Vessel of Mercy

“Smitten, aren’t you?” a disembodied but familiar voice asks.

Devlin stands up slowly, brushing his wet hand angrily across his mouth. He hunches forward as if preparing for a fight and huffs as the voice bearer walks inside the bathroom. The man has a fresh scar across his nose and a corny, nefarious smile dancing on his pink and supple heart-shaped lips. His posture screams pride, arrogance and conceit, values heaven granted him at his birth.

He gives Devlin a knowing look, the kind I saw my mother give me during my teenage years when she was waiting for an answer. Devlin clenches his jaw in exaggeration as a reply, a habit I’ve noticed men nurse when they are angry. Michael does that a lot.

Calmly sitting in a tub full of water in my pyjamas, I grant myself a free ticket to the show. Dustin is standing restlessly by the door, guilt hovering in display over his features, an emotion unaccustomed to demons and devils. Our eyes meet for a brief second and I almost feel bad I told on hi