Midnight Demons [ON HOLD]

Not At All

With puffy eyes and a throbbing headache, I rise from the scratchy armchair. I couldn't have spent more than 10 minutes with my head buried in my hands. I don't handle stressful situations well. When I was in high school, we had to take the ACT. The entire time I was practically sobbing in the hall. I don't know if you have ever taken a standardized test while your eyes are welling with tears, but I can promise you that it is not a walk in the park.

I have two words for the situation I just escaped from. What. The. Fuck.

I made my way slowly up the stairs, not wanting to take the elevator as it makes terrifying noises, so I would rather walk five flights of stairs to my floor than die.

Speaking of death. I don't know for sure that the limp foot laying motionless on the sidewalk was attached to a dead man. Maybe he was just stunned or passed out. Either way, it's none of my business now. I plan to completely put the experience into a mental box in my mind that I will never ever open.

Along with the encounter with the murder, the box also contains my childhood trauma. That and my time in rural Illinois as a gay teenager.

I shove the key into my apartment door and push it open with more force than should be required to get home. The locks like to stick. As soon as the door shuts behind, me I kick my shoes off. Then my newly acquired trauma and I are flopping on the couch to sleep off this weird night.

I fall asleep with fear still coursing through my veins. That night my dreams are strangely cryptic. The atmosphere is dark and chills me to my bones. I can't see much, but I can hear the sounds of flapping wings and tortured screams.

I'm woken up by the sound of breaking glass. I shoot up from my less than peaceful sleep. I glance around, searching to see what the source of the shattered glass is.

"Flip phone, eh?" I hear an all too familiar voice ask. I look to the kitchen to see the murderer from earlier holding up my actual phone.

"W-what are you doing in my house?" I stutter out as I stare at him wide-eyed.

"Got bored. Thought I'd tie up some loose ends." He shrugs, throwing my phone at me. I barely catch my phone before it hits the ground, which would have effectively shattered it.

"So you came here to kill me?" I ask.

"Well, kill you, snuff out the dim light in your soul. What's the difference?" He asks with what would have been a charming smirk had he not just broken into my house.

"Right. Well, could you please snuff out the light in someone else's soul?" I ask as politely as I can muster.

"I don't know. I think I may stay here, just for the night. Can't go home yet so, I need a place to stay." He smiles as he throws open the doors to my fridge.

"Well, maybe you could get yourself a hotel instead," I suggest.

"I don't think so." He grabs a bottle of vodka from my fridge. "Wanna drink?"

"You mean, one of my drinks? Sure. Why not?" If I'm going to get murdered tonight, I might as well be drunk of my ass when I do.

"What, you're not scared that I might murder you?" He takes the bottle and flops himself onto my couch, next to me.

My face flushes red from embarrassment. "Can you exactly blame me?"

"For the record, I did not kill that man. I simply made him pass out in what looks like a drug-induced coma." Mr. I'm Claim I'm not a Murder informs me.

"Well, on that happy note, pass me the vodka." I say, reaching out my hand, getting closer to a murderer than I ever thought I would have to again. He does say he's not a murderer, so...

"So, can I get a name?" The murderer asks, watching as I take a swig of vodka.

"My name, or do you want me to name you?" I ask snarkily.

Mr. Murderer grabs the vodka bottle from my hands and says, "Your name, prick." He grumbles, taking a sip.

"You first," I say with a cheery smile. Alcohol makes me happy.

Murder man rolls his eyes. "Samael."

"Hot." So vodka may or may not make my filter disappear.

He laughs. "Glad you think so. Can I have your name now?" Samael leans in close. I'm sure in an attempt to intimidate me.

"I don't know, can you?" I quip challenging my inner English teacher.

Samael grabs my collar, balling it up in his fist. "I can you if you tell me."

"Luca," I say with a gulp looking into his red-tinted eyes.

"Why is it that every time I have you in positions like this, you seem to enjoy it way more than you should?"

"Excuse me?" I ask with wide eyes. There's no way he could possibly know that.

"I can feel your energy. It's not scared. It's horny." He observes, pulling me even closer to him. The increase in proximity makes my heart beat even faster.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I whisper as my cheeks flush a bright shade of red.

"I don't? Maybe we should test my theory for proof?" Samael whispers back.

"Oh yeah, and how do you plan to do that? Multiple choice test?" I ask sarcastically.

"Something like that." Samael mutters. He palms my dick which is quickly becoming the direct opposite of soft.

I jump away from him. "That is purely coincidently. Nothing to do with you."

"Nothing?" Samael looks at me from his side of the couch. His face says that he absolutely does not believe me.

"Nope, nothing at all." I affirm, grabbing the bottle from Samael's lap and opening it up to chug some. Partly to calm my nerves and because I am freaking out.

"Well, good thing you are not attracted to me at all because I wanna play strip poker."