Questions are knives of Bone and Glass

March, 2019

Do demons bleed?

His face looked like it was formed of glass, all covered with sharp edges. Shadows nested on it like crows in the branches of a tree. His eyes glinted and spoke in riddles. He smiled.

As he stepped into the hall, he transformed. His face wasn’t as sharp as I first thought. Out of the shadows of the half-lit room, the angles softened, rounded. I put on a mask as I shook his hand. The delicate flutter in my chest needed to stay hidden.

It was louder than one o’clock in the morning should be. The noises circled us like wolves and raced down the hallway with us. And there was his face, in the elevator. Still as soft and sweet.

In the dangerous safety of the room, the act began. The first trick was one of tipping bottles and magic tricks. Inhibitions disappeared in an intoxicating cloud of alcohol and conspiratorial smiles. And my chest grew tight, and I tried to press my mask tighter against my face to hide my frown.

Then came the main act, the ladies-and-gentlemen moment you’ve all been waiting for.

For the next trick, we took a knife to our bellies, slashed our guts, and let our secrets spill across the floor. They pooled and mixed and mingled in the little space that was left in the too-crowded, too-small room. We threw each other on trial and leaped up onto the stand. We all took turns as judge, as jury, and as executioner.

And the drink flowed as quickly as the words. It spilled and it splashed and it spattered and its scent drifted. The smell was soft and sharp at the same time, like a hand with a gentle palm and sharp nails. Maybe that’s what his hand would have felt like.

There was a cost to watch the spectacle, and that was to partake. I wasn’t sure I wanted to pay the price of entry. I did it anyway. My turn came early; I held the knife gingerly, slit softly, barely left a scratch. They didn’t ask the right questions, I didn’t give the right answers. I didn’t let more than a single ruby drop fall.

All the while he was in control, the boy with the sweet face that hid a sharpness. He was the instigator, the guide, the ring-leader, and we were all a part of his circus. If it were a silent movie, you never would have known. But the volume was turned up loud enough to make my heart pound and my arms shake. There was no denying it.

He had a face I wanted to kiss. He had eyes full of mischief. He had a voice full of danger that spoke, beyond words, of the command that he knew he had . His wasn’t a throne, it was a director’s chair, but it was a seat he was used to filling. He fit its folds and curves like it was made for him. Our stage was his altar. It scared me.

And as he took hold of the knife to bring it to his own stomach, I stood to leave. This stranger had too many secrets. He was alien enough that his blood might not come out red, if it came out at all.

After all, do demons bleed?