The Devil's Patient

By Clinton Koola

Scene 1

The flickering neon sign of "The Damned Soul" cast a sickly green glow on the rain-slicked pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and desperation. Arthur pushed through the swinging doors, his eyes immediately locking onto the figure slouched in a booth in the darkest corner.

The Devil, or Lucien as he preferred to be called tonight, didn't even look up from polishing a pristine shot glass. He simply gestured to the empty seat opposite him. "Thought you'd be back, Arthur. Sooner than I expected, even."

Arthur ignored the invitation to sit, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. "You lied, you bastard. You said... you said she'd be safe. You said you'd bring her back!" His voice was a raw whisper, barely cutting through the low hum of the bar.

Lucien finally set the glass down, his movements smooth and unhurried. He leaned forward, his eyes dark as polished coal, meeting Arthur's. "Ah, the ever-so-fragile human memory. We discussed this, Arthur. At length, I recall. I did bring her back. Just not... in the manner you anticipated. The terms were clear." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "Sit. Let's not make a scene. It's bad for business."

Scene 2

Arthur, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel the tremor in his teeth, slowly sank onto the worn leather of the booth. The metal chair scraped against the grimy floor, a sound that grated on his already frayed nerves. He tried to project a calm he didn't feel, his eyes still locked on Lucien.

Lucien, meanwhile, picked up the shot glass again, twirling it slowly between his fingers. "Much better. Hospitality is key, wouldn't you agree?" He chuckled, a low, dry sound that seemed to carry no humour. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The terms." He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, an almost professorial air about him. "You wished for Eleanor's return. And I, in my boundless generosity, granted it. Her soul, whole and intact, was retrieved from the ethereal plane. Her consciousness, her memories, her essence—all perfectly preserved."

Arthur's hands, resting on the table, began to tremble. "But she's not here, Lucien! Not truly. This isn't what we agreed!" His voice, despite his efforts, began to rise, a raw edge of despair creeping in.

Lucien's eyes, which had been placid, narrowed ever so slightly. He stopped twirling the glass and placed it down with a soft, almost imperceptible clink. The air in the booth seemed to thicken, growing colder, heavier. A sudden, sharp draft snaked around Arthur's ankles, despite the lack of open windows.

"Arthur," Lucien's voice remained a silken whisper, but it was edged with something colder, something much older. "The contract stated 'return'. It did not specify form or function. You were quite specific about 'soul intact', and that, my dear boy, is precisely what you received." His gaze intensified, boring into Arthur. "And do try to keep your voice down. Because, Arthur, there are fates and damnations far beyond your simple comprehension. Fates that if you were to multiply by infinity and take it to the depths of forever, you will still have barely a glimpse of what I'm talking about. Therefore I assure you, you do not want to experience what happens when you truly displease me." The temperature in the booth seemed to drop another degree, and for a fleeting moment, Arthur thought he saw the true form of the ethereal fallen-figure that was talking to and it didn’t just scare him. It froze him. 

Arthur flinched, the thoughts of infinitely multiplied damnations echoing in his mind. He swallowed hard, the taste of ash in his mouth. The bar, once merely dingy, now felt like a suffocating tomb. He looked at Lucien, trying to discern a flicker of mercy, a hint of a loophole, but found only the cold, unyielding depths of his eyes.

Scene 3

"Alright," Arthur rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Alright. Just... just tell me. What did I do wrong?"

Lucien leaned back, a faint, almost pitying smile playing on his lips. "Wrong, Arthur? You did nothing 'wrong' in the eyes of our agreement. You simply didn't... specify enough. Humans are so wonderfully imprecise with their desires. But let's clarify, shall we? Why don't you tell me, precisely, what is wrong with her?"

Arthur hesitated, then plunged in, desperation overriding his fear. "She's... she's not warm, Lucien. Her vibe is so cold and distant. And she never laughs anymore. Not truly. It's just... a breath. And her eyes, they don't light up when she sees me. She just stares. She never talks about the things we were into or about our life in general. It's like... she's not interested in anything. And she just sits there, for hours, looking at nothing. She doesn't even cry. Not once since she came back." He trailed off, the abundance of her shortcomings a crushing weight on his vocal chords

Lucien locked his fingers, his gaze unwavering. "Cold skin? Arthur, you forget…… Before our arrangement, Eleanor was never the warmest person to begin with. I seem to recall, your friends calling her the “ice queen” which believe me, was one of the nicer ways to put it." He paused. "And laughter? My dear boy, Eleanor rarely laughed aloud. A quiet woman, wasn't she? A gentle smile, perhaps a soft chuckle, but never boisterous. She found boisterousness 'vulgar,' and said it gave her “the ick” as I recall."

Arthur stared, a sickening realization beginning to curdle in his stomach.

"Her eyes not lighting up?" Lucien continued, a faint amusement in his tone. "Eleanor was always rather... reserved. Her expressions were always subtle as if under arrest from years of harsh parenting or whatever you want to attribute it to. And her interest in your shared past? Arthur, she preferred to live in the present. Always telling you to 'let go of yesterday man, it’s long,' wasn't she? And as for sitting silently, looking at nothing... that was her 'contemplative' state, as she called it. You’re 'dreamer,' you used to say, lost in her own thoughts. And tears? Eleanor prided herself on her stoicism. 'Tears are for the weak, Arthur,' she'd often tell you, if memory serves. A woman of remarkable emotional control."

Lucien leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You see, Arthur? I brought her back precisely as she was. Perhaps... you were more in love with the idea of her, the memory you crafted, than the actual woman who existed."

Scene 4

The words hung in the stale air of the bar, a venomous truth that began to seep into Arthur's very bones. "You were more in love with the idea of her, the memory you crafted, than the actual woman who existed." Lucien’s calm, almost dismissive tone was more devastating than any shouted accusation. Arthur felt a cold dread blooming in his chest, a sickening realization that finally, terrifyingly, made sense.

He stared at Lucien, a thousand protests dying on his tongue as he replayed conversations, moments, expressions. The quietness he’d always found 'peaceful,' the lack of laughter he’d deemed 'elegant,' the stoicism he’d admired as 'strength.' He hadn’t loved Eleanor for who she really was, instead a romanticised version based on his projected expectation of who he wanted her to be

Lucien, ever the observer, watched the breakdown in Arthur's eyes with a detached interest. He pushed a small, white piece of chalk across the table. It slid smoothly, stopping just inches from Arthur's trembling fingers.

"A simple solution, then," Lucien said, his voice softer now, almost empathetic. "If this… reality… isn't to your liking, I can rectify it. Eleanor can return to where she was. All you need to do, Arthur, is take this chalk. Go home. And outside your house, write the numbers 666." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "Do that, and she will be gone. Undone. As if our meeting never occurred, as if she never returned to torment your idealized vision."

Arthur looked at the chalk, then back at Lucien. The weight of his own profound mistake pressed down on him. Slowly, reluctantly, he picked up the chalk. It felt cold, oddly heavy in his palm. He pushed himself from the booth, the leather groaning in protest, and stumbled out into the damp, indifferent night.

The rain had stopped, leaving the streets gleaming under the scattered streetlights. Arthur walked, the chalk clutched tight, the numbers already burning in his mind. He found himself on his street, then at his gate. The familiar outline of his house seemed to mock him, a silent monument to his self-deception.

He stopped on the pavement, directly in front of his front door. His hand, shaking uncontrollably, rose to the brick wall. He knelt, the gritty surface cold beneath his fingers, and began to draw. The first '6' was a shaky, hesitant loop. He paused, his breath catching in his throat.

Through the living room window, a soft glow spilled onto the lawn. He saw her. Eleanor. She was sitting on the sofa, silhouetted against the lamplight, quiet, still, looking out at the night. She wasn't smiling, her eyes weren't bright, and she wasn't engaged in anything. She was simply there. She didn't notice him, lost in whatever contemplative world she inhabited.

Arthur’s hand trembled so violently he almost dropped the chalk. He closed his eyes, a tear escaping and tracing a hot path down his cold cheek. The second '6' was jagged, almost illegible. He could feel the desperate, lonely ache in his chest, not for the perfect Eleanor he’d envisioned, but for the real, imperfect woman who was now a ghost of herself because of him.

He raised his hand for the third '6'. His fingers clenched, the chalk digging into his palm. He couldn't. He absolutely, agonizingly, couldn't. His vision blurred with tears. The chalk slipped from his numb fingers, clattering onto the pavement with a sharp, sickening crack. It lay there, broken in two, the white dust stark against the dark, wet ground.

He collapsed against the wall, burying his face in his hands, sobs tearing through him. In that shattering moment, Arthur understood. He wasn't fighting Lucien; he was fighting himself. He had been so consumed by his perfect image of Eleanor that he had blinded himself to the real woman, and in doing so, had condemned them both. His desire to 'bring her back' had been a desire to re-sculpt her into something she never was, and that realization, in its devastating clarity, was a damnation all its own. 

Scene 5: Epilogue

Back in the dimly lit corner of "The Damned Soul," Lucien idly polished the same shot glass, a faint, almost imperceptible smile lingering on his lips. The scent of stale beer and desperation still hung in the air, a familiar perfume. He glanced at the empty seat across from him, a silent testament to the man who had just left.

He reached under the table and pulled out a slim, leather-bound notebook. Its pages were filled with elegant, looping script – names, dates, and cryptic notes. He found Arthur's name near the bottom of a page. With a slow, deliberate movement, he drew a neat, precise line through it.

"Ah, humanity," Lucien murmured to the empty booth, his voice a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. "So desperate to resurrect a past that never truly was. They crave perfection, yet can't even define it. They ask for truth, then curse it when it's not the comfortable lie they constructed. And then, they blame the purveyor of their own wishes for their inevitable disillusionment." He chuckled, a soft, dry sound. "They'd rather mourn an illusion than embrace an imperfect reality. It’s a perpetual, fascinating cycle of self-deception." 

Just then, the swinging doors of the bar creaked open, admitting a gust of cool, damp air. A new figure, shoulders hunched, eyes wild with a familiar desperation, made a beeline for Lucien's booth. He slid into the seat Arthur had just vacated, his hands already gripping the edge of the table.

"You! You didn't deliver!" the man hissed, his voice trembling with fury. "You promised! My sister, she's..."

Lucien merely smiled, a knowing glint in his dark eyes. He set down the polished shot glass, then folded his hands patiently. "Sit down, my friend," he said, his voice as calm and unhurried as ever. "Let's discuss the terms, shall we?"

The man, fuming, reluctantly sank into the seat.

END.

By Clinton Koola