MVDemon

This place is full of demons. They sit with smug smiles and those little shotglasses of cups, always full of coffee. I watch how they drink it as I wait. Fangs pierce through the Styrofoam, but they are careful not to ruin their pressed shirts and tainted lipstick. They smooth out their ties and fiddle with papers. I know what's written on them. Our souls and the deeds to them. And we wait as they organize by name, date, and sin. 

The walls are peeling and smells like eggs. One light in the corner flickers on an average of six seconds. I know because I counted. Curtians were drawn over the dirty windows, and even with the downpour and overcast skies, I would have at least liked to have seen the world outside of here. That may be too agonizing and after that thought, I was perfectly content with the trapped feeling instead.

I wait in the back of the line, in a musty chair with a number written on a ticket. I wait patiently for their decision. I have to play my cards right when they call me. I survived Mr. Romero's honors English class, I could deal with a lousy low-class demon.

"Number 44," I hear one of them hiss. He's a balding old fart, with a few strands on hair still left on his head. Gold-rimmed glasses falls loosly on his crooked nose and he snarls at me like I was his next meal.

"Marissa, I presume?" I glup and nod. I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand for silence. His grin widens and he pulls out the papers with the details of my soul. He looks it over with an amused chuckle and covers every inch of the form for a loophole. He stamps it and says without looking up, clearing disappointed, "Looks like we have a new driver on the road today, Ms. Garica. Stand over there and I'll take your picture."

I sigh with relief and follow his orders. I try not to smile, I was told that's when they get you. I've smiled in all of my pictures, except this one, but I would rather get back to my mom's Sudan and back to freedom before Mr. Baldy changed his mind.

He smirks behind the camera. "On the count of three, say cheese."

I don't say cheese and he grimances. The flash takes over me and I start to panic.  He shows me the picture and asks if I like it. I nod.

"Me too," he snickers. He hands me a piece of paper and tells me my real driver's license will come in the mail. My soulless face stares back at me in black and white. Maybe it was too late, but, unlike anyone else, I was granted the right to leave. I took my chances with the door.

Before I leave, I feel like I had to thank him, so I do. He waves me off with sincerity and grins again, "See you soon."