Mother of the Devil

In high school, I dated the Devil. He was just as you imagine him: skin bright red, a long, pointy tail, eyes that reflected my own fiery hell, and even a pitchfork that taunted me with its sharp edge. Despite the obvious signs, I couldn’t believe it. I was blinded by the memory of the angel he’d once been, the angel he once was before falling from grace. 

As I sunk deeper into the depths of hell, I began to forget that there was any other world. One night, as I wandered alone, I came across a familiar lost soul. She looked like the thin exterior of a person, with deep cuts straight through her heart, her eyes reflecting a loneliness that had marinated for decades, her arms searching longingly for that little angel of hers to hold tight against her chest. 

I knew instantly that she was the mother of the Devil. She took my hand and led me back to her cold, empty house. Then she spoke to me. “I know that look.” Only then did I glance into the mirror and see my own eyes sunken deep, reflecting the loneliness that I didn’t realize I’d been enduring. She spoke again. “You and I are not that different.” I looked down at myself and realized that I, too, was broken. I saw my bleeding hands, trembling body, pale and fading skin. 

The mother of the Devil took me in her arms. I knew those arms wanted to keep me there. They wanted me to fill her emptiness. They hoped that if I stayed long enough, her little angel would find his way home. But her eyes. Her eyes knew he wasn’t coming home. Her eyes had watched his fall from grace. Her eyes told me to run while my legs still knew how, while my heart was still whole enough to pump the blood back into my body and mind. While my arms could still climb myself out of the hell I’d grown far too comfortable in. 

So I did. Not right away, but I did. I called the mother of the Devil the night after my escape. I cried and I cried. Not because I regretted my escape, but because I regretted losing the girl I once was somewhere along the way.

It’s been a few years now. I still have nightmares. I still shiver when I hear his name and I still feel the anger and still, I’m not sure why. Sometimes, I think that maybe when I escaped that underworld, I accidentally brought a little bit of it back with me. I haven’t seen or heard from the mother of the Devil since, but I still think about her from time to time. I think about her sad eyes and tired face. 

I think about how she unknowingly saved me from facing her own fate. Sometimes I wonder if she’ll ever escape from her cold and empty hell. Or if she even realizes she’s in there at all. That mother of the Devil.