To Splinter A Soul

Chapter 12- Fragili

Thursday 5th November 1992- Ash

Ash sat alone, and as himself. The spent shell of the police officer lay discarded on the floor in the hallway. He'd thrown it off like a pair of uncomfortable shoes. The girl, Lauren, was upstairs lying prostrate on her bed, still lost to her world. Gammick and Strickeon were out and he'd told them not to return for a while. For now, he had peace, well, what he regarded as peace these days, if one ignored the perpetual screams of the lost souls below — the soundtrack to his and every demon's life.

He looked through the blackness of the room towards the infernal ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Time ticked away with every swing of the pendulum and he wondered why humans were so keen to possess objects which only served to remind them how short and futile their little lives were.

Time, for Ash, was a concept long forgotten. There was no then, now or soon. Time just was. On the exceedingly rare days that he chose to reflect on the past, watching the Stones play at Carnegie Hall in '64 seemed no more recent that observing the Siege of Sevastopol in 1855, or witnessing the brutality of Genghis Khan in the 13th Century. Everything in his mind he was pushed away, not to be revisited, except for those few events that refused to be forgotten, and it was one of those exceptions that was bothering him now in the early hours of the morning.

She has the stone.

The prospect of having a Fragili in his grasp was one that should have had him eager and excited. After all, wasn't that what he'd wanted all this time — access to a great power that he could finally use to elevate himself to the position he craved, he deserved? So why then, was he sat on his sorry ass in the darkness, brooding like a moody teenager listening to Morrissey?

Of course, he knew the answer to that. Discovering one Fragili was the rarest of gifts to a demon but finding two! What dark magic was it, or what had he done that was so bad to warrant this kind of torment twice? He shivered.

The feeling was unfamiliar and unwelcome. He'd messed up so badly the last time, a mistake for which he'd be endlessly punished, if not by them, then by himself. How many years had it been now? He barely remembered, for it felt like yesterday. The wanting he had then had never really left, had it? Wanting so much, wanting it so badly. Wanting her. She burst into his mind — her soft pale curves, her glossy hair, her eyes as dark as the space where his soul should be, her taunts, her cries, her screams for more. His mouth watered as his eyes did the same.

It'll be different this time, he told himself. I'll be different this time.

With that thought, he stood up quickly, shaking himself off and went towards the portal. Unable to bear the thought of going back into the human shell, he stretched out, his neck cracking as did the bones in his hands. He looked down at his empty palm, his sight always better in the absence of light, and saw, not for the first time, the ghostly image of her hand — her fine, delicate fingers wrapped around his real hand, not the hand of a human shell. Gnarly, scarred and hooked in shape. He remembered her acceptance of him and how she didn't flinch, pull away or even tremble as she'd led him to her bedroom, leading him to a place more beautiful than heaven was rumoured to be, and yet opening the doors to a hell all his very own. A hell so terrible, not even a demon should have to suffer it.

"Update."

Strickeon and Gammick looked at each other, clearly neither of them wanting to speak first.

"One of you."

Gammick sighed then spoke first.

"The girl returned this evening and went straight to her room. She was visibly distressed."