Demon Abroad

The Before

6 Years Prior

                The water is dripping onto the dirty cement again— something the scientists refused to fix. A broken pipe in the ceiling allowing fresh water to pool onto the floor of the facility, a dark place filled with dark people that had too much curiosity and a god complex on their shoulders.

          Still, the prisoners considered that broken pipe with dripping water to be a sign— a beacon for hope. Although the water never reached their prison containment, it dripped within their vision. It created sounds in an otherwise silent and pungent place that stunk of fear and misery; and moved those within it to believe that someday the water would be them breaking free from this hellhole.

           Somewhere deep in the facility, a male was kept chained to a wall in the shadows; hidden from those who could recognize his power or the burden he'd carried from the torture carried out on him daily.

        The days turned to nights, the seconds to hours. Hope wasn't a thing for him— he didn't care much for the broken pipe phenomenon. He was too busy strategizing, because some day— the scientists would slip up. Maybe a door would go unchecked, a wire burnt out— maybe a traitor in their midst would carry guilt for the monsters within the jail. That day was coming; and he'd revel in draining the scientists of their blood, drop after drop. Then he'd burn them all; he'd burn this entire place down until the screams turned to ash and soot.

          Unlike the rest of them, he didn't cling to the hope of a pool of water amidst the dirty ground, shining iridescent rainbows of hope in the shit filled cement.

        He based his hope off of something much darker; he based it off of vengeance.
That, and a voice he'd heard for so long, it was starting to become his own.

     A hum that would carry him out of the dark rut eating away at him in despair and anger. God, the anger was so pungent, he could practically taste their screams on his tongue; and it was delicious.

           No, this hum that he'd hear was so tranquil, so serene— it had to be feminine.
   Someone was out there, singing and humming a funky song, in the middle of carnage.
    Someone was making a way out of the foul pity in this place, taking herself to a better one crafted of memories— and she was taking him with her.

        How he longed to know who the voice belonged to. He would make sure the voice would make it out alive, and he'd spend his life thanking her for keeping him out of the benign insanity that threatened to swallow him in the shadows.
         The golden velvety voice so soft, so right in his mind, a caress for the monster that truly lurked in him.

            He needed her; he needed to find who it was giving him the glimpse of life that he'd so brazenly forgotten after the torture— after the scientists.

Like clockwork, everyday after the torture he'd endure he'd hear a soft singing in the distance of all the screams and cries of the other inmates. A low tone that would whistle throughout the entire place, a hum that almost sounded happy and at peace, making him feel the same. And then, soft lyrics to a song that usually had a funky beat— but was made to be softer coming from her lips.

He'd never saw the woman, but she helped him during those long nights without her knowing it. Her song is one he'd held on to through it all.

But even in the light she'd cast him in, the monster still dwelled.

He'd burned the facility to a crisp that year.

A scientist grew greedy, almost too lustful in his presence and decided that she'd wanted a taste of him; the minute he'd convinced her to loosen the chains holding back his power and she'd complied, she was a goner.

Lori was her name. He'd smiled as the fire crisped her skin and her moans turned to aggrieved shouts.
He'd made them all burn; hunting them down like useless ants as the other inmates took advantage of the slip up and fled from the premises.

By the time he'd followed the pathway his memory created, where he'd mapped out where the sweet voice must've drifted from— it was empty.

His soft savior was gone, a voice he believed he'd never see the face it belonged to.
And in it, something ruptured in him, cracked and bristled— harrowing and pained.

He needed to find her; to do what, he didn't know. His very soul screamed for what she gave him; the piece of tranquility while he'd dwelled in the dirt. A piece of luxury while he'd been a poor soul chained to a wall, starved of the gold she provided.

And as the facility collapsed, metal groaning and melting, swallowed by the bright golden flames he'd casted upon it; He made himself a promise.

A promise to find his angel that kept him alive in that anguish that ravaged his every sense.

He swore to himself that he'd make her his queen, and allow her to sow the benefits of what she'd helped him accomplish.

His lost melody.

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