By Antonia Papadopoulos

Part 1: The Encounter

Devil:

“Let the poet come forth,

Take that devious grin off your face that marks the hour of my return;

Like lulling children to sleep with their soft skin bathing in the moonlight,

You lure young and beautiful creatures into your lair,

Releasing your relentless hunger,

For your depravity charms the innocent.”

Poet:

Bring forth my muse. A powerful, erotic body such as a woman’s can retain the key to open lonely men’s hearts. The deeply cunning smell of her poisonous flower sets the tone for my masterpiece. Her body lays below me absorbing the candle light making her look ethereal and my mind begins to fill with splendidly rich images; amber fields, the sunset setting on her luscious bosom, nipples erect, darkness inhabiting her image as the sun begins to fade. Unabashedly, she lays there naked, uncertain. Like an Tuscarora tribal dance I write freely, letting my senses guide me, my pulse beating to the rhythm of imaginary drums. With my heart pounding and hands vibrating, I start to feel a tour de force directing my quill in flawless literary immobilizing my body with only thoughts and ink to absolve me.

Her luminous curves guide my hand along, singing murderous rhymes which torment my heart with glee! Her gaze sets, eyes directly on mine; her job is to sit still so that I may attain this image that sets force to my imagination. Then, I write. Those penetrating eyes of hers suddenly make me pause in my thoughts.

“Are you alright, sir? Could I be of some assisance?” She asks seductively.

She believes I desire her in the physical form, to ravage her as most men would as they let off that last gust of steam to redeem themselves as a man. Instead, I crave her in the dream state of things. Her existing pulse, like a clock counting down to the hour of her imminent death turns past midnight and my heart races with excitement!

This is the moment, she thinks. Yet her job is just approaching its end. The image of her! Give me sympathy to cry for the sight of her perfection maddens me! My quill, sharp like a sharks fin slides against her white thighs as I sit beside her on the sofa. She smiles yet I sense her fear as if it were my own blood. I feel my hands begin to ease, absorbing this gift in front of me, my prize. I have a heart that feels nothing, not even the tightening grasp of a snake.

I stand still, drinking in her presence. As I commence towards her, my desire for her heightens and my anger begins to heighten as well, thus breaking the cage that protects my murderous rage. I yearn for death to lay by my side with a face of beauty so that the Devil may look upon me in satisfaction. Then once the deed is done, I shall rest my hunger as I slip into my cage, yet again, waiting for the next girl.

Part 2: The Aftermath

It takes precision to slit the throat with determination to kill. There’s always an intense passion in their eyes as the darkness begins to inhabit their souls forever. This passion is not out of eroticism, but out of fear. It is in this instant that I see beauty, for truth is the most beautiful substance of all.

The last woman that I killed was truly remarkable in the way her head would tilt to one side, coquettishly, awaiting a response. Her eyes delved into mine with such deep ferocity that I recall feeling slightly taken aback. A memory of a girl I knew once long ago suddenly reappeared in my mind and it was in that instant that I saw myself as a monster. As the monster I portray, I inhabit the face of one, too. I am not a handsome man due to my face being partially burned in a fire long ago, killing my wife. As kind as my wife was, she was never my muse. The night was my muse, my betrothed. Like making love to a woman, I caressed the stars and joined the moon in paternal embrace. The night of the fire was a day that forever changed me, and since then I’ve resorted to a new lifestyle fixating on the world with a cynical yet truthful eye.

My poetry transformed from once being airy with no substance to fruitful with an abundance. I wrote with a dark passion that evaded my reality and led me to freedom. Without morals, I allowed myself to be enamoured by the Devil and wrote without inhibition. Nowadays, I am fading away in my small confinement, lurking on stolen images that were never mine to take. Inspiration lost, I am forgotten. Memories of laughter stained my clothes of the past before me…and now, looking out the window, trees bare like a metaphor to my own wilting body, I cry. I’ve become a person I dread to see each morning; my face a mask to my own mirror.

Tis not that I do not enjoy what I do, but I yearn for more; I yearn for a woman to test my strength and my intelligence with such ferocity that I obey to each and every one of her needs. I will not live forever, and frankly I do not wish to. There is much more to life than the ground beneath our feet. Therefore, I do not fear the afterlife, but I do fear death with my heart not fully inhabited by another.

It is not out of pride that I continue what it is that I do; I do it out of fear. I fear my own self and that I am irreparable. I am who I am and that is something I cannot change. I will continue to meet these young women and out of my own failure, I will kill them. These women are my muses to what angels are to God. I’m hopeless  and quite aware of my doomed state.

It seems we are the ungrateful host of a nation where we feed off our desires. Myself being not exempt for I feed off my own desires by murderering helpless women. Have I lost my sense of compassion? Thinking not far back, it was indeed those deep, brown eyes of the last girl I murdered who gave way to the beginning of this madness. Yes, it was she! I remembered something; I remembered what it was to feel again. It was her that sprouted this seed in my gut where I am now Adam and the Devil is my Eve; my conscious now visible to my own eyes. Who is this Devil that I keep mentioning? I have never seen Him, nor has he ever spoke to me. Am I He? This cannot be happening, for if this is true then I have indeed gone mad. If I am the Devil then Hell does not exist. My own hell is where I am standing right now and I have no choice but to ammend my errors and leave this earth with my head still high.

So, the time is now. My body is going into convulsions and my arms are shaking. Why did I not see it before? I am going insane. I feel  like the power inside me is lusting for that final spark where it can be set free and I shall be wide open as a flower, ready to absorb whatever consequences that are due upon me.  I thank you, dear heart, for taking the fall so elegantly that it is with a smile that I descend down into hell. Devil! If you truly do exist then take me where I belong. These women who I will inevitably destroy will die by my hands and I shall imprison my own heart in order to restore peace to the rest of society. If I am to die, let it be magnificent. Let it be gruesome. Let God find beauty in such horror. Let the lions embrace my bones as I give my final farewell, and then adio.
Goodbye.