CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The House on North Lane was on fire.
Smoke crawled through every crack, smothering the rodents that lived in the walls, their cries of agony drowned out by the boy on his knees, trapped within a circle of flames. He gasped for air, choking, tears rolling down his cheeks as he kneeled over his brother, shielding him from the heat.
Flames engulfed the walls, the ceiling, devouring everything it touched.
A woman stood outside the circle, a crucifix in her trembling hands as she watched her children succumb to the flames.
Tears dried her pale cheeks, one foot inching forward as though she’d walk through the fire to save her boys or die trying.
But a man appeared at her side, strange words tumbling from his lips with a veracity empowered by his Holy book.
He kept her in place without having to lift a finger, his power stronger than her desire to protect her children.
The older boy looked up at the man, defiance in his eyes. Too weak to stand, his breathing strained, he collapsed, arms still secured around his brother.
“Is it done?” the woman asked the man.
“I cannot be certain,” the man replied, “the Devil is too strong.”
“They’re dying!”
“And so too is the Devil!”
Timber snapped, the roof threatening to cave in.
The boy’s chest no longer rose and fell, his curls white with ash, smoke blackening his pale cheeks.
The woman broke free of her spell, throwing herself into the Devil’s cage, crouching down to gather her son in her arms. She shook him, called his name, sobbed over his lifeless corpse.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said, the world collapsing around them. “I’m sorry. Wake up, just wake up. I’m sorry.”
She pulled him to her chest, rocking their bodies back and forth as a beam collapsed behind them, a loud snap that pulled the boy from Death’s slumber.
His eyelids fluttered open, but it was the Devil who looked through his eyes, who used his body to crawl his way out of the flames.
When he looked in the mirror, I looked back.
***
Browning Books was quiet, as it usually was on a Thursday morning. Edith was in the back room putting new stock into the system while I stood at the counter, re-pricing books that were going into our small ‘sale’ section.
A bell chimed as the door swung open, and an old lady with a walking frame and a service dog stepped inside. The dog was quite large—a white labrador wearing a blue vest—yet it did well not to knock into any shelves.
“Good morning, dear,” the lady greeted me, a smile on her thin lips as she approached the counter. She had short white hair combed neatly in gentle waves, a lavender cardigan draped over a plain white top and a long grey skirt. The dog followed beside her, attention focused on her small steps.
I lowered my pricing gun and returned the smile with a polite ‘good morning’ that sounded a little rough with disuse.
“Oh, darling, I’m looking for a book my grandson recently donated and I am hoping it hasn’t been sold yet,” the woman said, pulling out a receipt to place on the counter.
“He gave you a rare special edition of Pride and Prejudice that has an inscription inside of it. It was a gift from my late husband, and I wasn’t meant to part with it. Is there any way I can re-purchase it?”
I glanced down at the receipt briefly before nodding my head. “Of course. Just give me one second. I think it may still be out the back.”
She thanked me profusely as I made my way to the back room and asked Edith about the recent acquisition. Since it was a donation, Edith told me to return the book free of charge. I did so, earning myself more praise.
“You’re such an angel,” she said, tears of relief swelling in her eyes as she held the book close to her chest, as if she wanted to bury it inside her, never to be parted again. “This book means the world to me.”
Angel, she called you. If only she knew…
I forced a polite smile and watched as she slowly exited the store. My hands trembled at my sides, and I hid them behind my back as I tried to steady the unease contaminating my veins. It seemed my body didn’t know the difference between being caged inside a circle of flames and receiving praise.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
I was no angel. My mask was just crafted so expertly that no one saw through the cracks I painted over every day.
After reciting this encounter with Dr. Rosewood, she set down her notepad and studied me with a mix of curiosity and pity. I had left out the Devil’s voice in my head, but I may as well have mentioned it, for his thoughts mirrored my own.
“During this exchange with the customer, did you have any negative thoughts about her?” Dr. Rosewood asked.
“Negative thoughts?” I echoed, blinking. “Like what?”
“Like…‘she smells awful’, ‘her hair is a mess’, ‘her voice is too shrill,’” she provided examples.
“What?” I shook my head. “Of course not!”
“Okay,” Dr. Rosewood wrote something down quickly before looking back up at me. “Then why do you think you didn’t deserve the praise she was giving you?”
“I was just doing my job,” I answered, shifting uncomfortably beneath her gaze.
“Yes,” Dr. Rosewood nodded, “but you mentioned feeling a sense of panic. And that you felt like a liar. You were being nice to this lady, and she was being nice to you. Why did you panic?”
“Because she called me an angel,” I breathed out.
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“I’m not an angel.”
Dr. Rosewood pressed her lips together for a long moment before speaking again. “She did not mean a literal angel. And I think you know that. Why did you panic at being called an angel as a comparison to being called good?”
“Because I’m not good.”
“Why don’t you think you’re good?”
I opened my mouth, closed it, and averted my gaze.
How could I explain to her that I had the Devil inside my head, wanting to be unleashed?
How could I explain that I was the reason my whole family fell apart?
How could I explain all that had happened without being admitted straight into a Psych Ward?
“Augustus?” Rosewood prompted gently. “Why don’t you think you’re good?”
I swallowed thickly, hands clenching and unclenching in my lap as I scoured my brain for an answer that was honest yet safe.
“I was…a bad kid,” I admitted reluctantly, gaze locked on a dust ball beneath Dr. Rosewood’s desk.
“I didn’t do as I was told, I talked back, I had violent outbursts.
At home, I was a little monster. Yet at school or at church, I was quiet, well behaved, an angel.
And if anyone commented on how good I was, my parents would make a joke about how ‘I wasn’t like that at home’, reminding me of what was real. ”
Dr. Rosewood nodded along as she made notes, gaze sympathetic when she lifted her eyes to meet mine. “I see. And because your parents brought up these differences in behaviour, you felt like you were somehow faking it when you were good?”
I nodded.
“Are you parents still in your life, Augustus?”
“No.”
“May I ask the circumstances?”
“My father died when I was twelve. Cancer. And my mother…left when I was nine.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Augustus,” she said gently.
“It was a long time ago,” I shrugged.
“I want you to work on something for me before our next session,” she said in an optimistic tone that indicated our hour had come to an end. “From now until next week, I want you to write down every good thing you do.”
I raised both eyebrows up. “Huh?”
“It can be anything from picking up a piece of rubbish to helping a duck cross the road,” she went on. “Anything good you do, write it down.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I have a feeling you’ll be surprised by what that list will show.”
***
The first good thing I did that week was not brag when success was delivered with a ninety-eight percent on my second assignment in Psychological Manipulation. Nathaniel Carrington received a ninety-five.
I could tell he was disappointed by the slump of his shoulders and the way he hung his head. He was gripping the edge of his desk for so long that his knuckles had gone white.
A satisfied smile tugged at my lips as Professor Haywood congratulated me on my first-place ranking.
Nathaniel’s head whipped around to find me, but I pretended not to notice, ignoring him as if I didn’t even care that I finally beat him—as if I wasn't fighting a wide smile and pleasant hum.
We were even. Each of us had outperformed the other in one assignment, Nathaniel the first, I the second. The third would determine our final ranking. And it was going to be me. It had to be. I would not lose again.
The second good thing I did that week was not punch Nathaniel in the face when he approached me after class, laptop clutched in one hand while the other slipped inside his long, charcoal coat.
“Congratulations on your results,” he said smoothly, matching my pace as he walked beside me. “You must be pleased.”
And you must be devastated.
“I am,” I said. “Are you?”
Nathaniel’s lips spread into a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I can do better. I know I can do better.”
“Good for you.”
“I have a question.”
“Make it quick.”
“You didn’t get full marks. What was your feedback?”
I came to an abrupt halt, eyes narrowing until Nathaniel was barely visible beneath my long lashes. “Why would you want my feedback? You didn’t get full marks either. Shouldn’t you be focusing on your own failure?”
Nathaniel inhaled sharply at the word failure. “I just want to know if we’re having the same problem. We both improved a lot in this assignment but we’re clearly lacking something.”
“Why do you care if we have the same problem?”
“Because if we do, we can work together to fix it.”
A cold laugh escaped my throat before I had the chance to rein it in. “I already told you I have no interest in working with you.”
“Why not?”
I didn’t answer. I simply started walking again, hoping he would get the hint and leave me alone.
“Is it because I won that trivia contest last semester?” Nathaniel asked as he followed. “I feel like you’ve hated me since then.”
“I don’t hate you. I don’t even think about you.”
Liar.
Nathaniel sighed. “Then why do you refuse to collaborate?”
“Because you’re only interested in collaborating to benefit yourself,” I snapped. “You would have paid me no attention if I wasn’t a threat to your ranking. And I have no interest in wasting time with someone so selfish.”
In hindsight, my harsh words were not good. But at least I didn’t punch him.
He didn’t follow me the rest of the way to the library, and I didn’t look back to see if my words had wounded him.
The third good thing I did that week was attend church with Auden.
It hadn’t been something I planned on doing. I hadn’t been inside a church since my father’s funeral, yet Auden had requested it, and I suppose I was curious to know how it would feel being inside one again.
There was a Catholic church two streets down from Auden’s school, so we caught the bus and walked to the front gates with a sign that said, ‘All are Welcome’.
The Devil inside me quietened as we stepped inside, holy water anointed to our temples as we bowed before God.
There were a few scattered elderly people, a young family, and us. It was quiet. I glanced sideways at Auden whose gaze was fixed on the sculpture behind the altar. It was of Mary and a young Jesus, Mary’s arm wrapped around her small son, a soft smile on her face.
“Why did you want to come here?” I whispered.
“I wanted to talk to God,” Auden answered softly.
I suppressed a scoff as I looked away. God abandoned us. What kind of God demanded worship and offered nothing in return?
Careful, the Devil warned, we’re in His house now.
I swallowed back my retort and bowed my head, feigning devout reverence while we waited for the mass to begin.
A hymn filled the church as a middle-aged priest with raven black hair and dark eyes walked down the aisle toward the altar. Everyone stood.
I struggled to pay attention throughout the mass, my mind wandering to thoughts of what work I still had to do for university, and when my next shift at the bookstore was.
Auden, on the other hand, looked entirely focused. I wasn’t sure what this new desire to reignite his faith was, but I had to support it. If Auden wanted God in his life, who was I to stop him?
I, personally, was starting to believe there was no God at all. Or at least not the one from the Holy Bible.
All these people had faith in something they could not see. Yet I had seen God, standing behind my mother, while the flames crawled closer. He had done nothing to save me. If anything, he was more like the Devil. But he wasn’t real. None of it was real.
My Father is a proud being. He will not take your insults lightly.
I scoffed. What more could God do to me that he hadn’t done already?
I had seen Hell. And I came out with the Devil on my side.