Page 57 of Prayer of the Damned
Dinner, Bella my beauty. Tomorrow at midnight.
Libretto.
I drop the paper like it’s poison. I. hate. being. called. Bella. Who the hell does he think he is? I already know what’ll be served for dinner. Him. His blood. He wants to fill my veins until I give in to him. First in spirit, then in body.Gross.
The old man won’t let go. He wants Lilith, but refuses to understand that I have no intention of letting her take me over. Belle Fermi is here to stay. Until I take my own life. And if Dr. Abano can’t banish Lilith, I’ll destroy my body myself.
My first lesson on today’s schedule is Demonic Arts, taught by Mr. Fleming. I enter the lecture hall and sit to one side, watching the other freshmen demons enter in groups. Summer classes really helped consolidate the group and form friendships. And once again I’m on the outside, just like all throughout my high school years. As I’ve been my whole life.
In the corner of my eye I see Valentina come in, arm-in-arm with Tyra, Evan beside them pressed up against another demoness. They look up at me for a moment, but hurry to sit on the other side of the hall.
When the bell rings, Mr. Fleming – a demon who’s embraced old age gracefully, with his thinning white hair and frumpy clothes – walks into the lecture hall and takes to the stage. He places his leather briefcase on the table, and hands his TA a small black suitcase.
“Lights!” he calls, with no preparation or preamble. When the lights go out, a nightmarish image appears on the white screen behind him. “Henry Fuseli,The Nightmare,” he declares, looking at it for a while without saying a word, letting the students take in the work of art.
A woman lay in bed, asleep or lifeless, with a terrifying demon sitting on her stomach. Behind the curtain was another horse-like demon. That’s how humans see us. Even if we don’t look the way we’re depicted in works of art, it’s right that they fear us. Their fear is justified. The image changes to another version of that same work. And again, and again, the works change and become more modern, but the image remains. The lights come back on and I blink to readjust to the florescent illumination.
“The Nightmare,” he declares again. “From 1781 to today. The nightmare has remained the same.” I look around at the embarrassed students. “Does anyone in this room have opinions on the piece, or must I force it out of you?” A few hands rise. “Introduce yourselves before you answer, I promise that by next class I’ll memorize your names. Yes, Miss,” he points to a student in the front row.
“Caitlyn, Mr. Fleming. I must say that was pretty offensive, that barbaric image of us,” the student replies, receiving nods from the crowd in response.
Mr. Fleming ponders her answer, then walks to her and pulls her up onto her feet. She gasps in surprise as he turns her towards the class, one hand gripping her wrist and another on her waist.
“Let me ask you this,” he addresses the class, but his mouth is by her ear. I straighten up and lean forward, to give my full attention to the forefront of the stage. Is it even appropriate for a lecturer to touch a student this way? “Will a young demon come to you in the middle of the night in her school uniform, her shortskirt…” He caresses her exposed thigh and I feel uncomfortable. Caitlyn’s shivering like a stray leaf at his touch. “Will you not willingly invite the Devil in?” he gurgles next to her ear.
“Oh, yes, sir!” Calls of encouragement come from the audience, and Mr. Fleming releases Caitlyn at once and sends her back to her seat.
“Then why should they see the truth?” Mr. Fleming laughs, pointing to another student who’s raised his hand.
“Evan, Mr. Fleming. It’s control through fear. The demons roam the night, hunting their human victims during moments of weakness, while they’re asleep and unaware of what’s happening around them.”
I raise my hand, and Mr. Fleming’s eyes light up at once when he realizes it’s me.
“Belle, Mr. Fleming. And what if demons don’t roam around them at all? Is it possible they’re within them? During dreams the unconscious mind brings up the most diabolic desires. Could sleeping humans secretly long for what they fight against when they’re awake?”
Mr. Fleming smiles and gestures to his teaching assistant. The lights go out and another work appears on the white screen. A naked woman sprawled on a bed, her legs spread. The painting is actually mainly focused on what’s between her legs. “GustaveCourbet,The Origin of the World,” Mr. Fleming says.
“The origin of the world…” I whisper, examining the painting closely. The woman creating a world.
The teaching assistant goes through one work after another featuring naked, sprawling women. I press my thighs together, feeling the pulses between my legs intensify due to the erotic works displayed to us. The dissonance between the eroticism and the innocence of bringing life into the world shakes me. Finally Mr. Fleming stops at the last work of art.
“The Night-Hag Visiting Lapland Witches. We return to Henry Fuseli.”
“The demon in the first painting is male, and his victim is a woman. In the other images strong women appear, they’re not victims,” I say without raising my hand. All the others in class fall silent. It seems Mr. Fleming is lecturing only to me.
“From victim to avenger. Is it not Woman who corrupted the heart of Man?” he asks, and my thoughts are thrown right back to history class, when Dr. Abano taught us about the sin of the Garden of Eden.
“Maybe Woman has the power to destroy, but she creates life as well,” I answer, feeling a need to defend the female sex.
Mr. Fleming again gestures, and the teaching assistant moves on to another work. The entire class erupts into sounds of amazement. It’s a portrait of Mary, mother of Christ.
“Humans who gave their hearts to God believe they’re born corrupt, because the women bearing them pass on their primordial sin. They believe that if they strip the woman of her sexuality, she will create saints for them rather than sinners.”
“Sexuality is a sin?” I have a hard time internalizing what he’s saying.
“Lust is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, not just according to Christianity.”
Anger grows in me by the moment. “That’s ridiculous,” I blurt out.
