CHAPTER EIGHT
I met the Devil on a Sunday morning.
He was kneeling by the altar, head bowed, hands clasped together in prayer. Flames crawled toward his bare feet, his white suit unblemished while the smoke swallowed everything around us.
Come, Augustus.
I stepped forward, weary. The Devil had only ever worn my face or a veil of darkness, but this version was uncloaked, his features that of a man instead of a distorted boy.
“Is this Hell?” I asked.
What gave it away?
I kneeled beside him, knees pressed against the polished marble floor. Flames danced all around us, an invisible barrier shielding me from its heat.
“The fire.”
The fire, the Devil chuckled.
“Is that the wrong answer?” I asked, risking a glance at the strange figure beside me. His face was hidden beneath a curtain of brown curls, the small curve of his lips the only feature I could make out through the smoke.
No, but it amuses me.
“Why?”
Hell is so much more than just eternal flames.
“The Bible says—”
You humans need to find a new book to quote, that one is rather old.
“If this really is Hell, why are you praying in front of an altar?”
God is my father too.
“You rebelled against your father.”
And you rebelled against your mother.
“She was hurting me.”
Now we understand each other.
“God was hurting you?”
You sound surprised.
“God is good.”
Not to me.
“But you’re praying to him…”
No, you are praying to him.
His head whipped around to face me, and I was met with familiar hazel eyes, matured around the edges. Sharp talons curled around my throat, choking me as smoke slithered into my lungs.
Wake up, Augustus.
***
I awoke in a hospital bed.
The room pulsed with the low hum of monitors and machinery, white walls blinding as I adjusted to the fluorescent lights. An IV drip pumped fluid into my veins, its steady flow harmonising with the symphony all around me.
An oxygen mask covered my face, lungs and throat screaming with every intake of breath.
Quiet snores drifted from the chair to my left, my unfocused gaze landing on my father. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, brows furrowed and lips twitching in distress.
“Dad?” I called out, voice barely a whisper.
I coughed, glass shards stabbing into my throat. Tears threatened to fall as I swallowed through the burning sensation, the taste of smoke lingering on my parched tongue.
“Dad?”
His eyelids flew open, and he straightened in his seat within seconds. “Hey, buddy,” he said gently, “how are you feeling?”
“Throat. Hurts.”
Reaching for the cup beside my bed, my father removed my mask and raised the plastic to my lips, showering me with praise as the cool water trickled down my throat.
“What…happened?”
My father hesitated, expression shifting from weariness to confusion as he lowered the cup. “You don’t remember?”
I remembered the flames, the cursed symbol on the floor, my mother in her white dress. I was on my knees, holding Auden, choking on ash and dust. The Devil smiled and then…I was here. In a hospital bed.
“Augustus…your mother is gone,” my father said, running a hand over his face as he looked in every direction but mine.
“Gone?” I repeated.
“She…disappeared.”
“Where…did…she…go?”
“I don’t know.”
“She…was there. She…” I coughed.
My father shook his head.
“Is…she…coming back?” I asked.
A quiet sigh escaped my father’s throat, defeat written on every line of his face. "She abandoned us, Gus. I don’t think she is ever coming back.”
My mother was gone.
I heard the words, I knew what they meant, but I couldn’t seem to apply the meaning. It didn’t make sense. She was gone…but where? Why? And without a goodbye?
I remembered the hatred in her eyes as she watched me through the flames, the word demon rolling off her tongue like a curse.
She left because of you and Auden.
Auden.
He was on the bed to my right, awake and seated upright in a dark blue hospital gown. His hair was dripping wet from a shower, the scent of aloe vera body wash wafting pleasantly through the air.
My shoulders sagged with relief. He was alive. He was safe.
With a sad smile, I extended my hand toward him, and he came, like a magnet, crawling into my arms without a second’s hesitation.
I wanted to comfort him, to offer soothing words in response to our mother’s absence, but the glass shards in my throat cut them off before they could reach my tongue.
His bright blue eyes were wide and unblinking when, in a small voice, he said his very first words. “Chocolate milk?”