Page 102 of Devil Inside

Jordan keeps his eyes on the screen. The images play out in a glorious, blinding array. It’s impossible not to be seduced by the fluid parade of individual pictures, purling through the projector at such a rapid clip, it creates the illusion of movement.

We can hear it, even now, the roar of celluloid, a raging river of the film reel speeding through the kinetoscope, whata wondrous machine, a glorious invention, and here we are, at the mouth of this mighty flow, the images pouring forth, crashing over of us, we feel like we might drown. Let it. We welcome the flood.

We are so close to Jordan now, leaning forward in our seat. His neck presents itself to us, that tender flesh. Our lips are there, right there, just at his ear. We can whisper anything we want to him. Tell him all our secrets. This is why we are here, yes? To share this with him. Experience everything this world has to offer.

We sit in silence. Let his presence fill us.

“You found me,” he says to the screen, eyes ahead.

“We did,” we say back. “You’re easy to find.” His body burns, even in the dark, an oscillating flame. We lean forward even further, until our lips are at his ear. We hold there, letting the warmth of our breath spread over his skin, then we whisper, “Did you miss me?”

“Yes,” he says.

“All you ever have to do is come calling,” we say. “We’ll always answer.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

We sense something different about him. His erratic pulse. He’s covered in sweat.

Afraid. He’s afraid. “What happened?”

“I needed to see you.”

“Here we are.” What could’ve happened to him? Why won’t he tell us?

“Where have you been?” he asks. “I thought I’d lost you...”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know... The way we left things at the museum, I guess I just didn’t know if you were needing some space or not.”

Space.This distance of skin. It feels like miles. A gulf between us.

We want to close that gap. Narrow our bodies down.

“We thought you wanted some time away from us,” we reply.

“Not even close.”

“Chalk it up to a miscommunication then,” we offer. “See? If we just talk to each other, maybe we can avoid misunderstandings like this from now on.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I just need to listen to my personal demons.”

“You have plenty of those, don’t you?”

He says nothing, so our attention drifts to the film.“Do you believe that someone out of the past, someone dead, can enter and take possession of a living being?”

The saturation of colors, so bright, so enormous, washes over us both. Lush, vivid reds and greens. The poetry of the abyss. We are peering into an infinite chasm, a spiral that will never end, even after the film itself is over. It will merely devour more and never get its fill.

“We’ve seen this film before,” we offer. “All these men claiming ownership over this woman’s body. Nothing but a toy for the boys to play with.”

“Isn’t that what you do?” The question cuts through the dark, even at such a low tone. There is no worry over drawing unwanted attention our way—and yet, still, it stings.

“Is that what you think we do? Play with these bodies?”

“Maybe.” We should tell him. Give this part of ourselves over to him, in hopes of him understanding who we are. What we are. “There is an order to things. A balance.”