somebody watching over me #2
We hold our own breath.
“. . . Possession?”
“Pardon?” We are taken aback by this. What a lovely surprise, Jordan . . .
He wishes to do his homework. Researching us.
How adorable.
“What kind of . . . possession are you interested in?” We have to be coy in our reaction. “Are we talking about ghosts here?
Or the Russian literature kind? Or . . .”
“Demonic.”
“Really?”
Jordan nods. He’s definitely blushing now. Look at the blood rush to those cheeks, flushing his skin in a red warmth. We want
to bathe in it. Bask in that beauty.
“Is that something that interests you? Demons?”
“Chalk it up to morbid curiosity . . .”
“I hadn’t pegged you for a demon worshipper.”
“Maybe I just haven’t found the right demon.”
Does he know that it’s us? Does he see me? He must. “Let’s see what we have.”
We guide him through the shelves. The store is small. Its cluttered aisles twine together. Stacks of paperbacks sprout along
the floor, like mildewed pillars. We want to lure Jordan as deep into the store as we can. Take him where there is no light.
Devour him here.
The designated section on possession is bare.
SUPERNATURAL/SPIRITUALITY has been scribbled on a yellowed notecard.
The books themselves are laughable. They offer nothing.
Quackery. Charlatans. These are not the books Jordan should be reading.
Then again, there are very few treatises that truly tap into the truth.
The awe. He doesn’t need to read these books.
Not when he was a fountain of information standing right before him.
He has us. Can’t he see that? We would give him everything, if he were just to ask.
“Any you’d recommend?”
We run our fingertip over the row of spines, feeling their covers crinkle against our skin. Their titles roil something within
us. DEMONS AND YOU. DEMONOLOGY FOR A NEW DAWN. POSSESSION—YOU PLUS ONE. Nothing but trash. What an utter waste of words.
“None of these, unfortunately.”
“That bad, huh?”
“There’s one book we think might be best suited,” we say.
“Oh?” He brightens. A spark of curiosity. “What’s that?”
“You won’t find it here. None of these books are worth their salt.”
“You sound like a demonic aficionado.”
“Perhaps I am.” We lean in, saying in a hushed tone, “Would that surprise you?”
“Nothing surprises me these days.”
“I can try . . .”
“What do you recommend?” Is he asking about a book? Or a surprise? We can’t read Jordan anymore. He confuses us.
“Follow me,” we say.
We guide him to the poetry section. It is a risk, leading him here. This deep into the store, where there are no prying eyes.
The world beyond these books no longer exists.
It’s just us now. Nobody but us. We could take him, here and now.
What is stopping us? Why do we resist our own temptation?
Our desire?
Our finger slips across the crumbling spines of brittle editions. Their faded titles, gilded in flaking gold, sing to us.
We are searching for a particular tome. It’s bound to be here. Every bookstore has a forgotten copy, fading away. It’s just
a matter of searching—
Here. This is the book we’re looking for. We pull it slowly off the shelf. It slides with the slightest scuff, releasing a phantasmal
gasp of dust from the shelves.
We offer him the book. He takes it, considers it. “Paradise Lost.”
“Have you read it?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Never too late.”
“Why this one?”
“It speaks to a greater truth those other books never can.”
He looks at us. Considers us. “How much?”
We smile. “Take it.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s yours.” I am yours, if only you could see me . . .
“Seems like a bad business model you’ve got going here. How do you ever turn a profit if you keep giving books out to potential
customers?”
“Only for our preferred clientele.”
“I made the cut, did I?”
“Don’t fret. It won’t break the bank. As you can see,” we say, “business is absolutely booming.”
“That’s very kind of you,” he says. The words are warm. His voice tender.
We want him. Need him to see us. “There is a catch . . .”
“Knew it,” he says.
“When you’re finished reading it, you have to come back. Tell me what you think.”
“I can live with that.”
Live with that.
We take the book back, just for a moment, plucking it from his own hands.
We open it. The faintest wisp of dust drifts up from its pages. We smell it, the musk of antiquity, of time slipping. We flip
through its yellowing pages, the paper brittle with age.
We find a particular passage we’ve been searching for. We bring the book up and read from this crumbling edition, letting
the words sink into these lips. This tongue.
“If Death
Consort with thee, Death is to me as Life;
So forcible within my heart I feel
The bond of nature draw me to my own,
My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;
Our state cannot be severed, we are one,
One flesh; to lose thee were to lose my self . . .”
We lose ourselves in the words. Taste the sumptuous text. The spirit inhabiting these lines. There is a succulence to them.
A vibrance, even now, centuries later. It’s impossible not to drift away, unmoored by the very words, even for just a brief
moment.
The words pull me out of our host, unleashing me. An emotional release. I am outside of myself for just a brief, fleeting
moment, set adrift by such beautiful words.
When I return to our host’s body, we sense Jordan staring back. He looks at us differently. His eyes now clasp onto us, this
dawning recognition spreading over his face.
“Lilith?”