Page 136 of Devil Inside

Am I a demon simply because I possess this vessel?

What if I had no host? What would I be to Jordan then? What would I be to myself?

What am I?

I’m looking for definition. A shape to fit. It feels as if we’ve been stripped away, an oyster shucked from its shell.

There’s the itch, spreading itself. A fury of fire ants. I feel the burning urge to dive into that open chasm, pour forth, leaving my present vessel behind and inhabit another.

No.Stay.I restrain myself. I wish to stick here. Look at us. How proud we are. Call it commitment. Fidelity to this flesh, no matter how deep the itch to switch gets.

See? I can stick to one host. Jordan may think I have commitment issues, but look at us now. Am I devoted to this host? Hardly. I simply wish to prove to myself that I am not frivolous with this flesh. That I’m capable of commitment, if I found the right host.

They’re out there, somewhere. I just haven’t found the right vessel yet.

Clink-clink.The clatter of coins brings us back. “Have a blessed day,” we mutter.

“You, too,” a man says, continuing on his way.Wait.We recognize that voice.

Jordan. He’s here. Has he been looking for us?

Does he see?

Where is he going? Nowhere, it seems. Always wandering. No destination. He turns and takes a new direction, venturing down a separate street.

Is he trying to hide? From who? Us—or himself?

We’ll follow. Already I’ve swapped to another body. A fresh vessel. Another man. Zinfandel. His skin itches. He is on his way to class. The local college. He’ll be a little late today, unfortunately. It is time for him to take a walk. To wander.

I drift, as if on a stream, channeling through body after body, simply to keep up within the river of Jordan. Remain near. Every vessel I pass through offers me new secrets. It becomes tedious at times, all these deeper recesses. Their neediness.

We almost lose sight of Jordan. I need to catch up. Find a fresh vessel. So I drift ahead, pick up our pace, swimming upstream through a series of people, one after another, swimming, pushing forward, body after body until—

“Would you like anything else with that?” we ask with a facsimile of a smile. It doesn’t feel like us, our face. I am hiding behind these eyes. The woman behind the counter offers me a warm hovel to peer out from. Other servers rush around us, busy ants swarming about their hive, but we remain rooted to the register, looking out at Jordan.

“That’ll do, thanks.” He doesn’t see us.

See me.

His attention drifts, a restless spirit unable to find a house to haunt. His thoughts wander, so listless. Does he notice this woman before him, standing behind the counter?

Look at our smile. Our eyes. What does he see?

“Have a good day.” We stop ourselves from saying his name. He never said it—not to this skin—so we hold our tongue. I want him to see me. Sense my presence.

“You, too,” he offers before walking away with his coffee, casting himself off into this city, adrift once more.

I abandon this body behind the counter and follow after, slithering through the processional of customers until I reach the very end of the line, then exit the café.

This body will do. For now.

A man. Grenache. He came for coffee before heading to work, much like every other day in his simple existence... buttoday, he will venture through the streets for a bit. Take a leisurely stroll. Today, he has nothing but time. Not a care in the world. This world, at least.

Jordan walks through the streets, unaware of his surroundings. He seems to be in no rush, lost in his own world. His thoughts. What is he thinking about?

Does he sense our presence at all? He must. Why not test him? To see if he can feel us?

Feel me?