We're Almost There

7. I'm... John.

Seven

Tristan

Why? Why did he help the damn angel? Sure he made her promise to do something for him, but he helped her. Tristan probably even saved Kenzie's life.

He was in so much shit.

When he arrived back in his kitchen, he opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. Tristan chugged it in seconds. He tossed it on the ground and headed to his room.

Looking at the clock, Tristan realized it was already midnight. He pulled off his Rolling Stones shirt and got into bed.

Tristan was summoned to Hell the second he closed his eyes.

He was in a dark room. A glow was coming from one end. "What now?" He muttered.

Satan walked forward. He towered over Tristan, standing at least eight feet tall.

"I saw what you did today," was all he said.

"Yes, but-"

"I'm not impressed, James," Satan growled, cutting him off.

Tristan remained silent.

"I'm giving you a warning. You know what a midlen is, correct?" Tristan nodded. "And you know what happens to them?" He nodded again. "Good, good. I'll let you know that if you do one more good thing, for anyone, not just the angel and her assignment, I will strip you of your devil title, and you will become nothing but a midlen. Don't fail me, Tristan James."

"I won't, sir." Tristan bowed his head.

He awoke in his room. Tristan sat up and ran his fingers through his black hair, subconsciously avoiding coming in contact with his left temple.

He checked the time to see it was eleven in the morning. At least it was Saturday.

Tristan stood and snapped his fingers. Immediately, he was clean and wearing a new set of clothes.

All of a sudden, it hit him what Satan had said. Tristan had heard horror stories of what happened to midlens. The devils who turned good. It sickened him to think about.

"Dear god," he muttered. Tristan walked out the door and headed outside. Snow still covered the ground, but the sun was blinding. Tristan adjusted his leather jacket and buried his hands inside the pockets. Going for walks always cleared his head.

When Tristan was thirteen and still human, life was a mess. It was like this big puzzle and the best pieces just weren't there to make a complete picture.

Tristan could never forget that day in March. That day when it all really started.

The night before, Eliot had come home with a women that was not Tristan's mother. She had reddish brown hair and smelt of alcohol.

Tristan's father was enraged to see his son still awake. "I-I just wanted to see you returned home safe, sir," Tristan replied, hanging his head.

"Lift your chin, boy," Eliot scoffed. Tristan did as he was told and held his head with a stone hard glare. "Why don't you make yourself useful and give us some space, boy?" It wasn't a question. Tristan's father wrapped an arm around the girl's waist.

"What about mother?" Tristan's voice was so quiet and shaky he barely recognized it.

Eliot didn't reply, he just grabbed Tristan by the shirt and pulled the thirteen year old towards him roughly. He had the look of a madman in his eye and the beginning of a curse on his tongue. "I've warned you, boy." Eliot punched Tristan hard across the jaw and kicked him in the stomach several times.