My Personal Demon

01:33

"The secret is white pepper," he said smugly. I rolled my eyes, continuing to eat. I hadn't been able to feed myself properly in days.

He joins me at the table, eating from his own plate before setting it down. He nods emphatically. "I've really outdone myself this time." He slurps his pasta loudly, making a show of enjoying himself.

Halfway into the dish, I found that I couldn't eat anymore. The food had become flavorless again, reverting to the same tasteless mush I'd endured in the past week.

I set down my fork and pick up a napkin, wiping my greasy lips. I take a sip of water, staring at the mass of noodles before me. Not wanting to be rude, I pick up my fork again and try to finish the dish. But after trying to stuff the tasteless noodles into my mouth again, I gave up.

"It's really delicious," I said. "But I think I'm too full."

"I see." He stares at me intently, making my skin crawl. Why did I get the feeling that he knew I was lying?

"Have some figs for dessert," he said, pointing to the bowl of fruit on the counter. "They were on sale at the market. I promise they're sweet."

I looked at the fruit suspiciously, wondering if the demon had another trick up his sleeve. I was not in the mood for another unpleasant surprise like finding out that the figs might be full of worms as soon as I bit into them.

I grab a knife from a drawer, picking three figs to slice in half. I part their purple flesh with the metal blade, relieved only to see their red seedy innards.

The first bite that I take is sweet, just like he said they were. I devour the slice, suddenly feeling hungry again.

The other half of the fig is also sweet, but not as flavorful. The second fig tastes like water despite being just as ripe as the first one, both slices turning into bland mush in my mouth. I want to toss out the third fig, but the demon looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to pop it into my mouth.

I scoop a spoonful of honey, drizzling it over the last two slices. I gingerly place one of the slices in my mouth, chewing slowly. I was afraid to taste the fruit.

There was an unusual flavor settling on my tongue. The fig was salty, containing a richness that I couldn't place. It wasn't until I ate the last piece that I finally knew what I was tasting.

Blood.

I double over, spitting the fruit into a trash can. The rest of my lunch comes out, bile rising to my throat to replace the sanguine taste. I kneel by the trash can, closing my eyes.

I've already given up on the idea of having good days after he died. No one in the world gave me the same level of joy that he did. But, to the very least, I deserved my normal days where I can simply exist in peace.

But he continued to torment me. Whether it was intentional or not, ever since I found him in my house, my life has changed for the worse. Yet I tolerated him because I felt like there was no one else who could be there for me.

"The figs weren't sweet," I told him. "Did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"They tasted like blood. Did you change the flavors?"

He gave me a perplexed look. "I'm a demon, not a magician. I must have just bought the wrong figs."

"What about the rest of the food? Everything loses flavor after I eat it for a while."

His confusion morphed into concern. "I'm not pranking you. I stopped after you told me you didn't like the slugs. Have you been having strange visions again?"

I shake my head. "It must be your presence," I reasoned.

He threw up his hands in surrender. "I'm trapped here by the stewards of Hell. There's little I can do about that."

"Why are you imprisoned here?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "I don't like to talk about it."

"Just like you don't want to tell me your name?"

He cringes at the question. "Touché. Let's just say that I did something bad. I committed a crime and being trapped here is my punishment."

I scoff at his vague answer. "You're a demon. You're supposed to do bad things. Is that the whole point of your existence?"

"There you go again making assumptions about me. You know Hell also has rules, right? You can't just do whatever you want."

It was the first time that I saw him angry. Seeing that emotion on a demon wearing Charles's face was unsettling. My dead husband rarely got mad. He was generally a peaceful man, clamping down on his own emotions so that they would never bother me. It made me feel guilty, staring at him.

"I'm sorry," I said. We were both having a bad day.