My Sordid Love Affair with Lucifer

I was sitting in Hell, wondering what to do with myself. My mother, Ms. Amelia Patriot, had been a good woman. She had gone to church every Sunday, wondering what to do with her lost daughter. I stared into the man’s eyes, his perfectly chiseled body, his beautiful face. I would literally kill myself if it meant I could be with him.

I was thrilled constantly, happy to be a part of something so dangerously beautiful. He teased that I should kill myself. He said he was kidding but I knew that he wasn’t. The man never was. He’d even introduced himself to me as Lucifer. I thought he was simply joking because he liked to party so much, drinking wine, whiskey, and beer until the wee hours of the morning, but, alas, he wasn’t.

He wasn’t joking about a damn thing and I knew it. How could I be such a stupid woman? I asked myself this at least ten times a day. Nonetheless, I couldn’t leave him. I tried, but the man was like a drug I couldn’t withdraw myself from: Day in and day out, he would call me, tell me he loved me, tell me I was beautiful, tell me everything a woman wanted to hear. Then, suddenly, when we were alone, he would put his fingers around my neck and he would choke me. He would say that it was over, that he was done, and toss me out in the dark. He’d leave me there, alone without a single soul in the world to be with, and then, a few months later, when I was about to recollect myself and get my life back on track, he would call me, and I would thank my lucky stars that something I thought was impossible had actually come to fruition.

Once, I got upset and told him I could do better. Instead of snapping back at me, he just told me that I was right: I was beautiful, smart, funny, and kind, and he was nothing compared to me. Then he flashed his gleaming white teeth and went on his way. 

I wonder why I’m even writing this tale.

Lucifer won’t care. He’s too busy rallying his demons to continue encouraging hatred. He is too busy being in my mother’s head, convincing her to commit suicide. I am standing with her on the edge of a cliff and she is about to jump. I left him, but Lucifer has a way of possessing me with constant inner dialogue about how I’m not good enough, whether I choose to believe in Christianity or not.

He has a way of telling me who I am supposed to be and what I am supposed to do and how I’m supposed to do it. He says that I am not doing anything right and that I’ll never be able to. Sure, I don’t always clean my laundry on time, there are a few specks of God knows what on the dishes, and, occasionally, I even get lazy and put the trash in the recycling, but I’m trying, damn it, I’m trying, and Lucifer torments me day and night.

The whiskey bottle on my bedside table beckons for me to drink more, and more, and more, until I can barely walk. Until I feel as though my feet are tripping over themselves and the room spins as I fall to the floor. I’m a walking shell of who I used to be. A shadow of what once was, yet, somehow, the man convinces me that he is my savior and I, foolish as I am, believe him.

I am not ignorant. I’ve seen the man kill, yet somehow, I manage to find his power alluring. I’ve seen the man toss his own mother out as if she was the bane of his existence. His sister and his father were nothing but rats on the wall. He’s alone. He’ll always be alone, no matter who is with, and he selectively feels bad about that. Depending on the day, of course.