Mine.
The Scribal mind, currently. Simply lovely.
Suicide. A treat I dangle just out of her reach.
As always, it doesn’t matter what she wants, I need a scribe and I like one so easily overpowered. No escape for her, no soft easy passing, into nothingness, not while I’m in charge.
To punish her for even having such thoughts, how dare she abandon the devil? I keep it there, the intense desire to leave. Every waking second, of every day, she longs for it like a lost lover. I like to see what she comes up with, ways she thinks of, she has a fertile mind.
It’s been easy to get her to hurt herself, I tell her she deserves it and she believes me. She sticks at hurting others, that’s the real problem, despite all my eloquence on the subject.
She dreams of a very public death, no one gets hurt except the people she names to the newspaper crowds, just before she blows her own head off.
People that drove her to her knees, so it was that much easier to conquer her. Not that I have, yet, but we’re getting close.
All that I put in her mind, vast amounts of information, a true understanding of evil, a love for the darkness, the urgency of her channeling what we send her, the pure power of being in our hands, none of this could bring hatred into her heart.
I, the devil, evil incarnate, evil joyfully, evil as essence, could not achieve something as simple as that. For years she suffered, an outcast from birth, destined to a life on the outside, destined to burn herself up, unnoticed.
So very much to hate! I reminded her, bullies, a teacher who smiled while he gave her the strap, a houseful of siblings to torture her, a houseful of noise. A curious, starving mind that never has enough, senses so strong they can rob her of her senses, they have. A heart simply bleeding for love and finding something like it, but not the safety. The utter assurance that your heart is safe in another person’s hands, this eludes her, peace eludes her, gone with her father, whom she thought she could lose and time would make it bearable. So many illusions in this woman! A true joy to take them down. If only she would hate, she would be the perfect woman for a devil. A polygamous devil.
Dark thoughts, so many kinds, what does it take to ignite them?
It takes your world, dishing out a kind of cruelty that I am too delicate and refined for, it takes your new brand of casual cruelty, accepted and embraced, petty evil is drawn to the like. A tyrant is a tyrant in any guise, but most loathsome when he wears the clothing of Law and Order. When his cruelty is sanctified by something he carries in his wallet.
It takes a scam of the spirit, I tried to warn her, but the music called and she went. It takes men who think they have dominion over animals, literally, like civilized minds haven’t moved beyond biblical possession. Yes, she is very fond of animals, I really should have thought of that, tsk.
I have no pity for her, goodness knows I am pleased to see such hatred in her pure little heart, I rejoice that she thinks of ways to hurt them, constantly. After all, a darker scribe will understand me much better, serve me better, love me more.
Revenge fantasy, a little aside to write some of that, I like it. I can unfurl my claws and flex my torturing skills, though they seem to be working remarkably at the moment, so easy to keep her lit now. Adrenaline, I send it sweeping through her almost constantly, she sleeps standing up these days. Really, torture is so easy.
Not so hard to break someone, if you know how, and you apparently do.
“Ljósio” by Olafur Arnalds Keeps scribes alive, who knows, it might even help you. Notice that every note is perfect.