We start the day together. It no longer felt right to leave the bed without him, not when we slept in it together. And I do mean sleep in the most innocent sense.
He was a demon and I was a human. The prisoner and the widow. It was nothing more than a way to be a little less lonely, trapped in the way that we were in these endless gray days.
"How do you like your coffee?"
I finally plucked up the courage to ask him that innocent question.
"With a lot of cream," he said. "But that's because I don't normally drink coffee."
I raised a brow. He drank coffee on the first day that I met him.
"You must drink something else when you're in Hell," I reasoned. Maybe it was something stronger, fit for a demon punishing sinners in Hell.
"I like a piping hot cup of tea," he said.
I shake my head in disbelief. "You brew a pot of coffee every morning and you drink it with me. Do you really expect me to think that you like tea?"
He looked at me sheepishly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't see why you like coffee so much. I've been drinking it with you trying to see if it magically starts to taste good, but it stays the same."
His words rendered me speechless. Had he only been drinking coffee for my benefit?
He holds up his cup, showing me the contents before taking a sip. "You can't ever go wrong with an English Breakfast."
I'd rather stick to my coffee. For someone who looked like Charles, he sure didn't act like him.
He wasn't fond of smoking unless there was someone to smoke with. While Charles was content going through a pack alone, the demon always preferred company, offering me a cigarette whenever he was bored. His eyes would light up during our conversations, briefly flashing that lamplit color before returning to Charles's blue eyes.
We were sitting in the backyard garden with a pack of Marlboros between us. There were fourteen cigs left in the box and seven more smoke-filled conversations before we'd find no point in smoking anymore.
"Why do you wear my husband's face?"
Maybe it was because I finally got comfortable with the demonic presence in my home, but he didn't scare me anymore. In the absence of his pranks, he rotated between cooking obsessively, cleaning diligently, and asking me questions about how the human world worked. He was a prisoner making the best of his situation and I couldn't help but admire the way he effortlessly kept himself busy.
"I thought it would be the face that scared you the least," he answered. "Clearly I was wrong."
"No, I see where you're coming from." If I had seen a stranger making breakfast that morning, I would've called the cops. "Is my husband the only man you can impersonate?"
He blows out more smoke, obscuring his face in the gray fog. "I can impersonate anyone that has stepped foot into this house, dead or alive. Beyond that, my magical abilities are limited."
"Show me." For some reason, I didn't fully believe that.
He tilted his head to the side. "Where do I start ..." His eyes flashed amber. "I got it! What do you know about the previous residents of the house?"
"The Robins?" They were a family of three that had moved to the South before we put down the deposit for the house. I never got to see them, save for a photograph of their daughter that they left behind. We tried to mail it to them, but the envelope was returned to our address. I told the demon as much and he smiled cryptically in response.
"That's a shame," he said. "They were lovely people."
Slowly, my husband's face melts off his head, showing off his sharp demonic features. New flesh stitches over his skin, a gray beard and watery blue eyes take their place. Strands of salt and pepper hair appeared, clumsily combed over a bald spot. The demon hunches over and his belly grows, swelling from years of evenings spent drinking beer on the couch. His navy blue sweater shifts into a stained sleeveless shirt that was once white.
He gives me another smile once his transformation is complete. He sticks his hand out in greeting, introducing his new disguise.
"Hi, I'm Michael Robin," he said, his voice turning to gravel.
I take his fat callused hand and give it a solid shake, trying to wrap my head around his new appearance. But, just as quickly as he wears his new identity, he casts it aside for fresher skin.
His gut shrinks, slimming his waist ever so slightly. Breasts grow on his chest, sagging low on his torso. Pearls pop up around his collar, adorning a short-sleeved floral dress. Dark, bird-like irises appear, replacing his blue ones, and bleached blond locks grow out of his bald spot, hovering just above his shoulders.
"Darlene Robin," he said, his voice rising a few pitches. "But most folks call me Darla." He gives me a small lipstick-stained smile before tearing the disguise off.
He shrinks before I can remark on his appearance, shriveling until he reaches the height of a young girl. His skin becomes smooth and supple, rounded like freshly baked bread. His long, brown hair is gathered in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck.
He gives me a toothy grin as his legs swing from the chair. "I'm Rachel Robin and I'm seven years old. My mom says I'm big for my age and that I shouldn't eat too much, but my dad says it's ok."
What a peculiar way to meet the Robins. It was like he embodied the ghosts of the house's former residents. But the demon wasn't done playing his little game yet.
Because the next person he became was me.
The transformation was slow. Rachel's limbs stretched out, feet touching the ground. Her body thickened with age, the colors of her clothes dulling to fit the part. The watery blue eyes she inherited from her father darkened to a familiar hazel. Her hair blackens, curling at the ends as a set of bangs covers her forehead.
But one thing he couldn't seem to get right on the first try was my face. He could mimic the shape of my lips easily and carved the uneven slope of my nose like an experienced sculptor. Yet when it came to the curves of my cheeks, he either made my face too harsh or too soft.
He stared at my face intently with a look I knew all too well. The expression of concentration that wrinkled his brow was the same expression I wore when I was painting. Finally, he gets the angle of my cheekbones right, arching my brows in a similar fashion.
He glances at his reflection in a nearby window.
"This is the most beautiful disguise I've worn," he said, mimicking my voice easily. "Don't you agree?"
I should have been scared. An eerie feeling prickles the back of my neck as all the possibilities of what he could do pretending to be me percolated into my brain. If he wanted to, he might murder me and wear my skin. The rest of the world wouldn't know any better while I rotted in the garden or some abandoned room in the house.
But instead, I was flattered. I think I even blushed at his words.
"You did a good job," I said.
"Too bad it's not even half as pretty as the original," he said, taking a drag of his cigarette.
Did my face get warmer? I usually didn't bend so easily to flattery. Being alone in my house with this demon was driving me crazy.
We smoke some more in the backyard before he gets up to make lunch. I watch him walk back into the kitchen, wrapped up in my husband's body once again.
In his own peculiar way, the demon was keeping me alive by giving me company while I grieved. Sure, I had my therapist and my friends, but they both felt like a world away, caught up in the intricacies of their own lives. But the nameless demon who wore my husband's face? He was here, making sure that I was living rather than simply alive.
My Catholic mother would have a heart attack if I told her that I was keeping a demon around. She would have a priest at my doorstep, ready to perform an exorcism if she knew.
Oh well. What she didn't know, can't hurt her.
I smoke some more in the backyard, holding the gray clouds in my lungs for as long as I can. I still missed Charles. I longed for him so much that I was picking up his bad habits.
But I noticed recently that the sharp edge of my sorrow was starting to abate. Being present in these dreary days meant that I was crying less. Somehow, I was getting a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel.