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Fucked Up College Kids File 450
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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the fallen
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The Devil closed his Book and stretched, allowing his fingertips
to lightly touch the clouds. He assumed his Man Cloak and walked the
streets of New York City, his favorite place to visit. With a practiced eye
he studied junkies and whores, weighing their usefulness. He watched
tattered children skulk in the shadows and likened them to his minions,
adorable and afraid.
There's one. He watched her sip from a chipped coffee cup,
shivering in the bright warmth of an all-night diner. She wore chain mail
and leather, and her arms were striped with razor scars. She was pale
and brilliant, and he knew he could Use Her.
"Mind if I sit with you for a moment?"
She raised her eyes and took in the gothic stranger who had
just swept in from the October chill. A capsule of cold air hung around
him like a cape, and his black eyes glittered in the fluorescent lights.
"Why not?"
He nodded and suddenly he was sitting in the booth across from
her, one swift smooth movement, graceful and feline. He removed his leather
gloves, revealing unnaturally thin hands tipped with slightly pointed smoke
colored fingernails. He ordered a cup of coffee from the wraith-like
waitress and waited to see if she would speak.
His coffee arrived, steaming and thick. She was looking at him,
her large green eyes unwavering and only mildly curious. He smiled.
"Do you hurt, Arya?"
She did not flinch, and he was pleased. How rare it was to find
such a human, accepting of things she could not understand. She calmly
lit a cigarette and allowed the smoke to escape gently, like a veil
obscuring the beauty of her face.
"Sometimes. You?"
He licked his lips in anticipation, tongue darting blackly. She would
sign his Book on this night.
"Always. But that is the way of the world, is it not?"
She sat back, still holding her cigarette, and gazed at the 13 o' clock
street clamor. She swallowed softly.
"I don't think so. There is always hope."
"Hope! How much hope did you have when you sliced your arms with
that sexy razor? Did you pray to God to save you from this horrible world as
your blood dripped softly on the bathroom tile?"
The scars on her arms appeared to glow as he spoke, taunting her with
their horror and despair. She paused for an eternity.
"No. Did you pray to God when he threw you from Heaven and your
angelic body cracked the earth with the weight of it's faithlessness?"
His eyebrows quivered into the slightest of frowns. His form shimmered,
and he had to concentrate for a moment to remain in his human form.
"What do you mean?"
She loomed forward, the silver of her chainmail shirt glittering. The
cross at her throat dangled menacingly, and he shrank from her minutely.
"Answer the question."
"Yes, I prayed to God. He betrayed me. He would not Listen. I just
wanted him to Hear me."
She sat back again and nodded thoughtfully. He waited.
"And so War was waged."
"Yes, War. His filthy Angels sought to destroy me and the Others
He threw. We had to fight back."
Suddenly he was tired, and his shoulders drooped with the
unconscious weight of remembering.
"But..."
She focused on him intently.
"But I know now that I was wrong. This is why I have no hope,
because I know He will never have me back. He will not Hear me."
A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye and he could hear
the roar of his minions in Hell. An icy rain began to pour outside the
instant his tear dropped to the table. He shivered.
She stood slowly and dropped a five on the table. Smoothly she leaned
over to him and kissed him on the cheek. Moving her lips to his ear, she
whispered the Words he'd longed for for centuries.
"Come Home to Me, Lucifer. I Forgive You."
demonika
demonika@demonic.com
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