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They spoke a little bit of Latin in church when he was younger. He couldn’t really remember any of the phrases or what they meant anymore, lost to time and the slow melting of his brain. Even still, he could recognize the language when spoken. Words he couldn’t understand as a booming voice spoke, making his head spin. He was in his car just a moment ago wasn't he? Did he get laced? Or kidnapped? Where the hell even was he?
Vomit rose in his throat as the man in front of him spoke, it sounded like English now. This had to be a dream, a bad one. The things being said were impossible. Hell and Angels and Demons were all made up. A myth his parents would tell to feel better about themselves and make him behave, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind said that this was all real. Dangerously real. No other explanation fit, he’d been spiked before but this was different. He was absolutely sober now.
What was he supposed to do? Run? If they really were demons then there's no doubt that he'd be caught, and who knows what they'd do to him for disobeying. Besides, he didn't even know where he was.
Everything sounded like it was underwater, or echoing through shitty speakers. He did his best to speak through the rising bile. His voice sounded weak in his own ears. Who knew that Hell was a school? There was humor in that at least. A tall man with dark hair and red eyes handed him something that looked like a smartphone, told him to make a call. The mundane request made his heart beat out of his chest as he typed in the contact, body moving on autopilot. Something within the oldest parts of his brain recognized the danger here. The red eyed man, Lucifer , said that his safety would be ensured, but it's such an easy thing to lie about. Like throwing a wounded elk in front of a wolf and hoping it wasn’t hungry enough to attack.
The ‘brothers’ were looking down at him, gaze cutting into his skin like glass shards and sizing him up. The biggest one, Beelzebub, looked murderous. Mitchell clung onto himself, trying to make himself smaller. Less of a target that way.
The doors swung open and crashed shut as another entered the room, immediately setting eyes on Mitchell and attempting a shakedown. This was the one who was supposed to keep an eye on him? He’d probably kill him just for getting on his nerves. His mother must've been right after all, out from under the oppressive eyes of her and his father he’d stray from the righteous path and land himself in Hell. He deserved it then, the weight of a king's dreams on his shoulders like Atlas. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he failed to live up to expectations.
He followed Mammon through the streets, eyes focused on the demon's shoes as they clicked against the concrete. He was led to a large old manor encased within a metal fence. It didn’t look as though it was built here, instead having been picked up and dropped where it now stood. The name ‘House of Lamentation ’ sounded vaguely familiar. Deja Vu.
As big as it was from the outside, the house felt impossibly bigger on the inside. Floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he walked in, looking up at the grandiose staircase on either side of the entrance hall. He was going to get lost in this place, fall behind a bookshelf and starve to death. They’d only find him once he began to rot and stink.
He read about that happening somewhere.
It wasn’t five minutes into the house tour that his ‘protector’ abandoned him, leaving him frozen in front of a lanky man he'd introduced as Leviathan before taking off. The way he seemed to form some kind of plot in his head as he looked over Mitchell gave him chills. He almost yelped as his wrist was grabbed and he was dragged up those imposing steps, down the hall and into a room. The door locked behind him. Any attempt at diffusing the situation seemed to irk Leviathan further and he resolved to keep his mouth shut unless necessary, it was probably his best bet here as he got his bearings.
Mind swimming like the solitary goldfish in the tank at the end of the room, he tried to focus on what Leviathan was saying. Something about a book series. He seemed to lose himself in the rant and his voice became hoarse, he grabbed a can off of his desk and drank before moving onto Mammon. Personally, blackmailing a demon sounded like an AWFUL idea, but he was hardly in any position to say no. It felt as though his life was on the line with every word he said. If he says no, says the wrong thing, then he dies. It would be like he never even existed, 23 years and nothing to show for it.
Leviathan unlocks the door and tells him how to find his room before shutting the door in his face.
The room was pretty and decently spacious with an adjacent bathroom. As soon as the door closes he sprints over to the bathroom, barely making it in time to heave into the cold porcelain. How the actual fuck was he supposed to survive here for a year ? They already seemed to want him dead. Acid burned at his throat until there was nothing left and he collapsed onto cold tile, back against the wall. Has his roommate noticed that he never came home? His phone is still in his pocket and he grabs it with shaking hands. Dead, of fucking course its dead. What was he even thinking? Even if he'd properly charged it that day there's no way he’d get any service. The damn thing was useless now and he threw it at the wall, screen shattering on impact.
His legs are weak as he stands and moves to the sink, turning on the faucet and letting it run. He spat the last of the bile in his mouth into the drain and began to cup the water in his hand to drink, washing the taste out and soothing his throat.
Looking closer now, the room was dark and covered in vines, like something from a fairytale his mother had read when he was a child. He slipped off his shoes and fell into the plush bed, beginning to lose consciousness as soon as he sunk into the covers. One last thought lingering on his mind, or maybe it was a prayer.
Please make this go away.