The Eye of EvilA Story by Aysherene
They say I am the devil himself -- walking on their Earth, talking into their atmosphere, breathing in their air. I have been here to see amany generations come and go, all of which have denied me as one. Because of my pale skin, my extensively long inky hair, the dark of my eyes, the fact I am identical to the unseen Rasputin?
I am constantly lashed out at, and after centuries turned into millenniums, I am used to it.
Like a child in the dark with a shadow lurking in her bedroom, people know the evil of my presence without needing to see me. I walk past a mortal, my vice scent assails his nose, propelling him to immediately feel the urge to pounce on me -- to kill me.
If not for my acute senses and incomprehensible wits, I would have been stabbed, shot, impaled amany time.
To look into someone’s eyes is to be spit upon. To reach a hand to help the fallen is to be insulted. To offer the needy fresh bread is to be cursed at. The mere act of trying to be human to others is the response of being bashed at.
Every time -- adult or child.
They all scent, feel, hear, know the blood of Rasputin that taints my veins as his only son.
I am what they publish as “Slayter Demon” in their newspapers as Prime Suspect whenever someone is killed, whenever someone is robbed, whenever a child is missing, whenever someone is harmed.
I have never been acceptant to rape in my immortal living, but that was my downfall when the 1995 headline was: DEMON POSSESSES CHILD.
I was not worried that my picture was at the end of the article as the usual Key Suspect. The one gift my father gave me, amongst the curses, was blinding velocity, peerless strength, and senses that could feel as far as to the Earth’s core.
I was invincible to mortals.
At least I had been since my hell-bent birth to Earth.
They used some new technology that screeched into my brain and shocked every nerve in my body from a distance. It brought me to my knees in pain and made me cough up my blood. The pain continued without mercy until they had me where they wanted me to be without a fight in my veins.
I was strapped, tied, chained, shackled, taped into a chair while they kept that screech in my mind. Not unbearable as before, but just as painful.
“Sign the confession!” they screamed and yelled, beating me until my skin was glossy black of my own blood. It had been so long since I had last bleed or been hit that, in a way, my skin was numb from lack of touch.
They thought they were hurting me, but they were only tiring themselves out.
When I did not sign it, and after three days of torture, I was freed.
What had happened to the child was still alive in her and in the circles of the well-knows. I knew the truth just like the authorities did. The rapist -- possessor -- was a churchman named Wyatt Fleming who took pleasure in causing child pain. He liked that they were mute after he harmed them -- unable to speak a word of it. They wanted the suspension off him so they wanted me.
Konstince. That was the girl that I had been accused of hurting. She was only twelve, barely old enough to know such horrors of the world. I watched her sleep one night, tossing and turning, screaming until her mother came and held her.
The tears of pain in them both pierced me. I thought to go after Fleming myself, but knew that would not be wise.
The girl’s family sent her to camp, as they called it, which would help her with her nightmares. Her parents had no intentions on retuning after dropping her off at the camp for orphans.
It was horrible to watch her alone after that, always with tears in her eyes, flinching whenever someone reached for her, hopeless and careless of her abandonment as she was already mentally alone. She seemed to have a pain of her own that no one understood as they just left her alone without considering befriending her.
So used to the isolation myself, I was compelled to her.
I visited her in her dreams, where the resistance to my nature did not exist and neither did her pain. Quickly, we had a linking bond that grayed my black heart and bandaged her scarred one.
A year later Fleming was going to trail. A parent caught him with her son and she would not be bought off or intimidated. If her son would talk, or any of the children said to have been “possessed” by him, he would be locked away.
Again, they came for me with that screech and another confession paper.
Somehow, they knew I was watching over Konstince and they used that against me.
“Sign it, or we will have some men go visit her cabin.”
I believed that monstrous look in their eyes -- in their voices. If they could let a man get away with raping children while covering up for him, they would do what they threatened. So I signed the confession as “Slayter Demon.”
That was not good enough for the court or the mother. They wanted proof or a speaker that could testify.
I despised what I had to do to Konstince.
I visited her in true life one night I kept her from sleeping. When I knelt by her bedside, I was expecting her eyes to darken with that hate that always came. But they did not when they met mine. Instead, they filled with glee and she embraced me.
To say it was heaven to really feel her little arms holding my head against her while she combed her fingers through my hair would have been an understatement.
Her innocence filled me with a sense of life I could have never had.
I pulled away from her, brushing her hair from her shadow-kissed face.
“I knew you were real,” she said before I could speak, her white teeth smiling to me. “I knew it.”
I nodded slowly at her, the reality of putting on a smile nearly impossible than in a dream. “I need you…” I lowered my head and breathed deeply in shame. “I need you to…to do something for me.”
She embraced me again, nodding frantically. “Anything.”
I shook my head. “Do not say anything, angel. Never saying anything.”
She was silent.
“I need you to…” I met her soft gaze. “I need you to tell them it was me that hurt you.”
Her face hardened with disbelief so much so she looked as grown as she was becoming. “Why…?”
“Please, do not ask that.” I lowered my head. “Just…”
She continued playing with my hair, now smoothing it down my back. “But…you didn’t.”
I nodded, savoring her guileless touch as long as I could. “I know I did not. But you must tell them I did. It will protect us both. Please do as I ask you.”
I pecked her cheek and vanishing, knowing not what else to say.
She told the court it was me. And when the mother glared at her and screaming in rage, “I saw that dirty b*****d!” while pointing at Wyatt, she made up the clever lie, “He wears a lot of black so you can’t see him that well enough to know who he is. But I saw his face.” She described me.
They hauled me in and placed me in jail with bitter smiles of pride.
Fleming attempted to shake my hand from the outside of my cell. I bared my teeth at him and hissed like a feral beast.
As I laid on the cot, knowing I could easily escape, I thought about angelic Konstince and how they would hurt her if I didn’t do my fair time.
She was the only one that could look me in the eyes without immediate hatred rising. The only one who could touch me without meaning to bruise, hold me without meaning to hurt me. The fact she was a child made it all the sweeter, delicate, pure -- beautiful.
She was my saving grave from that bitter moment of my life on. Even so angry and cold, I did not lash back at those that lashed at me. I wanted to be sweet like her for her.
The first time I saw her since her little arms were around me, she had changed. She was no longer the fearful girl that hid her body behind jeans and sweaters. She was confident of herself -- her figure and her sexuality as she danced in the nightclub exposed to all.
My breath hitched to see her topless on a pole with men surrounding her, throwing money at her, yelling lust-filled words at her. I strained not to grab each of them that hit her butt when she let them put money in her shorts.
I could not think of any emotion that rose besides unfamiliarity -- a sense a loss in my heart that was reserved only for her.
When she dismounted the stage with her collections in her hand, she headed toward the bar. Just as I was stepping her way, a man invaded her space, trying to fill her mind with words I did not like him saying to her. The fact she laughed them off and entertained him by stroking his arm filled me with rage -- jealousy maybe -- as I remember those graceful hands touching me as affectionately.
I practically threw him across the club when he reached for her breast.
The recognition in her eyes was not what I expected from the young girl that had told me she would do anything for me. It was rejection, that same rejection that filled everyone in the club that looked my way.
This was not my angel Konstince. This was the human that responded to me the way every other did as like human nature. My heart blackened then with the simple look in her eyes. I had waited so long to reunite with her -- waited what seemed a lifetime -- to be rejected.
She didn’t have to speak for me to register what that glare and frown meant.
You’re an animal -- the eye of evil. This is not your world, and it never will be.
I am painfully used to it even when love burns me….
© 2010 Aysherene