Tales of a Demon flatmate; Day Three

Heya Everyone,

I'm still working through this idea, it has me firmly in its grasp.

Until next time.

Enjoy.

Day Three:

Dearest Diary, you’d never believe the day I’ve had. Actually, you might. It’s nothing compared to the madness of the last two days.

Orias was waiting when I got home from university, staring out the window of the motel room at the people and traffic that passed by. He was so pleased that I was home, and I can understand that I can only imagine how lonely it must be to be stuck here, unable to talk to anyone nor interact with the outside world. I’m almost tempted to get him a laptop, something to do while he spends the rest of his life here.

But diary, I learnt so much more than I could ever hope to recount. The first being that Orias is not a demon, but a fallen angel, and physically cannot lie. Apparently it’s part of an angel’s DNA, Orias told me of how they just have no free will, whatever God desired they have to do.

Orias told me how Lucifer never actually rebelled, he was forced to test the humans, to figure out how easily they would fall victim to their own free will. It was all part of a big predetermined plan, he and his siblings were divided, those his ‘father’ wished to have ruling over his land of punishment, and those he kept at his side in heaven. I had to ask him if he minded, how he felt about all of this, but he seemed not to care. It was his father's will, and therefore his to carry out. Dairy, I can’t imagine not having a choice. I feel bad for him, knowing that being stuck here was part of a plan set in motion by his own father.

I could go on for pages, trying to find words to express all that I’ve learnt, but I dare not. You have precious few pages already, and I would hate to fill you with things even I struggle to comprehend. It is not the reason I was given you dearest diary.

I missed University today, it’s the first day I’ve missed since, well you know. But Orias and I stayed up talking all night until he ushered me to bed long after midnight. It’s not unusual for me to sleep through my alarm, you know this, but Orias turned it off before I could, allowing me the luxury of sleeping in after the night we’d had. He knew I’d need the sleep time to sort through everything I’d learnt, and come back when I woke with clarifying questions.

There is just- Diary I have no words. The thing’s I’ve learnt can not be explained, not without sounding like a mad person. Not without someone else seeing what I have seen, seeing the proof with their own two eyes.

So now I'm stuck at a crossroads, I have to figure out what to do with all the information I’ve been given. I would be a fool to keep it to myself, but no one would believe me should I tell them. We know how the christian’s stand by their book, even if Orias could prove them wrong they would never believe.

I know even less than I did yesterday, I mean, I know more, but I have less of an idea what to do with this knowledge. It almost feels as if the weight of the world is on my shoulders, foolish I know, but imagine how the world would change if they knew what I know now.

Diary, I have never felt simultaneously so free and chained down. I have proof that the supernatural exists. Orias told me of his father’s plan for earth, for humanity, and now I get to live knowing that I can’t tell anyone what I know. What am I supposed to do.

Orias doesn’t seem to understand my problems, he said that knowing the plan has always given him and his kind comfort. Security in knowing that everything was already organised and in place and that nothing you can do will change that. I can not say I feel the same.

How can he claim human’s have free will if everything is already organised?  If there is a plan then how do we have a choice in what we do and say?

Tales of a Demon Flatmate; Day Two.

Heya Everyone, so I asked my friends what I should do for today's blog post, and they demanded a part two to last week. So here it is! :)

Day Two:

Dearest Diary, I awoke thinking that the events of early this morning were little more than a nightmare induced by everything that happened yesterday, but it wasn’t.

The cleaning supplies I had brought yesterday have been put to good use, and aside from the carpet and curtains, everything was spotless. The demon under my bed had cleaned everything, like absolutely everything. I would almost believe everything was brand new, that’s how clean it was, AND he had dealt with the yucky sheets I’d thrown in the closet.

You’d think that would be everything right?  But no. I awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs. It was his way of thanking me, he claimed, sitting at the seat opposite to eat his own serving of breakfast.

Diary, I brought cleaning supplies and was too tired to actually clean, so he did it all and I got thanked. If this guy was human I’d marry him, seriously diary.

We talked over breakfast, his name is Orias, and he’s so old he’s forgotten his actual age. I found out that he was kicked out of hell for disagreeing with a few other demons that, while they weren’t stronger than him, they did outnumber him, and he’s been stuck in this spot ever since.

It’s so fascinating. It turns out demons have to be invited in somewhere, much like the myths say about Vampires. So either by summoning them into a space or a normal invitation and because Orias wasn’t technically invited into the motel room - he’s now stuck there.

You see, Orias was wandering the earth after he was kicked out of hell, and got attacked by a group of angels - Angels! I can't believe it. - anyway, he fought them off, and then fell into a deep sleep underground so he could heal and recover. When he woke up, he was stuck inside this motel room, and couldn’t leave.

Diary I had so many questions that Orias is willing to answer, I couldn’t bare to put the conversation on hold to go to university today. But I did, he insisted that seeing as he was stuck there for all eternity I may as well continue on with my life in the meantime. Gather my thoughts and questions for him tonight, once I get home. I have never been more anxious to get home, nor more distracted in my classes.

I have proof that the supernatural exists, that the war between heaven and hell isn’t just something religious folk claim is true. Yet I have no one to tell who will believe me. I have seen first hand what happens to those who try and convince humanity that what they have seen is true. They get labelled as mad, insane, mentally ill, and I have no desire to join the ranks of those shunned by humanity simply for being different.

So the proof shall have to rest in your pages dearest diary. The answers to questions humanity seek after kept safely within your bindings. Maybe one-day people will be ready and willing to hear the answers, but until then... at least I know the truth.

I have taken the last pages of you, diary to write down all the questions I can think of, those that plague me now I know that myths I never believed are true. I think my first question will be if Orias is capable of lying. I would hate for the questions I ask to be met with anything but the truth, and understandably I’m cautious to trust a demon. Our myths and legends do not cast them in the best light.

Oh diary, I fear the longer I am away the more doubt that arises in my mind. What if I was just taken in by his forms good looks? After all, the human form he assumed was incredibly similar to the men that I long after in my daydreams, and court in my normal dreams. There is still a chance that I could be his victim, a fun little game before he destroys me as he has the others who have occupied that room.

My mind is swirling. Questions and confusion mingling as one, and there is only one way to clear my mind. I have to go back after Uni, to Orias, and to the answers he holds.

Should anything happen to me diary, at least I shall live on in your pages. A reminder of both what has happened, and what is to come.

Tales of A Demon Flatmate: Day One

Heya Everyone! So this week I was kinda offered two prompts, and while neither really writing exactly either of them. I also kinda did... because that makes sense. I also don’t feel this is ‘true’ to my writing style, but it was fun. I had fun, and that's what counts.

Hope you like it :)

Prompt One: The house was on fire. And, you know, that's not really something I want to deal with this early in the morning.

Prompt Two: Why is there a demon under my bed?

Day One:

Dearest Diary, today has been an interesting one. For starters, the beeping that I THOUGHT was my alarm was not. In fact, it was the smoke alarm going off for what seems like the hundredth time. Although this time the house really was trying to burn down. That smoker that came with glowing references? She still doesn't know how to properly extinguish her cigarettes, and her midnight 'calm down' smoke started a fire. Needless to say, I kicked her out - and I need a new flatmate... again.

Thankfully the fire didn't spread too far out of her room, and barely touched my own, but everything is drenched from the firefighters having to put it all out. The insurance company has set me up at a motel on the opposite side of town until they can finish their investigation and replace everything that was damaged, and yes, there went my very nice no claims bonus. You can bet my ex-flatmate isn't getting her bond back.

So after my early morning, I had to trudge my way to university and borrow one of the library computers to reprint all the assignments I had due in. Thank goodness I save everything online, apparently, laptops and fire hoses aren't best friends. By the way, did you know the campus library opens at 6 am? Me neither, we both know mornings are not my strong suit.

But being up early was nice, I got to vent out all my anger and frustrations upon a poor punching bag at the gym, which is surprisingly empty before 5 am. No, I didn't break in, 24-hour gyms are a thing. Then go to the library, then I still had three hours until my first lecture started. So, naturally, I went out and had a nice breakfast. I got to take my time with everything, instead of shoving a piece of toast in my mouth and spilling coffee over my hand as I raced out the door.

Eggs and Bacon had never seemed to taste better, maybe I should get up earlier in the morning if just to have a nice breakfast without being stressed or rushed, and to finish a coffee without sneaking sips of it in between rush hour traffic driving. Oh! I even got a nice parking spot today, I suppose that's what happens when you find out at 3 am that your flatmate has tried to burn your apartment to the ground.

I drank more coffee than normal today as well, fighting off the urge to nap between classes or doze off on top of the notes I was forced to handwrite. Handwrite? Can you believe that? The only thing I hand write anymore is, well, in you diary. My wrist is aching, and I'm pretty sure my fingers have cramped up.

And you'd think that was the worst part of the day over right diary? That nothing worse could happen after that. I mean, how does one top their apartment nearly burning down and all their stuff soaked beyond belief?

Well, it did. On the way to the motel, I stopped to get the essentials, more food, clothes, hygiene things. You know, the stuff you take for granted until it runs out. Then I had to carry it all into the worst motel I have ever seen. You know those t.v. shoes that show horrible stinky little motels that you can't ever imagine being real? It was worse.

The room smelt like my ex-flatmate had invited over a huge group of her good for nothing friends, shut all the doors, and then chain-smoked until they couldn't see each other anymore. The curtains are this horrible patchy brown that I assume must have once been yellow? I can't be sure. The kitchen tops and counters are drowning in a mix of stains, hardened food, and charcoal black burns. Not to even start on the floor, there are holes in the carpet bigger than I am, and the floor underneath looks like a centuries old dogs bathroom. I can't even recount to you the horror of the blankets, pillows and sheets. They're currently shoved into a pile in one of the creaky cupboards, I had to go buy new ones, that I will burn myself after I'm done in this stupid place. I also brought nearly every cleaning product the nearby store had. If I have to live here I will make sure it's up to my standards. Who wants to shower in a tub that's browner than the curtains?

I didn't do any cleaning tonight though, all I could manage was making the bed before falling into it, finally able to fall asleep.

But clearly, I didn't stay asleep, did I. Because I'm writing in you. Once again awake at 3 am.

A strange noise startled me, almost like my ex-flatmate had started to stress clean at midnight again, it took me a moment to remember I was all alone, in a strange motel rather than snuggled under my duvets at home. I didn't want to look, praying it was all just a bad dream, a result of too much stress packed into one small day.

I couldn't resist, falling to the same traps that had seen countless women become victims in horror movies.

Diary, it was exactly like that. A being with copper-gold eyes was watching me in seemingly stunned silence. A scrubbing brush in its hand, soapy suds all over the bench top, and the light above the stove top on, illuminating it's black, scaly body.

It thanked me diary, for bringing it cleaning supplies. Well, after I'd stopped screaming and it had morphed into a normal looking guy. Apparently it, sorry, he has been trapped in this little motel room for years now, long before the motel had even been built, and no one ever thought to try to clean it up and make it a little nicer. In fact, people had been terrified of this room, due to his habit of eating the bad kind of humans.

He said he liked me though, and as long as I kept the place clean I could stay. He liked clean people, nice people. Then he wished me goodnight, put the cleaning supplies down, and disappeared beneath my bed.

Diary, there is a demon under my bed. I have no idea how I'm supposed to sleep now. What if he changes his mind? Really, I should run, get far away while I can.

but here I am, sitting at the little dining room table, all nicely cleaned, writing in you while I try to figure out what to do.

I have nowhere else to go, really... and he doesn't seem any worse than any of my other flatmates. Plus this is all only temporary, and I really am tired...

maybe I'll sleep on it. Figure it all out tomorrow.

Routine.

Heya Everyone! So this week I gave myself the challenge of starting each new paragraph with the same three words ‘Your hands shook’. Sorry, it’s so short, I’ve spent all day doing advertising stuff for my dad’s business and haven’t really had any time to write. I’m also in a lot of pain - so there is that.

Please be aware that today's short story is written in the second person point of view, and assumes that the ‘you’ is of the humanoid and female variety.

Your hands shook, raising the eyeliner pencil to your face before dropping it back down to tap against the sink. Your other hand was gripped so tightly around the basin that your knuckles were as white as the marble they clung to. Who were you kidding? You couldn't do this. You forced the tears that threatened to undo all your hard work away. A deep breath reminding you of the tight dress that restricts your breathing while hugging your curves.

Your hands shook, abandoning the eyeliner pencil and gripping tightly onto the bench top, bracing your weight so you could shift your weight and settle back into the sky high heels that had seemed a genius idea mere moments ago. Now, the confidence you had had was gone, terror dragging every inch of you down. Panic replacing calm.

Your hands shook as you raised them to your hair, ruining the perfect coiled curls you had spent hours twisting until they were exactly how you had envisioned, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not now.

Your hands shook, eyes watching them as you took a deep breath and forced yourself to calm down, reaching for the eyeliner pencil to finish your make up. This was nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary, the same thing you did every week. You could do this.

Your hands shook, clutching a small purse tight to your side as you stepped out of the bathroom, hiding your nerves behind a tight smile. You could do this.

Who I once was.

Heya Everyone, so some of you know that last September I collapsed at work, within two months I had been diagnosed with a chronic illness, that, in all honesty, has made my life so much harder in these last few months, and really, I need to rant, so I’m forgoing the normal short little stories that dominate my blog for this. It’s also a sort of promise to myself, and hopefully a sense of strength for those that read it.

I’ll see you all next week for another short story.

Rose.

This time last year I had just finished mid-semester break. I was sitting in another lecture, listening eagerly, taking notes and learning all I could, stealing glances at my phone to make sure I snuck out in time to catch the last plane home. A post about a Siren’s song colouring the pages of my blog.

This time last year I was working the hardest I have ever worked, but it all passed in a daze. I was more than happy to work full time while I studied. I finally had a dream, a goal, a future in mind that I knew I could reach. I had reached a point where what he did to me no longer bothered me, it didn’t hold me back. I liked who I was, the people I surrounded myself with are those I was honoured to have by my side. They encouraged me, put up with the weird things I did and said, helped me when I got stuck or was stressing over the latest assignment or class topic.

This time last year writing was a passion, not a chore, and every spare moment I could steal was filled with worlds as big as I could dream and characters who dominated the story, twisting and turning the words I wrote as they saw fit. I couldn’t stop myself, downtime at work meant half typed ideas in a cellphone document, small pages of notes, backs of receipts filled with tiny scribbled words shoved into a pocket as a customer appeared. The excuse of uni work falling from my lips even if this was just for fun. An idea I couldn’t contain even if I tried.

This time last year I felt like I was finally making progress. The idea of dating wasn’t this huge, scary unattainable thing, in fact, for the first time in four years it sounded like something I could do. I was finally over him, the mess he left me in was forgotten, I didn’t hate who I was. I had rebuilt myself and my heart to a point where I was willing to give it away again, should I find the right person.

Then September hit. Everything changed. I nearly collapsed at work, called my mother to come get me because I couldn’t stand, let alone drive home. I never went back, a week off work sick turned into two, then into months, until I walked in and handed in a notice of resignation. I was too sick to go back, and it was unfair to keep giving them doctors notes saying I was still too sick to work.

Nothing I've tried made me feel any better. Lights are still too bright, noises too loud. I have been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue, I’m always tired, but insomnia prevents me from sleeping. I take medicine to give me a quarter of the control over my emotions that I had before. To stop me from breaking down at the smallest of inconveniences. To let me find the sweet release of sleep, knowing that I won’t feel any more refreshed when morning hits. That my head will still feel so heavy that I can’t hold it up, that the effort of moving, of doing the things that used to bring me pleasure will only make me feel worse.

The stories that dominated my mind, that distracted me and gave me life, are gone. It’s a struggle to sit before a computer and write words that flowed so naturally to me only a few months ago. Something I couldn’t stop doing is now the thing I struggle with most. The life I dreamed of seems so far away now. All the work I did to set myself on the right path seems to have shoved me off, dropping me into a pit that I can’t find the energy to claw my way out of.

I’ve clung onto this blog with all I have, refusing to let go of it. It’s the last thing I have left of last year. All I was working on and working towards has crumbled to the ground around me, and I’m too sore, too tired, to pick it all back up and start piecing it all back together.

What’s worse is I know I should. I know it’s my fault that I’ve let it all go. I found time for it last year when I was so busy that I barely found time to breathe. The person I was would be furious that I’m letting our dream fall to tatters around me. That I have all this free time now, and I can’t even account for where I spend it. The days and nights running together in a mess of time that I can’t remember.

I once was someone who wasn’t afraid of hard work, who rarely ever said no and gave everything I had to better my life and those of those around me. I was the kind of person who was happiest when I was stressed, when things seemed to be falling apart I found joy in the challenge of pulling it all back together, finding a way to right it all and get back on track.

I once was the kind of person who never turned down a challenge, that took every task given to me and found the fun in it. I was the person who you never saw break, that never complained, that never let it show when I was overwhelmed, angry, or stressed because that was when I excelled. That was the environment in which I thrived. Where I felt alive and in control.

Now I have people who I have to turn to every other day, who pull me up when I get overwhelmed when I get lost in emotions that I can’t control nor make sense of.

Now I’m the person who says no, who couldn’t handle the challenge, nor the simple tasks of day to day life. I’m the one who stays at home, who can’t handle much more than trying to remember to look after herself. My ability to multitask has been replaced with the struggle of trying to remember the one thing I was actively doing. I have people reminding me to do something every few minutes because I can’t do it on my own. All my appointments are in my parent’s calendars so they can remind me of things I have to do that day.

On top of all of this, I am aware I am lucky. Some of those who share my illness can not get out of bed. The simple task of having a shower means that they then require a nap. I know that the best way for me to get better is to do nothing, to relax, to have a holiday and pray in two years that I have enough of a handle on my illness to pretend to be normal. I am overly aware that my grandmother has had the same illness for nearly half a century. That my family history means I may never be who I once was. That the person I had finally learnt to love and be proud of is someone I may never be again.

The person I once was had recovered from a broken heart, had picked up the pieces and come back better than ever. Took a horrible experience and learnt from it. It took four years, but the person I once was had finally figured it all out and was doing whatever she could to achieve the dreams that seemed beyond her reach.

I am the person I once was. I have come back from worse before. I will rise to the challenge this illness brings because if I don’t, then I have nothing. The person I once was never gave up, so I won’t either. I will give my body the time it needs. I will learn to be the person I am now. Find my strengths, my limitations. I will make the most of the situation I have been shoved into.

I will lean on those who are willing to be my pillars of support. The friends that knew the person I once was will learn who I am now, as I do the same. I will learn to ask for help, to accept it from those willing to lend me a hand. I will find a way through this, and the person I once was will be proud of me for it.

This will be the start of my comeback story, part two.

Because who I once was, and who I am now, have one thing in common:

We will never give up, and we will never quit.