Last night, a demon from hell offered to do me a favor. Any favor. Tears running down on its red, flaming cheeks - evaporating subsequently. Its scaly hide was glistening with oil. It wanted to caress me with its bony fingers. I turned away. Not in horror or disgust. I didn't want that compassion to go to waste, even if it is from a demon.

What is a demon but a symbol of everything that is unworthy? It's a placeholder or a proxy for irrational persistence, will to dominate, and to bear a false idea of contentment. Their vicious ugliness is suited for the blame we want them to carry, so we can pretend to shiver at the sight of them, so we can ignore the mirror we see there every time.

In the morning when the demon was sobbing in the corner, I was dressing for the office. A ruckus on the road. I looked out of my window. The janitor was looking at his wife with murderous intensity, her face swollen, bruised. Not entirely an unfamiliar show. My eyes drifted. The old beggar is absent today. Perhaps he died. For the last few days, he wasn't uttering many words to beg, lids of his eyes half-closed as if it took a lot of effort to keep them open. My gaze then fell onto the merchant. I saw him at the cafe last evening. Boasting how he managed to sell nigh-rotten food to some traveler. He was proud of himself. Perhaps he should be.

I try to contemplate how the day at work will be. I will sit at my desk. The coordinator upon whom I wish a horrible death will dump files on my desk. Perhaps she already did. Her existence, her only function is to do just that. I will push my pen all day. Then I will head home. I will die a little, and the next day I'll be back at the office. And then the next day. And the next. It will be so evermore. Unless... unless I could find a way to flee. But I can't bring myself to do it.

So when the demon jumped on my chest, ripping my night-gown it placed its burning hands on me, I saw a glimpse of hope. Perhaps this was my way out. But touching me, the demon's eyes went pale as white and I could see all of myself in its eyes. Then it cowered, jumping back to a corner. All night it stayed there, weeping, begging, asking if it could make it up to me and would do any favor I ask.

When the morning light broke, seeing my opportunity has fled, I sighed and then dragged myself from the bed. I had a schedule to maintain, a train to catch.

Thanks for reading.

This is an entry to the fiction writing challenge by theinkwell community. Post details can be found here - @theinkwell/the-ink-well-writing-challenge-or-season-2-week-6

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