seth
I'm ready to do this. I'm ready to welcome who is going to be one of our most dangerous inhabitants to hell.
I sigh heavily before taking that last sip of bourbon, then head straight to where I'm supposed to be.
I walk steadily, the impact of my shoes on the tile floor echoing powerfully through the hallway. I stare at the double doors, daring and ready. My hands clench and my chin raises, and I clear my throat of any doubt. Then, I hesitate.
Why? I don't know. I'm not nervous. I'm not unprepared. I just...don't want to see his face. I don't want to look at that human and know that he's the one who committed those crimes.
I close my eyes and clench my jaw, making my hands into fists, then releasing, then balling them up again.
I wish Flora were here. She would say something dumb and inspirational, then kiss me for reassurance. But I don't just want a kiss, I want...a hug. Not just any hug. One from her. I want her to hug me and stroke my hair and tell me it'll be alright.
A scoff escapes my lips. When did I turn into such a fucking baby?
I open the door.
I thought it wouldn't be as bad since I had already seen his photo. But no. It's worse. Why would I think it would be better?
Little seven year old Royce Bonavich.
Sitting with his hands in his lap, his brows slightly furrowed like my own. Then he looks at me blankly while I walk to the front of the room.
I lean on the dresser and cross my arms over my chest.
We don't break eye contact. The only sound in the room is the clicking of the clock on the wall.
"Hi," he waves at me.
"Hello," I respond.
He walks over to stand next to me and rests his eyes on the paintings hanging on the wall behind me.
I keep my arms crossed and look down at him.
He looks like a normal little boy. His white shirt is sporting the Los Angeles Dodgers in blue lettering. He's wearing khaki cargo shorts and gym shoes. A small bandage on one knee. His light brown hair is controlled as much as is expected of an elementary schooler.
I stand parallel to him and look at this macabre panting. A man lying on a table is restrained by chains, and two demons laugh in pleasure at the visibility of his bone after breaking his leg.
"Am I in hell?" The space feels empty after this blunt question.
"Yeah."
"Mama always told me I was coming here." I don't answer--what is there to say? The little kid's attention doesn't leave the elaborate art on the wall. "Are they going to do that to me?" His question takes a second to dissolve in the air.
"Maybe." Royce looks up at me, so I look down at him.
"Are you going to do that to me?"
"No," I shake my head, looking at the panting again. "I'm just here to...take you where you need to go. I won't hurt you."
His large brown eyes place trust upon me. "Promise?"
I nod. "I promise."
"What's your name?" he turns toward me.
"Seth."
"I'm Royce." I nod again.
"I know," I say quietly.
"Can we leave now?" A small frown pulls my eyebrows together.
"When we leave, you have to--"
"I know."
Silence.
"Yeah, we can leave now."
"Okay."
He hesitates for a moment, then joins me as I pass the panting on the other side of the dresser. The one of two angels lifting a man into the clouds.
***
"Are you even listening to me?" I fade back into my surroundings.
I sit up and focus on her face. "No, sorry."
Flora sighs. "I said that the decapitation of that poor man is tomorrow and that I'm not going."
"You're not going?" I frown.
"No," she shakes her head.
I sigh and drag a hand over my face. "Okay. Guess I'll sit in the balcony alone. Without you. All by my--"
"You're so dramatic," she rolls her eyes. A smile pulls my lips down. I lean back on the bed while watching her sit on the floor and braid her hair in the mirror. "It was enough donating my 'support' as charity at the gala. I am not watching someone lose their head as entertainment."
"Okay," I say gently. I walk over there and sit behind her with my legs on either side. I rest my chin on her shoulder and watch her focused expression in the mirror. Her brown eyes bring me back to Royce. The way he looked at me when I promised not to hurt him. I wrap my arms around Flora's waist and try to let my sigh out inaudibly.
I take in the natural flowery scent of her hair and try to be present with her in this moment.
And then my mind wanders to the way Royce reached for my hand when we were walking to his first round of torture.
His little hands, bound by chains heavier than him, were clinging to me with every fear imaginable.
"Flora," I whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Do you want children?"
"We're supposed to have children."
"I know, but...do you want children?"
She's quiet for a moment. "I don't know." Her eyes find mine in the mirror. "Do you?"
I always thought I did. In the back of my mind, I always hoped that there would be a time I would hold a child of my own that fits in the palm of my hand.
But now... "I don't know."
"Why do you ask, Seth?" she says softly.
I sigh. "No reason." I hand her a hair tie from next to me when she gestures to it.
"There has to be a reason," Flora looks at me while tilting her head to wrap the band around the end of the braid.
I shake my head. "There's no reason."
My mate smiles at me in the mirror, not believing my claim a single bit. I look away before she sees me smiling back.
"You are lying like a rug, love," Flora turns to me.
"A very high quality rug," I raise my eyebrows.
"Mm," she tilts her head back and forth in disagreement.
***
I end up bringing Royce to the beheading. He's already in hell, it's not like he'll see much worse.
Maybe that's a bit of a lie. But it won't hurt to show him what's out there.
There's nowhere he absolutely needs to be right now, and there's nothing saying I can't take him, so what the hell. Something tells me he'll be able to handle it.
He's been quiet for the five minutes I've been with him. Royce isn't one to talk my ear off, but he never lets silence get the best of him like he is now.
I glance down at him, and find him looking around. "You okay, man?" I ask. He looks up at me, his dark eyes looking only slightly terrified and scared for his life. Royce nods.
I have him put into a little suit. He just watches the hairdresser as she puts gel in his hair and combs it back.
And those eyes stay peeled as we walk through the theatre. He watches the people who watch him. He watches the people who don't watch him.
And when the person's head is closed into the guillotine, Royce is on the edge of his seat. Gripping the arms of the chair with his hands in the shape of claws. He doesn't move, or blink, or even breathe, contradicting the loud cheering and howling of the rest of the onlookers. The blade comes down with a hiss.
Royce's brow furrows for only a moment, then goes back to normal. He hops down and goes to the edge.
I watch the back of him as he seems so intently fixated on the sight in front of him.
My thirst for his current thoughts could easily be quenched by listening to them, but I decide not to. I don't want to be inside his head, and the grin that spreads across his face only solidifies my choice.