The surgeon slices the patient's scalp with precision, gently peeling back the flesh. The white bone of the skull stands out among the red bits, reminding me of a pale dove. Blue latex gloves drill little holes into the skull, removing a section of the bone so that the surgeon could access the brain beneath it. They peel back the membrane on top of the brain called the dura mater before they begin the operation.
Watching these surgeries from the blue light of my computer screen brought me a small comfort after I was diagnosed with my mental illness. It made the chemical imbalances in my brain seem less severe as I watched patients with cancer, various viruses, aneurysms, and anything else that could go wrong, endure this grotesque invasion of their bodies.
Sometimes the surgeons had to remove a tumor or release built-up fluid. A careful incision is followed by a bottle of fluid washing the blood away. Metal clips hold back the skin of the scalp as they continue their work.
I suppose normal people watch other things when they can't sleep at three in the morning. Pimple extractions seem to be popular, whether it's a dermatologist removing a cyst or squeezing out a blackhead. I've been told that it's satisfying to see puss ooze out of an orifice or witness a set of tweezers pull out a tangle of ingrown hairs. There's a release that the viewer gets from seeing these small lumps removed from under the skin, an orgasmic cleansing from witnessing the removal of an imperfection. I wouldn't be surprised if some people got off to watching those sorts of things.
But the brain surgery was sacred, an act that was shrouded in ritual and weighed down by the seriousness of life hanging in balance. One wrong move and the surgeon becomes a murderer.
It was a sobering reminder that regardless of what my thoughts were or what I assumed my worth was based on, I was merely a collection of fragile body parts. One wrong turn on the highway had, after all, caused my husband to become a pile of ash sitting in a jar on the nightstand.
I watch the surgeon stitch the piece of the skull they carved out, sewing the bone that would eventually be fused back to the body over time. The skin is unclipped off-camera but reattached to the rest of the head in front of the lens. Another brain surgery successfully completed.
The demon slumbers on the bed behind me, softly snoring. I try to imagine what would happen if he woke up and caught me watching these videos. Would I even have a good lie to tell him?
Realistically, I doubt he would even bat an eyelash at this sort of behavior. He was from Hell so I'm sure he's seen worse. The most he would do is offer to smoke and talk with me.
I settle in the bed next to him, tugging the blankets away. He had a habit of stealing them while I was asleep.
I cast my eyes toward the ceiling, watching the blood steadily drip from the corners. Even while he was unconscious, his presence still conjured up illusions.
"Can't sleep?" He rolls over to face me, slowly blinking the sleep away from his eyes.
"There's blood falling from the ceiling." I pointed to the cracks where the red drops were racing down the walls.
"Does it scare you?"
"It unsettles me," I confessed.
"Would you like me to hold you until you fall asleep? It would be easy for me to offer that sort of comfort."
I hesitate for a moment. We normally held hands, but he was giving me something more this time, something I had craved since my husband's death: physical intimacy. But was I ready for that?
"If you wouldn't mind," I said at last.
He pulls me toward his chest, tucking me between his arms. He felt like Charles if he were to come to life again, except there were a few things that gave away the deception.
One, I knew it wasn't Charles even if I pretended for a second that he was. Two, his warmth was different, his body heat not quite the same. There was something about it that was warmer than normal human body temperature as if he had the fires of Hell trapped beneath his skin. That didn't mean that his skin was blistering hot or that he felt feverish in any sort of way. He was pleasantly warm in the way that heated rocks were, without the complications of human flesh.
Three, his scent was different. On the surface, he smelled like Charles, the soap of his body wash and shampoo mingling with their shared laundry detergent. But beneath it all, I detected a hint of spice, a mixture of peppers and cloves. No doubt the smell was leftover from his cooking, from roasting herbs and seeds and stirring sauces. But it made it hard to pretend that the man holding me was anyone but the demon haunting my house.
I steady my breathing, closing my eyes as I relaxed against him. I accepted his embrace for what it was. Comfort. Holding me was not a confession of his desire but a shield against the loneliness that plagued us both.
He reaches for my hands, closing his fingers over mine. It didn't feel like he was being greedy, asking for more of my touch. Rather, he was pouring another part of himself into me, sharing more warmth than he had to.
It was a small comfort, laying next to each other like this. I ignore the thrill that thrums through my veins, chalking it up to nervousness. I hadn't been touched like this in a while.
Somehow, I managed to fall asleep. I sink deep into my subconsciousness, dreaming of dead birds flying after people with their brains out. Mahogany blood falls from a cherry-red sky. I smoke a cigarette amidst all the chaos. Somehow, the nicotine makes me feel lighter than the air.
I fly with the dead birds, drenched in sky blood. At some point, I come to the realization that I'm dreaming. The knowledge makes me giddy. I stick my tongue out to taste the salty-sweet blood. The bright bluebirds and the diminutive brown birds do the same, transforming into scarlet cardinals.
"Having fun?"
He appears in my dream, descending from the red sky shrouded in vermilion feathers. Judging by the horns and fangs that I see, he's given up pretending to be Charles.
I laugh, tossing my head back into the rain. "Is that what this looks like? Fun?"
"You don't smile like this when you're awake," he pointed out. "You seem sad most of the time."
"My husband died and I haven't scattered his ashes yet. I'm not exactly jumping for joy," I said.
His eyes widened at my sarcasm. I'm generally not this forward when I'm conscious. Usually, I'm kind enough to pad the emotions around my words, dulling their edge. But there was something about the way he noticed my unhappiness that made me want to lash out.
It wasn't what he said, but what his words insinuated, that I was a poor, unhappy, pathetic widow.
This was the first night I didn't dream of my husband dying. Granted, it was still a bloody dream, but it was one where I wouldn't wake up crying feeling like there was a gaping hole in my chest.
And he just had to remind me of what I was.
But this was my dream. I should have control of my own mind. The bloody rain stops falling, fading to a drizzle.
"You know," I said. "I've always wondered a few things about you." I drew closer to him, emboldened by the uncertainty of whether or not he was a real person. I could have made him up in my dream for the heck of it. Or, he could have intruded into my subconscious, but it seemed unlikely. I would've dreamt of him more if he had a habit of disturbing my dreams.
"Why were you imprisoned here? What kind of crime did you have to commit to be trapped in a poor widow's house? And why on earth do you cook so much?"
I threw in that last question because I was tired of the dishes piling up in the sink.
He gives me a thoughtful look, contemplating whether he should respond. "I didn't know you were so curious about my life. You should have told me while you were conscious."
You're not real, I thought, reassuring myself.
"Unfortunately, I am," he said. "You're going to have to take what I say seriously."
He summons two chairs from thin air, inviting me to take a seat. Two cigarettes appear, already lit and lightly smoking.
"I'm imprisoned here because the stewards of Hell have judged me to be unworthy of my position," he said. "They don't think I have the strength to punish mortal sinners anymore. I don't know why they've placed me here in your home. I'm sorry for the intrusion. I should have apologized for that sooner."
"As for the cooking," he continued, "I was not always a demon. Believe it or not, I was human once. A starving man from a time when things were less civilized. Cooking reminds me that I don't go hungry anymore. But I guess that's no excuse for being a slob in the kitchen."
"No, it's not," I said.
"You're going to have to tolerate me in your house a little longer. They haven't told me what I could do to leave. But I'm afraid it won't be any time soon," he professed.
"Why?"
"The longer I stay here, the more human I become. I'm growing weak in Hell's eyes."
He hunches over in the chair, closing in on himself.
"Do you think that's bad, being more human?" I didn't think he hated imprisonment, but he didn't enjoy it either.
He looks at me for a moment, taking in my presence. Our eyes meet in a mutual understanding, the kind that two lonely people have when they find a salve for their isolation.
"No, I suppose it's not bad at all."