Page 29 of Devil Inside

This body will not do, this body will simply not do. That persistent itch grows. The constriction of sinew. Every muscle tightens, a snake coiling around us, squeezing.

We want out. We need to escape. Break free before these bones lock us inside.

Leave.Now. But... where do we go?

Into whom?

The street outside Jordan’s apartment is busy at this earlyhour. Wandering bodies pass us by. All we need to do is reach out... and touch someone. Hitch a ride.

There. A man in a business suit wanders along, talking on his phone. See how he sweats. That pale pate glistens, the thinning hair clinging to his temples.

He’s not looking at us. Not watching where he’s walking. “I don’t care what your lawyer says,” he barks into the receiver. “I’ve got weekends. That was our agreement.”

He doesn’t see us at all. To him, we don’t exist.

Perfect. He’ll do. For now.

“It’s called shared custody,” he continues as we close in. “You have toshare.”

Yes,share. My thoughts exactly.

Our fingers find his bare skin. Just a gentle caress along his wrist. He’s barely aware we even do it—touch him—so focused on his phone, he hardly knows that we are there.

“I’m not going to let you walk away with our—”

I slip in.

There is no pain. No jolt of electricity. I am nothing more than a whisper from within. A voice that beckons from the darkest recesses saying—

Let me in...

All else fades.

We halt. Disconnect our call. Whoever is on the other end means nothing to us.

Possession is fluid. Possession is so wet. I flow from one vessel to the next with the ease of a pitcher pouring water from one receptacle to another. I simply... drift. Swim. I’ll pass through the barriers of flesh and bone and make myself at home. Settle in. Get cozy.

But I don’t like this vessel. I can sense it straight away. A port. An aperitif. Too sweet. We are not a good fit. His body sags. Bulges. The heft of him slows us down. His veins are clogged. Our breath is labored, a wet drag in the chest. Cement. Our new host is not long for this world. Listen to him, the acidicundertones, his mind marinating in resentment, the world owes him, the world passed him by, sour grapes in his belly, looked over for that promotion,you fucking bitch, what do you mean you don’t love me anymore, it’s all there, boiling over, all the fantasies of wrapping his hands around Joan’s throat andsqueeeezing...

This need to escape only grows. It intensifies as our muscles strangle us, tightening their grip. Each rib within our chest now feels like a fist grabbing hold.

The itch has followed me, even in this limp receptacle. We feel that incessant burn crawling across our skin, fire ants weaving over our arms, our legs, inside our skull.

We feel it from within, this burning urge to run. I need out of our body.

Out of this skin.

Now.

I need to free myself. Divest myself, and fast. Otherwise, we’ll claw out our own eyes. Tear through our flesh in front of everyone on the street. Ram our head against the nearest wall, smashing our skull into a bloody pulp against brick.

I need to escape. Need to find another—

There.

A woman walks her dog. Her arm extends out at her waist as her tiny companion guides her along, eager to roam. We understand that feeling. This woman’s head is held high, soaking up the sun as she walks, almost as if she were aware of the wandering eyes upon her. Her eyes are barricaded behind sunglasses. She wishes to be seen. Ogled. Revered like a saint, as if her presence were enough for worship. The flesh is never enough.

She’ll do just fine.