. You know, when I first arrived, this place was perfectly clean. It’s almost like you’re trying to make it harder for me to dance. He tossed the bottle across the room, where it shattered just above Michael's head. He flinched at the sound, then again when a few tiny glass shards embedded themselves in his shoulder. He didn’t bother trying to pick them out. In truth, Michael wasn’t trying to do much of anything, but he’d tried arguing with the creature enough times to know that such efforts were futile. He took the blame without a fight.
The demon glided across the apartment, purposely stepping on his foot as he went. The human barely reacted to the sounds of his television being smashed into far too many pieces for it to be repaired. It’s not like the thing worked anyways.
A loud sound came from the door. A couple seconds’ deliberation identified it as someone knocking. That happened occasionally.
I wouldn’t answer that if I were you. I can always make it hurt more, after all. Michael had his doubts about that statement, but at the same time wasn’t keen to test his theory. He didn’t move. The demon shrugged and returned to throwing electronics at the wall.
The person on the other side of the door knocked again.
And again .
And then the person on the other side of the door spoke. “Mike? It’s me, Gillian.”
Mike glanced up at the familiar name. His too-long hair flopped into his eyes and obscured his vision. He didn’t bother to push it away. Between the strands he saw the demon, now no longer preoccupied with television destruction, sorting his knives by lethality. Mike looked back down. He didn’t like looking at it. Him. Whatever.
“Mike? Listen, I, hm. I just… wanted to make sure you were alright. I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks, and even then you didn’t look happy, and, well.” Gillian was clearly unpracticed at being the one to reach out to others. Unsurprising, given that everyone loved him. Usually, he would have no reason to be the first to attempt contact.
Some long-ignored longing for human interaction forced Mike to stand and stumble to the door. His hand brushed against the cold metal knob, sending a shiver through him.
Hm? What’s this? Going to go talk to him, are you? You know he can’t help. And, of course… The shadow grabbed one of the knives that was higher on his self-defined scale of stabbiness. I already told you not to… and you wouldn’t want to risk disobeying me again, would you?
Mike looked at the shadow. He looked back at the door. He was still holding the handle. As much as he hated to admit it, he was right. Gillian couldn’t help, wouldn’t help. He’d only add judgement. He leaned against the door and slid down its face, noting a few splinters lodging themselves in his flesh. He’d have to repaint the door soon, but paint cost money, and the demon was quite adept at spending most of what little money he had on random items. On the rare occasions there was any left, Michael consistently spent it all on alcohol in a vague attempt to ignore the hell he now lived in.
Gillian continued. “Listen, I know you’re an adult, and I shouldn’t be bothering you if you don’t want to be bothered, but you’re still my brother. You know? I still care about you, even if I… haven’t… always been that great about letting you know that.”
Michael buried his head in his hands as tears rolled unbidden down his cheeks. Why couldn’t he just be okay?
There was a long pause in which the atmosphere almost returned to the stillness from before the knock, save for the silent sobs of someone curled against a doorframe, next to the exit but trapped all the same.
“Hah. I don’t know if you’re even at your apartment right now. And you’ve made it clear you don’t want to talk to me anyways. I’m being stupid. Sorry for bothering you.” Gillian’s footsteps could be heard retreating from the door.
You actually managed to make your life worse! The demon laughed.
“Fuck you,” Michael growled.
Of course, I don’t particularly care what you do either way. Because no matter what you do, you’ll only ever fall further. It’s quite impressive, I must admit. Never before have I seen a human so wrapped up in his own suffering as you are, yet still so afraid of death. He flicked the knife that was in his hand. It stuck into the ceiling. Michael shuddered.
The demon pulled another knife out of thin air and waved it vaguely at the human’s chest, not quite threatening, not yet, but still clearly ready to kill. Michael stared at the tip, registering its existence but little else about it. Don’t worry, someday you’ll thank me. Or… you won’t. But if that happens, it’ll only be because you’re dead! And really, when didn’t you want to die? You win either way!
Michael closed his eyes and leaned his head against the door. Every word was right, but in all the wrong ways. He hated it. He hated this. He hated everything. When had he become so cynical? Or had he always been this way?
Had he always been stuck here?