《WITCHPOWER》


 Prologue: A Farewell to XXXXXXX

    "I thoroughly do not want to live."


    That was the thought that entered my mind on my 18th birthday. And each year since, that phrase has rang louder and louder in my aching head. Now, with 22 wasted years of life, that thought is the only company I have.


    My name is XXXXXXX. Now, you can read that in a variety of ways. You could pronounce it as "X", "X''s", or even "Ex ex ex ex ex ex ex", if you want to be obtuse about things. You could even insert your own name if you find yourself of my ilk. Or you could simply read it as "Blank".


    I prefer "Blank". It''s fitting. I feel "Blank". My mind is "Blank". My past, present and future are "Blank".


    I am "Blank".


    I have been violently ill for the past 8 months.


    And as I lay in bed, too pained to change from my work clothes. I ponder what I''d eaten that could have triggered such a violent reaction within my internals today. Was it the rice? I''d remembered to keep it unseasoned, though I suppose the batch was a few days old now... The chicken? I''d remembered to buy the skinless kind. So maybe I cooked it too long? The gluten free bread was kept untoasted to avoid having anything sharp or granulated passing through my intestines. And the peanut butter I''d dabbed on one side was minimal to reduce the fats and oils that nuts bring...


    It must have been the sugar-free blackberry jam. Yes! That''s right, sugar free jam is sweetened with aspartame. I suppose artificial sweeteners are just as deadly as natural sugars when it comes to my internal tolerance. Damn it! I want to scream, but the stress of it all is enough to cramp my stomach as is. Am I not allowed to enjoy anything!? My own food is acting as poison to me. The irony of trying to replenish my body''s nutrients, only to have it violently expelled within a few minutes to hours! Eating is poison.


    The most beneficial option unequivocally is to starve. Without food entering my body, my immune system can stop its paranoid malfunctions and give up on attacking my insides. But the damage has already been done. Constricting my diet hasn''t worked, eating alternative foods hasn''t worked, even the medicine which I''d waited months for, the same medicine which I''d jumped through hoops for just so my insurance company could deny me of it again and again, until my condition had worsened to such a degree that denying me further would no doubt count as cruel and unusual punishment, has not worked. I lie thirsty, with a bottle of water on my nightstand. This bottle is no more than one and a half feet away from my left hand. Yet I cannot muster the strength to even turn my head to face said bottle. My current weight must now graze the double-digit threshold, yet my entire body is covered in marble. I am a statue of a failed human being.


    The tie around my neck has been choking me for years. The buttons on my shirt are the nails in my coffin. The friends I''d made have come and gone. I cannot remember their names or faces. My family never sees or hears from me, and they haven''t for nearly half a decade now. The phone is too heavy to hold.


    A mess of excuses, I''m aware. In fact, every criticism that you can think of, that you had already thought of or that you will think of later, I have already thought of first and am well aware of. You see, I have already thoroughly examined and dissected my character better than you or your most experienced psychologist ever could. I''m not claiming to be a professional. I simply know myself well, because I do not know anyone else. I know everything that my body can and cannot handle, everything that can be said to make me smile and frown. I know exactly what I look like at any given time, and I know how long any happiness or pain will last.


    It is an unending torture to be permanently aware of oneself.


    I can feel the oil and dirt in my hair, the plaque on my teeth, and of course the war being waged between my immune and digestive system. I feel the misery these senses bring me. I feel my selfish thoughts acting up as well...For instance, why of all things did I have to get an autoimmune disease targeting my digestive system!? I''m a gourmand, I adore a menagerie of different goods, baked, blended or cooked! Foreign, exotic, traditional, I won''t complain where it comes from, if you call it food I''ll try it at least once. That was my mentality for 21 years before my own body turned traitor and organized a mutiny.


    Second of all, if I was going to have an autoimmune disease, why of all things did it have to target my bowels!? Girls aren''t going to pine to nurse and care for a man who shits too often! You want something they could glamorize, like a lung disease giving one a sexy, raspy voice. Or a heart condition in which one couldn''t exert themselves too often. With those kinds of internal problems it''s much easier for the maternal type to whisk you into her arms and promise never to leave your poor soul.


    In my case such a girl just got too disgusted with my defective body and left. It makes sense though, I''m disgusted by myself, and unlike me she actually had dreams and aspirations. She had something to work towards, and plenty on her plate already. A boyfriend who could be patient for her was tolerable in her eyes. But one who became needy and ill was a burden I wouldn''t wish upon any couple. So I understand her decision. It was a logically sound choice on her part. The least painful and most beneficial way to handle the situation, in her case. I wouldn''t expect anything different of her.


    One by one the threads that bind me to this world are being snipped apart. I''ve lost family, friends, a job, my girlfriend, and about 60 pounds of my former self. At this point I truly am just a statue laid atop the blankets. And at this point I wish desperately to crumble into rubble. I feel the cracks forming along my cheeks, down to my collarbones. I feel the fractures painting lines across my ribs and sunken-in belly. I feel the splitting separating each and every one of my joints, down to the ends of my fingers and the tips of my toes. I close my eyes and crumble into dust. But despite my greatest wishes and deepest desires, I awaken yet again after only a few seconds. Except it hasn''t been seconds. It''s been roughly fifteen hours, and I am once again several hours late for work.


    I''ve already been fired, such an occasion was a long time coming. It''s not an issue though. I honestly thank my company for being so patient with me despite my poor performance with attendance and productivity. It was their offices that I stumbled into when I desperately needed health insurance. Yes, it was my company who extended their saintly hand down unto me when I was at my very lowest. Gifting me a livable income, my desperately-needed health benefits, and a purpose of being. All for the low price of a few hours of my time per week. Yet I repay them how? Why of course it''s by taking nearly twice my allotted sick days for the year, missing my deadlines, and smelling like a homeless! I''ve not simply bitten the hand that feeds me, I''ve torn chunks of its flesh asunder with the ravenous maw that is my uncouth behavior. It was imperative that I be laid off as soon as possible. Thankfully that day came yesterday. Today I shall clean out my desk and leave for good. It is my repentance for showing such disrespect to my savior. Though I am no longer serving my company I am forever in their debt for the opportunity I was given, despite my squandering of such a gift.


    With the strength of gods, I rise from bed and stumble towards the door. Both hands clasp the handle in prayer that I may have the strength to twist it open. The Lord in Heaven has mercy on me and the door swings open. I hesitate for a moment and step outside for the first time in centuries.


    Immediately, I am set alight.


    Flames lick at my hands and face, my blood boils beneath the skin. Five steps outside and my breathing is labored, sweat glistening off of my forehead. The dirt and oils coating my hair and body only serve to fan the flames, scorching me completely. Within microseconds, my pale complexion is scarred a deep crimson. Shoes flooded with my own perspiration, my formal attire set ablaze, clothing my body in ash.


    I am unbothered. I pay no mind to how sweltering the sun wishes to be, nor do I care to glance at how passers-by are reacting to such an apocalyptic heat wave. I cannot hear or see anything. I am simply focused on putting one foot ahead of the other and making it to work. After all, I already know how all varieties of people view me. I know what every face of sympathy and disgust looks like on every age, race, gender and class. My eyes have no need to meet theirs, I am already aware of how I am perceived.


    I proceed as normal, walking the same twenty mile stretch I''d become so painfully familiar with for the past eight months. In the same way with which I move throughout all of life. My hands clasped tightly behind my back, resting upon my child-sized belt serving as the border between my dusty black slacks and white wrinkled dress shirt. Nose to the ground, leaning as far forward as my spinal column will allow me. My walnut-colored locks grazing the pavement with each step of my scuffed loafers as my cracked and smudgy glasses continue to threaten me with the idea of slipping off of my face.


    Yes, I proceeded down the roads, across bustling cityscapes, through traffic and over the bridges. Until I found myself trespassing into a nearby construction zone and treading upon a girder suspended several stories in the air. It seems my feet had different plans than I for today.


    It could have been the heat, or a sense of shame, or perhaps subtle defiance, but my brain and vision were clouded over today. And I entertained the thought of letting my feet continue forward, even allowing my hunched body to sway to and fro along the way. I stare deeply into the beam, only really seeing a red haze continuously interrupted by the rhythm of my footsteps. Only reminded that it''s a beam through the clunk, clunk, clunk of my footsteps. Only reminded they''re my footsteps because they move in front of me in a way only I can walk.


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    Suddenly, I am no longer walking.


    The wind has been generous enough to cool me on such a summery morning. Cradling me as I feel the breeze slipping between my fingers. I am given a gift. For the first time in decades, centuries, possibly millennia, my eyes meet the vast blue expanse.


    Dazzling, boundless azure coats my view. A sea of puffy, white clouds are painted across the horizon. Forming a kingdom of abstract shapes and figures. I am gazing into the ether, the upper reaches of an astral ocean. A sapphire sky that has sheltered me since birth, an ever present guardian angel. My second mother.


    I am witnessing heaven.


    My vision blurs for but a moment as a few new raindrops are added to the sky. It is a view that can be defined with every word in every language, yet cannot be defined at all. It cannot be fully conceptualized or envisioned. It simply is. And as the crests of the dull, grey skyscrapers begin to pollute the scene. I have but one single wish:


    "I want to see the sky again".


    And within an instant, I see nothing at all.


    *    *    *


    Ohhh...Ohhhh! Now that! Yes, that is an interesting sight! One I''ve never seen before, and one I really didn''t ever expect to see. This young man right here, hanging a few feet in front of me within this pitch-dark void is suspended upon a cross! He is crucified! Each arm tied with scarlet rope to either side of the black post! Does he think himself a Messiah!?


    Now that''s all fine and dandy, believe me I''m sure he''s enjoying himself up there. Can''t quite see his face but I''m sure he''s got plenty to smile about with that ego of his. But! But!! But!!! Here''s the punchline, the idiot''s got the nail in the wrong place! He''s got a hole punched in his gut, straight in the middle of himself. Just pinned up there like a note on a cork board! I came here to talk to him a bit but I honestly have to bite my tongue to keep from bursting into a laughing fit.


    Ah, ow ow ow...Keeping my laughs stifled is such a pain. These teeth are like razors! And this suit is so stuffy too...I feel like such a tool wearing this. But! It''s good for making negotiations. Now then, let''s see if I can make this poor boy''s day...


    It seems the little snickering I had to myself awakened him, his head lifted slowly, until our eyes met. One would think waking up in such a scenario would be terrifying, a major adrenaline boost, asking the obvious "where am I?", "who are you?", kinds of questions. Until the pain started setting in of course. But he was silent, expressionless, despite awakening in limbo crucified and covered in his own blood. It''s like the guy was doing his best to imitate a savior, or maybe he truly was hollow to the core.


    With those possibilities, there''s only about a fifty percent chance that what I''m doing here will bear any fruit at all. In fact it could prove disastrous. Though despite the innumerable risks that could come with offering this young man such an extraordinary opportunity, in this brief moment I couldn''t help but be mystified by his reaction to the scene he''s being presented with. Has he even noticed the scene he''s being presented with? His eyes linger on my own, unblinking. His expression is solemn. He asks no questions and speaks no words. Is he judging me? Let¡¯s try breaking the silence.


    "Are you aware that you have died?"


    "Yes. I know."


    His hoarse voice can barely vocalize a response, it''s more than likely that his lungs are crushed. His expression is unchanging. Let''s try again.


    "Are you aware this is not heaven?"


    "I''m not expecting heaven."


    His eyes are light bulbs that have dimmed and burned out. It seems as if the vigor has been whittled away from him years before he found himself here, or perhaps it was drained in an instant. Again, I''ll ask him.


    "Are you aware of how you died?"


    "I fell."


    He felt no pain. Again.


    "Are you aware of where you are?"


    "Not at all."


    No, he does feel pain, Entirely conscious, entirely aware of his situation. Why I''d venture to say he''s well aware of his surroundings, despite his stoic response! His face hasn''t changed though. And his body is entirely limp, the dried stains seem to indicate he''s lost about all he can. Again.


    "Are you aware that, in a moment, your existence will be erased?"


    "I wasn''t aware, and I don''t entirely care."


    He is papier-mach¨¦. A hollow statue. Every alarm bell is going off, and I am totally deaf. Every red flag is being waved, and I am totally blind. Everything I''ve worked towards, everything I''ve gambled upon could be rubbed out in an instant. Yet what lies before me is a gallery piece. The essence of despair. Would it be so cruel to deprive him of his fade to nothing? To alter his fate, against his will? This is someone who has absolutely, positively accepted what is to come naturally. I would be nothing short of a villain if I were to disrupt the natural cycle of life and death with my offering. As puzzling as the sight laid before me may be, I must resist. As curious as I am about his past and personality, I must resist. As much as I wish to view his full potential...I must...resist...


    ...Hey was that an "entirely" I heard in his response? He doesn''t "entirely" care? As in, he does care a little, right? If he truly didn''t care. He would have phrased it "I don''t care, entirely." or "I entirely do not care." But he phrased it "I don''t entirely care." What an odd phrasing. How would one dissect that? He doesn''t care about it, entirely? With the implication that he entirely lacks regard for what is to come? Or he does not care entirely, meaning that his caring about the scenario is incomplete. That his lack of caring makes up only a fraction of his true feelings! Now I''m left with even more questions...fine! Lets jump straight to the controversial questions. Best to get a definite "No." So I can stop wasting my time with these head spinning musings!


    "Would you like to live agai¡ª"


    "YES."


    His voice was clear, echoing through the vast emptiness. Shaken, I took a step backwards. Had I heard that right? Did this lifeless husk that had already resigned himself to fate just call out in such a booming tone? Clinging to life now of all times? I looked around for a moment, regaining some composure and putting my restless mind at ease. Upon meeting his gaze once more, his eyes were gleaming, reinvigorated in an instant! Forest green, just like my own. They were fixed upon me, twinkling, near pleading! Like a puppy dog, begging for dinner scraps.. Closer too, much closer...he was leaning towards me! Suspended on the cross, he strained against the nail in his belly and the ropes on his wrists! What unimaginable torture he must feel! Yet his eyes, they shimmered with wonder! It was as if I were telling a young child the story of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. Like a baby tasting candy for the first time.


    My lips curled, no more playing coy. A sinful, no, downright profane grin shot across my face, one I had not felt in years. He was the marble I was looking for. A masterpiece to be chiseled, with guidelines written all over him. Now for the punchline!


    "Would you still choose to be reborn, even if your second life were assuredly worse than your previous?"


    Bam! There we have it! Now then, show me! I may be patient, but when the ball gets rolling I''m not the type of girl to just sit around! Go on, pained soldier! Show me what kind of man you are!!


    Silence.


    There was nothing around us, nothing in our minds. Pure silence stretching on for an infinite number of miles, pure silence for an eternity. Yet his expression was unchanging. Silence, until-


    The wicked grin that spread across my face was mirrored in his own.


    "Amen."


    I could feel every milliliter of blood soar through my body. I could feel my fists clench so hard that my palms were nearly sliced open by my own nails. My teeth gnashed together, and my lips stretched further than I previously thought possible. I found it at last, a new Angel. At last, I was finally able to speak those hallowed words once more! All at once, in an eruption of our combined passions, instinctively, I felt it! My back arched, hands spread out to my sides, head tilting back in abject bliss!


    "IN EXCHANGE FOR YOUR SOUL! I SENTENCE YOU TO DEVILAND!! A DARK WORLD OF THE EVIL AND THE MACABRE!!"


    Bursting from the endless nothing, a wooden door looking indistinguishable one which you''d find in any average office building stared down the young man on the cross, roughly three hundred feet directly ahead. It challenged him. The man¡¯s response was nothing short of a miracle. His arms strained against the red ropes, blood bursting forth, the wood of the cross splintering under the heaving might that was this man¡¯s will to live once more! Hauling himself forward, centimeters at a time along the great nail that so desperately wishes to keep him pinned. Against all odds, he smiles! Eyes sparkling, even with blood and tears welling up in them. But he is in abject bliss, the prospect of life anew fuels him, it is a face of pure gratitude. I see him mouth but two words when at last-


    He bursts from the cross, leaving a shower of timber to fall around us as the man breaks into a full sprint. I barely have time to collect my thoughts, to process the situation as with each step this man takes, his wounds seem to close, his complexion grows clearer, his beaming face ever more radiant as a laugh bellows from deep within his soul. Surely, you would think him psychotic, or at the very least experiencing a bout of mania. But when one glimpses their nirvana, even for just a moment, it could very well be enough to shake the earth. This was his one-hundred-meter dash to rebirth. A marathon of life leading to a race from death. His arms flailed wildly, his legs tripping over themselves as he made a mad dash towards his new beginning. It was pure awe that I felt, an inspiring scene, as if a falsely-convicted  prisoner had broken free of his cell¡­ As if a rabid animal had escaped euthanasia... As if Lucifer himself were ascending from the depths of the nine circles...


    His hand finally clasped the handle, and he howled out for all the endless nothing to hear:


    ¡°AND WHO IS MY SAVIOR? AND WHO DO I OWE MY VERY SOUL?¡±


    ¡°Carnivale¡­Rhythm.¡±


    I could barely speak my own name before he rushed through the door to Deviland, entirely disregarding my warning of the immeasurable dangers that were to come from accepting the offer. Though, between myself and my own thoughts¡­


    I feel like I may have unleashed something equally dangerous upon my own world.

 TESTAMENT ONE: Deviland Down Below - 01

    Under the ever-orange sky, through the unpaved roads of sand and soot, far out and away from the rows and rows of identical dull-gray skyscrapers, lies a lone mausoleum. Not part of any cemetery or burial ground. It is a little house of stone and marble nestled in an oasis of black grass and white lilies. However much like Deviland itself, this mausoleum is quite deceptive, with a storied history to it that few may know and none may speak of.


    Deep within this tiny mausoleum¡¯s winding halls, down the dizzying lengths of the spiral staircases, and tucked away neatly in one of the farthest corners of the central chamber was a glossy wooden door. One that could blend in perfectly to any school, university, or office building. Yet completely unbefitting for a house of the dead. Stranger still, if one were to open that door they would be met with a truly astounding sight, no doubt followed by a mountain of questions, most of which concerning architecture.


    Velvet carpeting paved the floor, all the way around the length of the circular walls. Black, metallic lattice was bent and contorted into abstract shapes and patterns in a Dali-esque fashion for the wall decoration. With the only source of illumination coming from a single Fresnel light affixed to the center of the ceiling. It was an expansive, pristine realm that dwarfed even the central chamber.


    This was the bathroom. The only indication of such truth comes from the bathtub set in the very center of the room, The lone and single fixture giving company to the otherwise empty floor. Within this bathtub was the bubbling, black water from which I have just emerged. Now, sat within the lukewarm pitch-black liquid and taking in my first sights as a new man, I speak my first words:


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you afraid of having the water spill?¡±


    My answer came in the form of a wicked cackle from the lady sitting across from me.


    ¡°That¡¯s what you choose as your first words?¡±


    I stare at her blankly, my placid expression unflinching. With a blink, and a thought, I decide to expound upon my reasoning.


    ¡°Well, I suppose there are other things I could ask, but I¡¯d rather address those with the shortest answers before moving onto the more complex. Broader questions like ¡®Who are you?¡¯ would only lead into further tangents. Which would distract from getting your answer as to how you avoid getting mold on your carpet from the possible spillage of water here.¡±


    Yet again, she laughs. Though the way her voice snapped and shattered made it more of a shrill howl. A cry quite contradictory to her neutral speaking voice. A sound quite unbefitting of a woman her age.


    ¡°You really don¡¯t want to try that again? To have a second chance to make your first words in your new body have a bit more impact to ¡®em?¡±


    ¡°I was speaking genuinely, it¡¯s the most logical way to approach asking these series of questions, is it not? I was just planning accordingly. Besides¡­I¡¯m plenty satisfied knowing my first words were enough to make someone laugh.¡±


    I retorted, returning a smile. It felt almost unnatural, to speak so casually like this again, for my lips to curl in genuine amusement rather than a facade of pleasantries in an attempt to reassure those that would occasionally check in on me for updates in regards to my health and wellness. Never having anything positive to share, nothing positive to say. All I could muster was a half-hearted twitch of the cheeks and whatever thoughtless words of consolation I could spit at them to pacify their desire to feel good about themselves. They may have cared, it¡¯s possible to some degree. But more so than anything they knew they¡¯d feel guilty if they didn¡¯t  check in on me to some degree. Nothing with them was genuine.


    It seems my smile had faded, Rhythm leaned forward, but not more than a few inches, giving a more sympathetic look.


    ¡°Can¡¯t give at least a little more of a smile than that? C¡¯mon, you¡¯re alive again! It¡¯s not all gonna be bad, promise.¡±


    She spoke not like a dejected owner looking down onto their sick old hound dog. But rather as a counselor would to a troubled child. It¡¯s a tone of voice I had not heard in years, possibly over a decade now. However, I still am nary to believe a word of what she says. I¡¯d be an idiot to give up my trust to the first woman that shows interest in me! I did it before, and it certainly didn¡¯t end well¡­Besides, I hadn¡¯t forgotten our agreement that this life I¡¯m living now will somehow be worse than what I had previously, I need to press her.


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    ¡°You moved forward to try and sympathize in an act of intimacy, but stopped after only a few inches because you knew I was the more defensive type. You¡¯re holding back because trying to explain or show off too much would get in my head. You don¡¯t want to shatter the trust you¡¯re trying to build.¡±


    I spoke in my usual soft, yet flat tone. It was certainly blunt, but I had to be in order to knock down her facade and gain a glimpse into her true personality. My gaze met her own, and her expression stayed firm for a moment before being shattered with a smirk and the narrowing of her eyes.


    ¡°We¡¯re sharing a bath together, you know. You can¡¯t get more intimate than this.¡±


    The water is warm, yet I am frozen stiff. I opened my mouth to retort but failed to find the proper words.


    ¡°Yes, I suppose you¡¯re right. Sorry to make assumptions.¡±


    ¡°And no reaction to sharing a bath with a beautiful woman alone in a velveted room illuminated under the stage light?¡±


    I paused for a moment to get a good look at her. Despite being in the same bath, just inches apart from one another, my gaze till now had been drifting aimlessly, only meeting her eyes when necessary to speak my piece. When any young man around my age would be pouncing at the chance to cop a feel or act out their favorite scene from whatever porno they kept tucked away on a folder within their desktop. Though I suppose if she¡¯s being so inviting, I could indulge and take in the image of my savior.


    Starting from the top of her head, Straight grape-colored locks flowed down to her chest, curling up a bit as they rested upon her collar bones. A small widow''s peak splitting her hairline straight down the middle. Rhythm¡¯s hair framed the rest of her face quite nicely, actually. Though upon getting a closer look¡­She was perfectly symmetrical, to a frankly surprising degree. Not only her hair, but her shady-green eyes and each lash under them were mirrored identically. Her thin brows were equal, not only in length but down to each individual hair follicle. A subtle nose was dotted in the center of her visage, with a fair complexion untarnished by neither blotch nor blemish. Long, thin lips ran across her face, flashing perfectly white teeth when she spoke. The only concerning factor was the shape, each one was triangular, as if her gums were lined entirely with canines or shark teeth. Yet each was of equal length, size and color. Her chin was small and round. The only stone tossed through the reality of such a perfectly-mirrored appearance were the two black rings pierced to the left side of her bottom lip. Spider bites, I believe, was the term used. Her body was slender, with a modest chest size. The way she sat made it apparent she was certainly taller than me, perhaps brushing up to around six feet. I had given thought to gazing lower, but the gentleman in me refused, or perhaps I was simply feeling a tad bashful now that the reality of the situation is setting in.


    My gaze drifted upward, towards the particles of dust dancing about under the light.


    ¡°Have you ever taken theater classes?¡± I finally responded. She scoffed, but decided to indulge my pointless musing.


    ¡°Not once in my life, though I¡¯ve had friends who were quite the characters themselves.¡± To which I remarked with a:


    ¡°I see, because it looks like you stole these lights right off of Broadway. These, uhm¡­¡±


    ¡°Fresnel lights.¡± She answered me. Yes, I was unaware of the name of the light fixture until that moment. It was only after her answer that the fact was cemented in my mind.


    I waited a second, then two, reflecting on if I should continue the conversation to maintain a natural flow, or pause to see if she would reveal more information about her past. Of course, there was no way to verify the validity of her statements yet. But it would be a good idea to let her talk in order to cross reference later, checking if she¡¯s the type to brazenly run her mouth or lie through the teeth. But just as I was laying the groundwork, my strategies backfired when she questioned me with a:


    ¡°How about you? You have a nice face, good jaw definition, and you certainly put on a show up on that cross.¡±


    It seems the only way to proceed naturally will be to reveal more about myself and my previous life. Best to be truthful and avoid crafting landmines down the road. Though I¡¯d be lying if I said I wasn¡¯t eager to talk about myself. Perhaps she has a way with words, or perhaps I, a weakness for women. A thin smirk returned to my face.


    ¡°Film class actually. Back in high school. I was always a script writer though. The scant few times I was able to act I knocked it out of the park I¡¯d say. Only ever an extra, and only ever with a single line. But I was a cut above, I promise! The only reason I didn¡¯t get picked more often was because I was the more reserved type, I never made myself noticed. Which, to be fair, is the trait of a bad actor. Even the quiet types need to know how to make themselves known in order to market themselves. But then again, the blame may lie on the curriculum for allowing students to decide roles democratically rather than cycling between each facet of the film-making process per project. Nevertheless, I had the capabilities to become a star! All knew it, and none wished to admit it.¡±


    ¡°So you peaked in high school?¡± She responded playfully.


    I say ¡®playfully¡¯ but in all honesty a bullet was fired through my frankly overinflated ego. A murder of my self respect had taken place, and I sit here in this tub not with egg on my face, but the entire br?l¨¦e. I feel this was the first of many humblings I will encounter, and I quickly flounder to keep my cool before my ever-generous savior relieves me of the fires of chagrin with yet another offer:


    ¡°How would you feel about becoming the main character?¡±


    My eyes widened for a moment. Though upon remembering some unfortunate incidents, I sobered up once more. ¡°I¡¯d prefer not to be in front of any cameras.¡± I answered flatly. Her head tilted to the side along with a disappointed frown, but she seemed to understand my plight to some degree. She studied my words for a moment, then opened her mouth once more:


    ¡°Not in that way. Here, follow me for a bit, I think you might like what you¡¯ll see!¡±


    Emerging from the bath with naught a thought for modesty, (nor the poor velveted carpet) Rhythm led me out into the central chamber.

 TESTAMENT ONE: Deviland Down Below - 02

    The Deviland Mausoleum Central Chamber,


    a roomy area for sure, but nigh inconsiderable when compared to the monumental bathroom. Though it certainly appeared a more traditional resting area. Walls of stone and marble, a ceiling of glass allowing that scant bit of the sun''s rays that made it all the way down here to illuminate patches of the red and black checkerboard flooring. Vinyl, it was, that¡¯s what my feet told me, and plenty cool too. I felt myself an anglerfish at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, though I suppose an ocean would make an appropriate place for one¡¯s rebirth.


    Rhythm procured a towel previously hanging off of one of the bookshelves and dried herself off, fitting back into her black suit and tie she had laying on the desk.


    Ah, yes. The desk, and swivel chair to match, along with a lounge chair sat across from said desk. And who could forget the bookshelves too? Scratch my previous statements, this section of the mausoleum seemed ever stranger with each second my eyes scanned over it. It was as if Pee-wee¡¯s Playhouse and Saul Goodman¡¯s law office had a demented lovechild! Before I had a moment to process the champloo of office supplies and odd patterns running across the floor, Rhythm spoke up.


    ¡°Wanna take a look at your new body? We made it together, you know!¡± She gave a warm smile and took my hand, pulling me in front of a mirror hanging off the wall. She seemed eager to hear my response, and had already begun eyeing me up and down. While I don¡¯t prefer to look at myself, I decided it was only fair to Rhythm to at least have a glimpse at my new form. After which I¡¯ll surely ask about that odd comment of hers she stuck at the end.


    Once more, starting from the top: My hair seems to have a bit more volume now, perhaps due to the bath we had just shared. But the style has shifted from my old middle part to a set of bangs that lie neatly across my forehead, just blanketing my eyebrows. My skin is clear now too, though my actual tone has become a ghostly white. My once square face and features have become elongated and angular. My button nose had gained more definition, displayed prominently akin to a bayonet. It was a bold look, yet with a tinge of elegance.


    Like Rhythm, my complexion had become noticeably more symmetrical, down to the lashes and pores. The goatee I had been cultivating in an attempt to retain some masculinity was done away with, my entire body now as smooth as the lacquered wood shelves that had once made up my home library. Stranger still was the fact that the majority of my body was seemingly untouched.


    The colors of my eyes and hair remained the same, I still sounded the same when I spoke. I was the same height, and as indicated by my visible ribs, the same weight as I¡¯d been in my previous life.


    How disappointing. I had hope when Rhythm mentioned a new body, yet my boney, malnourished frame was all that greeted me in the mirror. It wasn¡¯t an awful body to inhabit, but it was one I¡¯d grown tired of. Tired of my long hair and slender form having me mistaken for a woman by innumerable passers-by. From being cat-called in between classes at my university, to being addressed as ¡°Miss¡± or ¡°Ma''am¡± by mall and corner store salesmen, only to see their faces slip when I respond in a distinctly male cadence.


    It was a body not suited for clothing. I had been bumped down to children¡¯s sizes due to my narrow physique. The problem worsened to the point that no belts were made small enough for my waist, leading to me poking additional holes in them myself. Though all previous complaints pale in comparison to the most awful, and certainly most distinctive feminine feature of mine.


    That would lie with my hips.


    I was always what one would call ¡°pear-shaped¡±. It frustrated me greatly. The rippling muscles and defined pectorals I¡¯d hoped for when doing vigorous exercises in my teenage years never came. Rather the majority of my defining features went to my lower half. Worsening still when I eventually fell ill and began losing mass. In rebellion to the ever-narrowing crisis the rest of my body was facing, my hips were the only part of me that stayed the same. My only piece reminding me of what I once was. Taunting me for taking my previous size for granted. They always stretched and strained against even the loosest-fitting pants I could stuff myself into. It wasn¡¯t long after I¡¯d been stricken with my illness that I¡¯d find myself tearing through a laundromat¡¯s worth of slacks, jeans, and pajamas. My hips were a ravenous beast, devouring my entire wardrobe in just a few short months. A body too slight, with hips like a barge. I was every tailor¡¯s nightmare.


    And here I glare at this body once more, disturbingly similar to the one I so desperately tried to discard not a single hour ago. Disgustingly lithe, with a revoltingly feminine air. Oh, how I loathe to look at myself.


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    Ah, and there¡¯s also a giant hole through my midsection. I suppose that would be the elephant in the room. But the gaping hole centered directly above my stomach was the least of my concerns when compared to my dismally ladylike figure.


    Yet just as I was beginning to relish in my own bodily critique, a hand jutted through my back and out through my solar plexus! My brain was sent into a hard reboot period as I acquainted myself with the feeling of having my newest orifice suddenly penetrated by Rhythm¡¯s intrusive touch.


    ¡°Hmmm, Hmmm! Wow, it''s all sealed up around the inside! Good good, I was worried your guts¡¯d leak out!¡±


    This is, without a doubt, a violation of some kind. I, of course, couldn¡¯t speak. Or rather I couldn¡¯t find the words or sounds to express myself. So I simply stayed silent. Her fingers danced within the walls of my void plexus (a name that was all too cool for the dreadful lack of organs that it was.) Her hand was cold and curious, exploring every inch of the in, out, and around of my newest perforation.


    ¡°Now you¡¯re a curious case! Staring so scornfully at yourself, yet it was your subconscious that gave me the blueprints to your preferred form! Why turn your nose up when faced with your own desires!?¡±


    I¡­I haven¡¯t a clue what she meant. My eyes couldn¡¯t stay open. My hands contracted, balling up as two dead spiders affixed to my wrists. It was a feeling unable to be compared to neither pain nor pleasure.


    ¡°Well, what do you think of yourself!? Let¡¯s hear it! I want it straight from the mouth! You were a fine hunk of dry and dusty clay, yet with our combined wills you have been shaped once more! You are my art!¡±


    Her pitch shifted upwards as her probing and stirring quickened. The sultry-warm tone she took with me before was rapidly shifting to a cold and shrill shrieking as her fingers licked the rim of my void. I felt a sweltering sense of heat, a ringing in my ears, my pulse quickening! Yet I could not utter a single word of defiance.


    ¡°I want to hear! I want to hear! I desperately, feverishly want to hear! I want your name! I want your spells! I want to raise you into the perfect New Angel to secure an evolutionary path for Deviland! One to stand above the Humans and Witches! Why, I''d venture to say you''ve already become  I will be your gardener. So please, speak the name of my seedling!!¡±


    Her digits skipped back and forth along the length of my void plexus. The buzzing in my head grew louder, what kind of greeting is this? Was this an act of love? An attack? A test of the merchandise? A formal inspection? I¡¯ve never met anyone with a hole through their midsection, so was I the lone individual capable of feeling this sensation? Delivered to me by my savior, the one whom I now owe my life to?


    Just as I was becoming conscious enough to assess the situation, I felt the length of Rhythm¡¯s forearm rush out through my back in a single, swift motion. Then, lifting both arms, she sat them gingerly on my shoulders.


    ¡°Well? Questions? Comments? Concerns? Critique? Or perhaps, applause?¡± She chirped, her lips smacking as they curled into a satisfied smirk.


    I was utterly stupefied. Nevertheless, it successfully took my mind off of the qualms and concerns I held with my new form. I blinked once or twice before sitting myself down in the nearby lounge chair, leaning forward. My head, as heavy as the heavens above, rested in the palms of my hands. I felt myself empathizing with Atlas for but a tick. That was until I noticed¡­


    My¡­hands. Well they were certainly my hands, attached at the arms and all, yet they were distinctly inhuman. Tapered fingers, from nail to wrist were a deep purple, with swirling, spiraling strings of scarlet flowing atop. Tiny yellow calluses dotted my palms. Three on each hand, placed between the knuckles. I was unfazed. The impromptu examination I¡¯d experienced still left me in a semi-euphoric state. I took a few deep breaths, leveled my head, and locked eyes with Rhythm, giving the response I felt most appropriate:


    ¡°Patchery Pittari. If I have a new body, I¡¯m owed a right to a new name, yes?¡±


    Upon hearing such a bold statement, her eyes widened. It was a rapid, universal expanse happening twice over as galaxies were born that twinkled in her irises. It was perhaps the most raw emotion I¡¯ve seen of Rhythm thus far. More so than her frantic stirring of my innards.


    It called back to my own youthful face of wonder, the same expression that I¡¯d held when an action hero made a grand appearance. It was obvious from the start that Rhythm was one to be respected, she gifted me another life after all. But it was her face now, a face that only one with a human heart could make, that solidified my trust in her, despite her eccentric mannerisms.


    ¡°Rhythm, I''m sorry if this offends you, but I don¡¯t feel comfortable giving you the name that was tied to my previous life. If possible, I¡¯d like an entirely clean slate.¡± I sat upright, carrying a bit more confidence in my tone. I spoke with her the same way I would with a trusted business partner, fresh off of closing a deal. After hearing my resolve to secure my new identity, her sobriety returned and she gave a welcoming look.


    ¡°Understood, Patchery...¡± her voice returned to its natural, velvety tone as she scooped up some neatly-folded office clothes from the top of her desk. An outfit looking very similar to my work uniform, topped with my own glasses. Cheerily, she turned towards me, and tossed them into my lap.


    ¡°...But you¡¯d look much cooler if you said that with some pants on.¡±


    Ah, that¡¯s right. I¡¯ve been naked this whole time, haven¡¯t I?

 TESTAMENT ONE: Deviland Down Below - 03

    ¡°Nothing happened, she didn¡¯t see anything," was the mantra I¡¯d chosen to repeat in my mind as I got myself dressed, my ghostly visage burning a beet red as Rhythm stifled a snicker not six feet away. Once I¡¯d gathered the scraps of my dignity strewn about the floor, I patted myself off. Fitting nicely into the very same outfit I¡¯d taken my own life in, a frown painted itself under my nose.


    ¡°Why these clothes? It seems a bit¡­grim.¡± I ask, furrowing my brow and turning towards Rhythm. Catching a glimpse of my insecurity, she flashed a knowing smirk.


    ¡°If you¡¯re scared of a simple uniform, you won¡¯t make it very far as a New Angel. Besides, those clothes have changed too!¡± She retorted, poking a finger to my forehead.


    ¡°But you¡¯ll just have to find out the how¡¯s and why¡¯s of that for yourself!¡± She paused for a moment after, and seemed pleased when I couldn¡¯t hide the look of amusement I had upon hearing her teasing.


    ¡°Now then! About your payment, rebirth isn¡¯t free you know. I need you to do something for me.¡± She spoke, turning on her heels.


    ¡°Ah, yes, of course. Well I¡¯m not good at mathematics or art, but I¡¯ve proved well with¨C¡±


    ¡°I need you to kill these people!¡± She declared.


    ¡°Y-hwhat now?¡± I flubbed back. But before I could ask for her to expound upon that, she opened a drawer and proceeded to dump fourteen PVC cards across her desk.


    ¡°Deviland is at war, Patchery. And these are the most dangerous contenders here. Some vying for power, others status. Some fight in the name of religion, and some for the thrill of bloodshed. These are ¡®the Thirteen Devils of Deviland¡¯! So get a good look at their names, and remember the faces of the ones with the ID photos still intact!¡±


    My mouth was agape, my eyes widened as I stared at the mess she poured in front of me. My mind nearly refused to process what was just asked.


    Now, I won¡¯t lie. I¡¯ve been known to have violent tendencies, but I¡¯ve never acted as a hitman before! Though it was clear I was already in too deep to say no, I had a mountain of questions, but sometimes the only way to get a proper answer is not to ask. I complied with Rhythm, and stared long and hard at each ID card. Each one numbered, with the race of the individual seemingly marked below the standard identification details. They were as follows:


    13. Mirror Solomon - Witch.


    12. Nightmare Filo - Witch.


    11. Eldric Imperium - Human.


    10. Rosalyne Garth - New Angel.


    9. Dorikoria Holiadore - Witch.


    8. Lyricelica Lilac - Witch.


    7. Nightmare Chocolia - Human.


    6. Romero Allen Anderson - Witch.


    5. Shockadelica Samson - Human.


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    4. Verden Aesthmeire - New Angel.


    3. Alexandra Alexandria Rosamaria Rosa - Status Unknown.


    2. Adrien Katrina - Witch.


    1. Crow Fortitude - Status Unknown.


    And another, a fourteenth card, left mostly blank and split in half, and given how Rhythm mentioned the ¡°Thirteen Devils¡± of Deviland, perhaps this one had already fallen victim to the warfare. Nevertheless, their name was Jaquelyn Frost, status unknown.


    ¡°Some Human, some New Angel, some Witches. All of which either hold or have the potential to wield Witchpower that could shake the earth and shatter the heavens. All of them, including you, Patchery!¡± She spoke excitedly, grasping onto me once more.


    ¡°Witchpower is innate in all living beings in Deviland, and through honing your mind and soul, you too can stand against and put an end to the urban warfare plaguing our hometown! Isn¡¯t that cool!?¡± Her voice cracked as her nails dug into my shoulders.


    Under any normal circumstances, I¡¯d spend time deliberating my options here. The moral implications of taking a life versus staying loyal to the one who summoned me here, no doubt using her very own Witchpower to do so. But when one is faced with a woman roughly ten years their senior excitedly digging her claws into you in exchange for your dedication to cultivating a latent talent for magical powers, as well as giving free reign to crusade against evil witches, religious lunatics, and whatever that third option is supposed to be¡­Well, one may find it hard to say no.


    I find it impossible to say no.


    I blink, and already my feet have whisked me halfway up the spiral staircase leading to the entrance of the mausoleum. Rhythm delightedly clapping and prancing around me as I stride upwards.


    ¡°Ah, Patchery! Make sure you¡¯ve memorized the faces and names on those cards! I only have one copy, so they stay with me!¡±


    I stride upwards.


    ¡°Ah, Patchery! What spell did you use up on that cross? I saw how your mouth moved! Even if you used it unconsciously, you have to remember the name, right?¡±


    I stride upwards.


    ¡°Ah, Patchery! Take these gloves to cover your hands! They should keep your Witchpower under control!¡± She chirped, tossing a pair of black leather gloves to the heavens. I simply strode onwards, lifting my hands in front of my face until the gloves slipped right on, like an angel descending from the heavens.


    ¡°Thank you for the gift, Rhythm. Sentimental things make me uncomfortable, but I promise to treasure and care for them.¡± I spoke unflinchingly, finally arriving at the top of the staircase and marching down the hall towards the entrance.


    ¡°Ah, Patchery¡­Don¡¯t you have anything cool to say before you begin our grand crusade?¡± Clearly dejected, this yin-and-yang woman leaned forward towards me, tilting her head, walking backwards to maintain my pace. I stopped in my tracks, closing my eyes and balling my fists. The leather straining in my grip.


    ¡°Rhythm, or Carnivale, whatever you prefer¡­I spent the entirety of my previous life disappointing everyone, including myself. I spoke of projects and creative endeavors that never came to fruition. I failed college and nearly all my efforts in education. I was unable to keep a stable job or maintain a social life with friends and family. I simply lived complacent with the fact that I was still alive, and because of that I missed out on the innumerable joys of existence. I do not want to live that same life again. I do not simply wish to speak of my ambitions, to jail them within my mind.¡±


    I opened my eyes, meeting her own. I spoke not by my tongue, but through my very soul.


    ¡°To hesitate is to die, Rhythm. I will not die again.¡±


    The statue of a failed human being had cracked and crumbled to dust, and from within had sprouted a new Angel.


    Marching forth, I reached the grand iron gate, and pressed a hand against it.


    Without effort, the tonnes of metal slowly began to grind open, and I was baptized by the warm rays of sun that now blanketed the inner halls of the mausoleum. The sun roof provided a scant bit of illumination, but it was in this moment that I truly felt I was born once more.


    Taking my first steps onto the obsidian meadow, breathing in the smell of fresh air and white lilies, I tilted my head back to meet Rhythm¡¯s gaze.


    ¡°Now watch me blossom.¡±