The Demon's Virgin

Entry 1)There's No Such Thing As The Supernatural

"Pumped up Kicks" by Foster The People

October 24th, 1995

OLIVER

I drew in a slow puff of my cigarette, expertly releasing it moments later with a casual exhale. Over time, I had mastered the art of nicotine, now capable of effortlessly blowing out smoke without a hint of a cough. A satisfying cloud drifted above my head, leisurely making its way toward the open window of my father's study, just a stone's throw away from the front porch. It was only a matter of seconds before I anticipated the inevitable: a grunt followed by a thunderous yell. A wry smile danced upon my lips as I readied myself mentally. I didn't have to wait long.

"OLIVER EDMUND BLACKWELL! ARE YOU SMOKING AGAIN!?!"

My smirk broadened as I indulged in a longer drag. Despite his vociferous protests, my father, Edmund, seemed to have lost the fervor he once held for his children. The passing of his wife had turned him into an even greater workaholic, his dedication to Salem University Hospital consuming his days and nights. He graced home with his presence only on Tuesdays, and even then, his mind remained tethered to the hospital corridors.

However, there was one thing Edmund still held sacred: the prohibition of smoking within his household. It was a rule not to be trifled with, unless one was prepared to endure a marathon of disapproving lectures. His patients knew this. His brother, a reformed smoker, knew this. My siblings knew this. And, of course, I knew this too.

Yet, fueled by the fiery rebellion of teenage angst and a desperate hunger for my father's attention—even if it came in the form of reprimand—I never missed an opportunity to push his buttons. Perhaps I even picked up the habit of smoking partly because of its repugnance to him, akin to the shock value of kicking a puppy or boiling a live kitten. "What if I am?" I challenged lazily over my shoulder. I brought my two fingers holding the thin cigarette to my lips before taking another long drag. Six months of smoking equaled six months of Edmund starting to pay attention to what his children were up to. It only took three years since his wife passed for him to start.

A low, ominous stomping reverberated as Edmund angrily stormed out of his office, his heavy footsteps echoing through the halls as he made his way toward the backdoor of our two-story home. With a forceful swing, he flung it open, his frustration palpable in the air.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW UNHEALTHY THOSE ARE!?" His thunderous voice boomed, reaching the sidewalk and even echoing down the street, two houses down.

His mighty yell left me unfazed. My father was not prone to aggression. Despite his towering presence, he had never resorted to physical violence against any of us when we defied him. Instead, he often bellowed in a voice that resembled a giant's, but there was never anything truly menacing about it. "Nah," I responded nonchalantly, the coolness in my tone matching the icy gaze I returned. "To be honest, I don't give a shit, either."

Edmund's glare intensified. Despite his 5'10 height, he stood two inches shorter than me. His chestnut brown hair, mirroring my own, showed signs of thinning at fifty-five, and his narrowed brown eyes, inherited from him, bore a toxic intensity. Burly in the chest, my father possessed legs that resembled twigs more than anything else. There had been a running joke when my mom was around. She used to say Dad had 'chicken legs'. It was a lame joke, but it always managed to elicit a chuckle from us.
Nowadays you couldn't joke about such a thing around good ole' dad. Not because he would become angry upon hearing his late wife's joke or become offended, but simply because he didn't pay attention to my siblings and I long enough to hear what we had to say.

"What happened to you?" Edmund muttered aloud, his weary eyes studying me with a mixture of confusion and concern. His voice had shifted, the sharp edges of his earlier anger dulled into a monotone, lifeless drone that had become all too familiar since his release from the hospital following a mental breakdown after my mother's death. It was as if Edmund could seamlessly transition from anger or concern to this somber state, resembling the vacant murmur of a mindless zombie if one were capable of speech. This sound of my father used to evoke sadness within me, but that was before. It had affected me deeply in the days when I was still a nice little boy, eager to please my parents and uphold their expectations. Those were the days when I strived to be a positive role model for my sister and brother. Yet, in the years following my dear departed mother's passing, I found myself gradually withdrawing from caring about anything.

I took another deliberate drag of my cigarette, the smoke curling between us like a silent challenge to the old man, before exhaling slowly, allowing the scent of nicotine to permeate the space between us.