Chapter 14

Draft

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A bathroom can be a demon's habitat, but it can't be used to house a tenant. You remove all the chains, unpacked a narrow bed and placed it in the living room.

The house does have its guest rooms, but as you've said, the entire building has stood as a fortress against demons for five years now. The master bedroom and the guest room are well cared for, with very tight and reliable precautions, and you've arranged them in a penitential-grade specifications— "repentance" here refers specifically to the hierarchical noun circulating among the clergy, meaning "Sufficient enough to let any demon who enters repent leaving hell," Lemuel wouldn't like this kind of room.

You've carved sacred prayers into many hidden crooks, permanent works that would be difficult to remove in a while. In conclusion, Lemuel has to temporarily stay in the living room until the guest room is tidied up. He didn't complain about it much, but he hardly seemed fond of the bed.

Many mornings you'd find him out of bed and huddled on the sofa. The sofa is very old, no softer than the bed but narrower and shorter than the bed, and if a man of Lemuel's stature laid flat on it, his feet would be long enough to hang down. But you don't see him lying flat, he's always curled like a shrimp, squeezing in the hollow between the back of the sofa and the seat cushion, tightly wrapped in a blanket from head to toe. Lemuel didn't even show his head, he's bunched up the quilt like a cocoon that only grows out of your sofa.

You ask Lemuel what's wrong with the bed, he shakes his head and climbs into bed at night with the blanket, only to appear back on the sofa the next morning. So you just let him go: he likes the sofa, just let it go. There are often wild cats that ignore the nests you've arranged and instead drill into the cardboard boxes in the pile of debris.

You bought Lemuel clothes and trousers. Your sizes aren't the same but the shop owner holds no doubts about it. You always buy clothes and daily necessities for the people in need. In your first try you manage buy a shirt that fits perfectly, but the pantlegs were a little too short, you realize that this is because Lemuel had never stood up straight next to you. He's always unable to stand up straight for a variety of reasons, such as pain, nervousness, and attempted attacks. In fact, he rarely stands, and in the months you've been together, Lemuel's either sitting in the bathtub or lying on his stomach.

It's the same now, he doesn't get up or move around much, at least, not around you. When you're at home, Lemuel always lays on the sofa with a blanket over his head. Sometimes he'll stare at you probingly, but when you look back, he'll look away. You hope that he's just ignoring you, not that he still lacking the will to survive.

You don't have surveillance anymore, you've ceased using the holy pigeons as your eyes, you don't know what Lemuel does while you're away from home. It's necessary to monitor demons but not people, you shouldn't spy on guests staying over, you don't feel the need to.

If Lemuel chooses to leave or whatever, then it's God's will.

You don't look. If you see him trying to kill himself, you have to stop it, suicide is a sin and has to be stopped. But you secretly feel in your heart that if Lemuel doesn't want to stay here anymore, then you shouldn't lock him up again. You've already stopped him once, he can leave as he pleases, in whatever way. After the act you'll have to accept your punishment for the "oversight", and it'll have nothing to do with Lemuel.

You go back home everyday at noon, and you start leaving work on time every night. There's a guest at home who needs three meals a day, you can’t put the day’s food in a food bowl just once like you would a pet. You bring back ingredients every day, go to the sofa to take a look, make sure the food isn't unappealing to the consumer¹, and then go to the kitchen to start working. Once you're done, push the cocoon on the sofa, and Lemuel will get up to sit at the table. You thank God thrice each meal, the first time you look at the sofa, the second time your hands touch the body under the blanket, and the third time you pray before the meal.

There's a lack of conversation between the two of you, you don't know what to say and Lemuel doesn't speak, but every time he'll finish the food you prepared, which is good.

A week after these series of events. Christmas came.

As a priest, you were so busy on that particular day that you could prepare fast food for Lemuel and couldn't go back. You preside over the mass, wait for the excited believers to disperse, and deal with the follow-up matters. When you came back, it was already in the early morning of the next day. You gently open the door and carefully walk in without turning on the lights, you only use a glowing angel pendant that someone gave you as a keychain for illumination.

As you pass the sofa, Lemuel suddenly thumps.

He kicked the blanket to the floor in such a big fashion that you almost thought you woke him up. But Lemuel didn't open his eyes, and with the faint light of the keychain, you saw him tightly squeezing his eyes and clenching his teeth.

Lemuel's still not awake², he's breathing rapidly, his eyes moving quickly under his lids, his hands are clenched into fists. The tips of his claws must be scratching the palm of his hands again, the pain doesn't wake him, Lemuel bounced on the sofa like a fish thrown into the beach.

You've seen so many people screaming in the dark, the orphans, refugees, wounded soldiers you've looked after, woke up from nightmares screaming or hysterical, it's something between a roar and a cry for help. Lemuel didn't scream, and if it weren't for the rattling of his clenched teeth, he could even be said to be very quiet. His body is almost embedded onto the triangular space between the backrest and the seat cushion, yet he was still retreating unconsciously, like if he's about to sink into it. He doesn't make a sound, and the body that twitches from time to time is trying to stay still, as if as long as he stays quiet and don't move, the suffering and the nightmares wouldn't find their target, let him go, and leave on their own.

You pick up the blanket, shake it, and put it back on him. Lemuel suddenly wakes up, his red eyes glows in the dark, it reminds you of the lights you've just used to decorate the Christmas tree. For a split second, he looked like he was about to attack you, and you go back three steps in the perfect time to turn on the living room lights.

Lemuel subconsciously covers his eyes with the back of his hand, he begins to blink desperately. You don't know whether he's adapting to the lights, or adapting to the fact that he's "awake".

"Merry Christmas," you say, "I brought a cake."

The believers in the pastry shop gave you cakes, and others gave you a lot of Christmas gifts. You pass them on to the children in the orphanage, like in previous years, but this year the cake can be taken home. You put the small piece of cake on the table, make a cup of hot tea, add cold water and mix it well enough to be mouth-watering, and set it on the table with a spoon. You went to wash up, and when you came back, Lemuel was already eating.

Lemuel's still regulating his breathing, it's like he had just run a thousand meters— much better than looking like he had just finished a marathon. He gulps down the cake, spooning out clumps of cream and chocolate chips and stuffing them into his mouth as eagerly as he shovels coal into a stove. In a blink of an eye, there's only a tiny piece left of the small cake left. You want to tell him not to rush and eat slowly, for these are all his, and you feel that this quick meal isn't good for the system³. Lemuel chews the cake and the hot tea as quickly as the passing wind, he devours it, like he'd starve to death if he doesn't eat immediately.

He swept away what you had given him, spooning the remaining cream in the cake tin, and seemed to finally calm down. You go and pour some more tea, putting it on the table so he can rinse his mouth.

Lemuel had finished eating. He holds the mug and stares intently at the spinning tea leaves, as if there were unsolved mysteries in them. You've also done what you can, and lost the reason to not stop here, for everyone's sake, you'd better go back and sleep. You ask him if he needs help, and he shakes his head, you ask again if he wants to keep the lights on, and Lemuel shakes his head again, a little more hesitant than before.

You think he wants to say something, but even after a while, he still doesn't say anything. You turn off the lights, say goodnight to him, and slowly head to the bedroom. You walk slowly and lightly, so you had time to hear Lemuel's whispering voice before closing the door.

"The door..." he said.

You stop, turn around, and wait patiently for the following. Lemuel's lips move, his eyes still fixed on the mug, he muttered: "... open."

There's only one door between the living room and the master bedroom. If the door's open, the end of the bed could be seen in the living room. You lock that door every night, and when you want to open the door you'd use an old key. It'd open for more than ten seconds, and make a creaking sound, enough to remind Lemuel that you're about to appear. You're surprised he wants to leave the door open, but you don't ask.

The door between the living room and the master bedroom is open, you hold something heavy against it to keep it from getting swayed by the wind. After doing this, you say "good night" again and walk back to the bedroom lightly.

You walk slowly and lightly, the neighborhood is quiet in the wee hours, and you hear a "thank you" before you go to bed. The voice was so low that you weren't sure if it was hallucination or if Lemuel actually wanted you to hear it, so you didn't answer.

Sweet dreams. you say silently.

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Notes:

1- Should be same meaning

2- Changed stuff, but conveys the same meaning

3- Not really sure

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PastTimer: I don't have an excuse, to apologise (once more) I'm going to update again tomorrow 😅😅😅