The Devil's Monologue Read Online Free PDF Page A

way to
the surface. At least I think it's a new face, but something tells
me this ugliness has always lurked under my skin. Soon, I'm barely
recognizable as a person as I stare into this hellish reflection.
Good looks and charm are hard to see through leathery skin and
empty demonic eyes. Darkness has a way of clouding any form of
decency. As if I actually had any to begin with.
My hand reaches up involuntarily in
frightful slow motion to my face. The tips of my fingernails now
digging and ripping roughly into the depths of my flesh, pulling
away its surface in one sickeningly smooth movement. The thin layer
of my clean cut skin dangles from the edges of my fingers. My once
thick, coal black hair flutters to the ground, giving way to hard
scaly skin stretched harshly over a now deformed skull. There is no
twinkle left in my eye, no coyness to my smile. The sharpness of
blinding pain tears through my being, and I choke back the urge to
cry out. Even in Hell I constantly struggle to swallow my
pride.
I gaze as my once handsome face disappears
into an otherworldly creature. Blood oozes from the deep hole
punched through the center of my forehead, spilling to the corners
of my eye sockets, forcing me to cry my own blood. It is dark and
sticky, much like my heart. I press a single boney finger into the
vast puncture wound until it disappears into the depth of the
circular hole, fingering my brain. That black tunnel forever a
memento of my long dead brother. It was the last and only gift
Harvey ever gave to me. Too bad some gifts are non-refundable.
I keep staring, hoping to wake up. Hoping
I'm just fucked up in the head, locked in a padded room, and given
the best drugs the government can buy. Three hots and a cot beats
this shit any day. Maybe I should have been the one who showed up
with a gun.
My eyes refuse to tear away from the dirty
mirror with the grim reaper face snarling back at me, his
annoyingly smug grin beaming brightly. I'm not sure whether to feel
honored or be completely afraid.
“How does it feel to see
beneath the surface, Jacky?”
It frightens my very core to know that
boogymen are real, and that I am becoming one of them.

 
     
     
10
     
I want to change. I really do. Scout's
honor even.
    “ I can do that, right? You'll let me change, won't you?” I ask
into the darkness, but I already know the answer before the
question seeps through my mind. There is no changing in Hell. At
least not for the better. You might think you somehow become the
good guy, but the Devil knows you're not.
“Why can't you people let me change?!” I
call out in frustration.
Wait. People? No, that's not right.
I forget, you are not people. You're
torturers. Destroyers of souls. You are the wardens of my own
private prison. In this prison, there is no rehabilitation. God
can't save me here. I can't change. I don't even know if I want to.
At least no one is pretending to give a crap about me in Hell. They
don't pretend around here, they truly just don't give a shit.
I never thought all the time I was alive
that this place was ever real. I went to church and all, but I
mean, who actually believes this kind of shit exists?! I had always
thought stories of fire and brimstone were just tall tales told to
kids to keep them in line and out of trouble. Maybe had I known it
was all true, I wouldn't have done half the things I did back then.
Maybe I wouldn't have hurt so many people had I known I would spend
my eternity gazing beneath the surface of my own manipulation.
Maybe I would have even eaten my damn vegetables.
I've had enough of my own peep show for now
and resort to looking at the dirty mud covered boots on my feet.
They used to be so shiny and polished. I used to keep them secured
in a nice little box in my closet, clean and untouched from the
rest of the world. Strange that I used to take such drastic care of
something that was so meaningless. I treated my shoes better than
my friends. If you could call them friends, I guess.