Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day 1:

Let me give you an afterlife lesson, baby. Fair-weather friends and happy-go-lucky fools will tell you otherwise, but there are no happy endings in hell. There are no true allies. There is no family. It’s a dog eat dog world out there and you can either fend for yourself or double-die trying.

The lives we build down here are neither more stable nor more permanent than sandcastles constructed near the shore. It can all be swept away in an instant, so don’t get too comfortable. The water is rising, and everyone is waiting to take your spot when the waves clean the slate.

Voxxy says I’m paranoid… and maybe I am, but I’ve been here long enough to understand the way of this world. Love is a weakness I can’t afford, as is empathy. The moment you remember that anyone else is real, you forget to take care of yourself. That’s how the mighty fall. That’s how you find yourself lost without a plot in the sand, drowning in the waves that roll over your back and push your head under water. They grip you by the feet, drag you into their depths, and choke you softly on black, wet shadows. Hell water is the water of nightmares, Sugar. It don’t cleanse the sins. It just helps them fester.

Baby, Baby, Baby, I wasn’t always an evil man.

I became everything I am after I died when I realized the only way to survive was to be stronger, colder, and crueler than those around me. And isn’t that funny? Isn’t that ironic? Hell makes monsters of us all.

Call me a rat. Call me daddy. Call me whatever you wanna call me. I don't give a damn. Say what you will behind my back, so long as you quiver in my presence. Hate me, love me, or fear me. It makes no difference. In the end, I’m surviving; and if you’re screaming, I’m thriving.

Thriving… I don’t suppose that’s the right word, is it?

Right now, in this moment, my sandcastle is collapsing under the weight of the rolling waves. Despite all my plans, my careful preparation, I could not escape the shifting tides of change.

There’s a lock on the door I cannot open, and I’ve lost access to all but paper and pen. Funny. In my haste to destroy everything in this room, I robbed myself of my only entertainment. The television is cracked in the corner. The computer could not shatter the window, but it did break into a million tiny pieces on the floor. Vox will be angry, I’m sure, but he should have known better than to leave me locked in room with anything of value.

I miscalculated. I made a mistake. I crossed a line in the sand.

I think he’s lost his goddamn mind.

—

Day 3:

It’s been three days.

Food and a change of clothes appear on the nightstand without fail. The mess I made disappeared while I was sleeping. He didn’t make a sound, or maybe he did, but I was lost in a nightmare. I don’t know how he does it, but I could wring his fucking neck for this quiet torture. At least I have access to a shower, but I’m bored and restless.

He’s really lost his goddamn mind if he thinks I’ll let him do this to me.

I heard his voice today, but when I screamed, he told me he would not talk to me until I learned to listen. Well, I tried sweet talking him, I tried bribing him, and I tried more screaming too. What else could I do? What would you do, baby? Really, what would anyone do?

He walked away from the door. He’d never walked away from me before.

He’s not listening to me. How can fix this? How can I rebuild if I’m trapped in a little room with a view that seems… endless?

An endless view and change all around.

This morning, I noticed that the billboard for one of my clubs has lost my face and they’ve replaced it with Angel Dust.

Angel Dust. Angel Dust. Angel Dust.

He’s always been everywhere. An attraction. A prop. I used his face, his silhouette, and the lust he inspired to build an empire formed of pink spiderwebs. It wasn’t easy, but neither is survival. Spiders devour moths every day. Really, I always knew if I didn’t own him, if I didn’t control him, then he would take everything I’d built oh-so easily.

Turn your enemies into slaves, baby. Make them love you or fear you. Absorb them to make yourself stronger before they destroy you.

I always knew Angie Cakes could topple me. Hell loves him. Hell lusts for him.

I was right. I’m always fucking right.

—

Day 4:

Vox entered the room today.

I suppose I’m a little shaken after what happened, and maybe writing it all down will help my mind wrap itself around the facts. If I focus too much on emotion, I’ll never get the upper hand again. And sugar, there’s nothing more important than maintaining the upper hand, particularly when your man is one of the most powerful overlords in Hell.

Love is silly, fickle thing, baby. Making men love you is all fine and good so long as you never lose yourself.

Voxxy is a sugar daddy. I need to remind myself of that. For all his proclamations, if I wasn’t so difficult, so hard for him to grasp, he’d get bored of me in an instant.

So really, his love is conditional.

Every man’s love is conditional.

He entered the room quietly and locked the door behind him. My first instinct, naturally, was to lunge, but I was able to control my temper for once. Several days of solitary confinement will do that to you.

He asked me if I was ready to listen, and I’m quite proud to say I didn’t kick a hole through his screen. I did, however, nod my head and keep my goddamn mouth shut.

“Val, I hoped you could just let us be happy,” he said, that stupid face of his all contorted with such over-dramatic angst. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I don’t know if I quite succeeded, because he sighed real deep before continuing, “But I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re too toxic and self-destructive for your own good. I’m sick of the games, Val. I’m sick of the fighting, the power plays, and the bullshit. It’s over.”

I think I blinked a dozen times before folding my arms and laying back on the bed. “Voxxy, honey,” I said, crossing my legs. I let the robe fall away to give him a peak at my calves and thighs. His eyes lingered. Men are easy, baby. All men are easy. “If you wanted to break up with me, why all the drama? You could’a just broken up with me. Really, baby, if that’s all you had to say then shouldn’t you set me free now?”

“No, Val,” he said, smiling a strange smile that I didn’t quite understand. “We’re not breaking up.”

“You just told me ‘it’s over’,” I said, trying to keep my tone light even as my eyes surely burned with aggravation. I can’t help my eyes. Insect eyes, certainly, but they give so much away.

“The games are over,” he clarified. His hand cradled my cheek as he spoke and I know I leaned into the touch despite myself. A mistake. “I’m taking it all away, Val. Your job, your money, your power, your property, and your territory. I’m taking it all away.”

I swung at him then, all long limbs and quick reflexes. I even managed to strike and crack his screen before he shocked me, throwing me flat on my back with that burning jolt of electricity. It fizzled around him, sparking and hissing. But I was angry, so angry. I thrashed and kicked and screamed while he pinned me down with those tingling currents. I called him every name in the book until he flipped me onto my stomach and squeezed his fist around my neck, choking the air out of my screams.

“How many times have you hurt me,” he said, his voice low and serious. I went very still upon hearing the hiss and slide of his belt. I felt my robe crawl over my hips, my underwear pooling at my ankles. If he fucked me, I could make him cave. I could make him feel guilty after. “Val, from now on, you obey my orders, you follow my rules, and you learn to behave yourself.”

“Voxxy, baby,” I said, glancing back as cords wrapped around my ankles and wrists from nowhere and everywhere, pulling me taut across the bed. He folded the leather belt in half, face obscured by the crack in his screen. “You’re not… you’re not really gonna hit me are you, honey? You would never do something like that. I got a little angry, that’s all. Can you blame me? I’ve been alone and locked up for days. Please, Voxxy. Why don’t you just take out that big blue cock of yours and—“

“Val, you threatened to overthrow me… at our engagement party, no less,” he said. He massaged one of my ass cheeks with big hand, and I squirmed a bit, because his touch does feel good even when I’m spitting mad. “I’m sick of the games, but I love you. I’m sick of the bullshit, but I can’t let you go. Any power you get, you corrupt. Any authority you have, you abuse. It’s better for everyone if you have nothing.”

I wanted to argue, but the belt hissed through the air and struck my bare behind with a force so sharp and stinging that I yelped instead. A loud SWAT of a sound repeated again and again.

SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!

He kept striking me, not playfully but with purpose. The leather screamed through the air and painted my cheeks with dark purple imprints.

Never show weakness. Never.

I tried to remember that. It’s a golden rule. I kept that stiff upper lip for as long as I could, but the smacks varied so much, hitting from cheek to cheek and punishing my upper thighs with a rain of terror like I’d never known from Vox’s hand.

SWAT! SWAT!

SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!

It hurt. It burned. I thought I could handle a little spanking from that stupid bastard’s belt, but each strike jiggled through me, buzzed my prostate. The shame made my cock drip onto the bed even as I started sobbing like fucking weakling. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Voxxy, I’m sorry. Please no more. I’ll listen. I’ll be good.”

But he kept going.

SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!

He kept going until my whole bottom blazed bright purple and my eyes glazed over, foggy with tears. I reached back, I don’t know why, and spread myself for his cock. I could feel my asshole, puckered and tight from disuse, twitching eagerly for him. But he didn’t give me his cock like I wanted.

He said I needed to earn it.

I started crying harder… and then screaming in frustration.

He rubbed my hole with two fingers and started talking, real low and slow. “Val, I love you,” he said, tone all tender and sweet. “But no. You don’t get that until you earn it. I’m going to visit you every evening at 5:30pm. I expect you to wait for me by the door on your knees, naked, and presenting your ass. I’m going to spank you and it’s going to hurt, but if you are good for one full week, then I’ll fuck you.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “Voxxy, You’re really keeping me in this room for another week? Come on, baby. Have some mercy.”

“Val, I don’t think you understand,” he said. “You’re never leaving this apartment again. This is your life now. I am your life now, so you had better get used to it. You have nothing else.”

I don’t know what I said. I don’t know if I said anything. I think I was in shock. I’m still in shock.

Nothing else… Nothing else…

He can’t be serious. He can’t just take the world from me, can he? So I hurt a few people on my way to the top? Big deal.

I don’t belong at the bottom.

—

Day 6:

More billboards. Angel Dust as far as the eye can see.

Today, I asked Vox if he was fucking that stupid slut— If that was why he was giving away everything I worked so hard to build. He said he wouldn’t answer stupid questions. Then, he kissed me.

His kisses feel like an electric tickle, a buzz of current. The screen becomes malleable, turns three-dimensional. Lips. A tongue. He’s a good kisser, I’ll give him that.

He distracted me with kisses while he clipped my wings.

Pain, like the loss of a limb. I can’t describe it. He said it was a precautionary measure and then rocked me as I pleaded for him to stop. Stop. Stop. It hurts. Not my wings.

I asked him again if he was fucking Angel Dust. He sighed, smiled, and said he wasn’t, which made me angrier somehow, because I knew he was telling the truth and I didn’t know what to do with the truth.

I feel pathetic. I feel weak. I feel broken.

Running will be hard, but there are other cities in the pride ring of hell. Surely, I can find somewhere new— somewhere far, far away. I can start over, collect some whores, and rebuild under a new identity.

Maybe…

Sometimes, late at night, while gazing through those many unbreakable windows, I see the images of Angel on billboards dancing free of their confines. He sways and I hear him laughing at me.

Then I see his stricken face, the one in the mirror. Accusatory. Full of hatred.

‘I built you,’ I want to say. ‘I owned you. I did it because you said “no”, and I had to. I had to, because I needed to break you. Break you. Break you. Otherwise… you would break me first. You would break me first. Then all of Hell would take their turns breaking me.’

I’ve been broken before.

I’ve been broken many times, baby. Does that surprise you? We don’t all fall into hell flawless and all-powerful. You scrape, suffer, and bleed as you claw your way up. You fuck, fight, and fear for your afterlife, because every day in hell is torture. It’s torture.

You remember being a better man and then remind yourself that it got you in the same place as everyone else down here. Being good, being better, brings no perks. Being wicked… that’s the way up. Even if it hurts. Even if you feel sick after. Even if you lose the pieces of yourself that were good. Wicked is the way to rise… to survive.

If I stay, Vox will get bored of me eventually. This love of his won’t last forever. I’ve known that from the start. I had to get the upper hand, and I miscalculated.

If I stay… he’ll throw me away in good time.

I could wait for that day.

No. No. No.

I’ve gotta run.

—

Day 7:

I know I’m the villain. Baby, I know I am. Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I’m not aware?

I know I’m the mother fucking villain.

All of hell can rejoice! Wicked Valentino has been put in his goddamn place by a frilly ho and an angry tv. Hallelujah!

Are you fucking happy now?

I told Vox I love him today, and I wasn’t lying.

He didn’t believe me. I’m glad he didn’t believe me, really I am. I shouldn’t have said a damn thing. He got angry, called me manipulative, and stormed out.

When I’m raw and real, he never believes me. I want to tell him he prefers the drama and the games, but I know he won’t see what I see. I’m always right though.

I’m always fucking right.

I know I’m the villain. Evil deeds and all that. Irredeemable, as they say. I know. I know you don’t feel bad for me, baby. Why would you? Why would anyone?

Why did I say what I said?

I know better. I know better, don’t I?

Sugar, baby, apple pie, don’t ever fall in love. Love in hell is like chocolate laced with poison. A taste of sweetness— a chocolate drop on the tongue each day— will slowly rot you inside out. Then where will you be?

I do love him. I know I love him. I’ve loved him for far too long, longer than he’s loved me. Love, you see, can be stifled with the right amount of anger and spite. I love him, but I’ve used and abused him to my heart’s content. I pushed that love down, deep down, and quieted it with a thousand petty grievances.

It’s quiet on my own. I have time to think. I hate it. I hate thinking. I hate feeling. It’s harder to hide from the feelings when you’re not constantly able to distract yourself.

But I know I love him and that’s an issue.

I need to run.

I need to run.

I want to stay.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Day 9

Every time he bends me over that goddamn bed, I tell myself it’ll be the last time. If I run, if I close my eyes to all these memories and promises, then maybe, just maybe, I can find my way up again. I can climb somewhere new. I can rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

I don’t know what I’m waitin’ for, baby. I really don’t know.

Maybe I’m waitin’ for this stupid mother fucker to crack. It’ll be so much easier if he just cracks. If he comes crawling to me on his hands and knees, begging for my forgiveness, that would be so much easier than running away. I could use his guilt to my advantage. I could put my world back in order.

But now… I don’t think that’s gonna happen. No, sugar, I do not. For the first time since I’ve known him, Voxxy seems impenetrable. Stoic. Cold.

I’m left wondering… was I really so bad?

I know. Believe me, baby, I know I’m evil, wicked, and oh-so awful, but surely he could’ve foreseen that I would want to level the playing field a little after he proposed. So why so much drama? Why was he so surprised?

He calls it a betrayal. I call it the natural progression of the game.

You know, he almost found my papers yesterday. I suppose he realized that I’ve been doin somethin’ to distract myself from the monotony. He searched the room for sex toys or a hellphone. He raked me over the coals with questions. He didn’t find them, of course, since I keep the tucked away in the closet under a pile of old photo albums, but I don’t think he ever took me for the literary type. And ain’t that funny, baby? Ain’t that grand? He doesn’t know me a damn bit and neither do you. Neither do most people, even the ones who think they do.

Perhaps I’ve been less needy than he hoped, less desperate for his approval. I don’t wait naked by that fucking door. I don’t bend over the bed willingly. When he whoops my ass, he has to hold me down, because I fight him every step of the way… until the beating breaks me. It always breaks me in the end, leaves me stuttering and sobbing like a dumb slut. After, he rubs his fat cock against my asshole and taunts me with it, kissing the puckered entrance with little shockwaves. His fist closes around my throat as he rocks against me, but does not enter. He does that until I beg for more, until I wag my ass and spread my cheeks. He won’t enter me until I give him one week of good behavior. The fucking bastard… trying to break me like I’m a common slut.

I don’t break so easily.

But I do want him inside me. If I was good… he would…

No. No.

I won’t be here for much longer anyway.

—

Day 10

“Baby, does Velvet know I’m okay?”

A loaded question, certainly, but it was a start. He responded as I thought he might, nodding shortly and telling me she was aware that I would no longer be running my portion of the empire.

He looked uncomfortable.

Perfect.

“Am I… ever gonna see her again, Voxxy,” I said, softening my voice just slightly. I made sure not to croon. No purr. Just softness. Almost sad. “I do miss the kid.”

And there was his weakness, as surely as a fracture in the glass, waiting to be kicked and shattered. Guilt.

Baby, baby, baby, a smart man can do a whole lot with guilt. Remember that. Guilt is weakness. It can be twisted, weaponized.

“If I’m good, will she… ever be able to visit me at least?” I said, looking away and letting my clipped wings wrap feebly around myself as best they could. Men are so very easy to read. I saw his face fall, all on a big, silver screen. Then, I said the words I knew would seal the deal: “It’s funny, Voxxy, baby, but I always saw Velvet as something like… our daughter.”

And that was it. Family. Vox always had a weakness, and it was this idea of love and a family. “OUR” daughter— that was the phrase that set the plot in motion.

He agreed to let her come visit. All I need is one visit. That’s all I need.

I know how to make it awkward. You see, baby, Velvet don’t like quiet moments. She’ll see my nervous, shifting eyes, always landing on Voxxy before glancing away, as though afraid. She’ll squirm in my long, strained silences, try to fill the pauses with prattling. I know how to make her resent him. I know how to make him look like the bad guy, and myself the victim. I know how to make her ask for five minutes alone. Just five.

And in that five minutes, I’ll convince her to get me the key.

Baby, I know it sounds simple. Too simple even. But these idiots are easy to understand. I’ve been the puppet master for years, so why wouldn’t she dance when I pull at her strings?

Besides, I’ve got a song in mind.

Angel isn’t the only one with a mournful ballad, sugar. I can twist words into reveries too. Does that surprise you? Does it really?

Memories like garlands in the stream,
carried off by water bubbling,
over river rocks, while twisting down the tides,
Telling you they’re going for a ride.

Who’s to say our dreams are black or white?
Who’s to say we’re made of darkness or light?
I’ve got memories like garlands in the stream;
Lose myself in water trickling.

And I’ve been wicked, yes, it’s true.
I’ve broken promises to you;
Stepped on the kindness you shared.
Baby, I know it ain’t fair.

So call me what you will,
I’ve been villainous!

…But I still have… garlands… in the stream.

There’s water on the paper and the ink is running. Strange. I don’t understand why, but I feel this tug at my chest. This odd, sick, and lingering throb of something almost foreign, or perhaps it’s just been so long that I’d forgotten this feeling altogether.

No.

Valentino.

Valentino.

Valentino.

If I fill these pages with my signature will I remember who I am? I’m not usually in my own head this much, but there’s nothing else and the thoughts just keep flying around, and around, and around. Suffocating. Silence is suffocating.

For decades I’ve treated hell like a fever dream. There’s no need for morality in dreams. No, baby. None at all. We run on instinct and try to twist the world into a pleasing shape so that the dream doesn’t morph into a nightmare from which we can’t escape. Hell is an endless fever dream. Conquer it first before it conquers you.

What was my name before I died?

I don’t remember my name.

I haven’t thought about it in a long time. I wonder why I’m thinking about it now. I can’t go backwards. I’ve stockpiled sins so high that I can never pretend at being the man I once was. And, in the end, what’s the point of trying?

We’re all failures down here, baby. Every last one of us.

—

Day 11

Velvet is coming in three days.

Really this simpleton is just too easy.

If I was a stupider man I would be on my best behavior. But listen here, sugar, never make a sudden shift in tone when you’re plotting somethin’ big. It makes a man like Vox suspicious. And Voxxy, despite our years of on again off again, certainly thinks I’m lacking in the intelligence department, which is all the better for me. He never truly knows how many steps I am ahead of him at any given time.

If it means he gets a little rough with me and threatens to take the visit away, so be it. I’m playing the long game.

Besides, I know he won’t want to disappoint Velvet by rescheduling. He won’t want to explain his reasoning to her. What can he say, really? I was naughty and he needs to punish me? I didn’t lie still enough while he spanked me, so she can’t see me? He’s backed himself into a corner and he doesn’t even fucking know it.

He doesn’t like lying to the people he cares about. It’s perfect.

—

Day 12…or 13

Today Vox invited Angel into the apartment after our daily visit.

I didn’t say anything. I think I was frozen in shock. I heard Angel and Vox talking seriously about business: suppliers, marketing, and all that bullshit. I heard the twangy, chipper tones of the Radio Demon bouncing alongside Angel’s carrying voice, and I wondered why he might be present. I hoped this wasn’t some sick joke.

They spoke for some time, briefly passing by my bedroom door. My stomach dropped as I realized in that moment, I didn’t want… to be seen like this: dressed in a loose robe, ass recently whooped to a bright shade of red, cheeks wet with tears, and wings clipped.

No.

I did not want to be seen like this.

I pushed a dresser in front of the door as soon as their voices seemed far enough away, then a nightstand, then a wardrobe, and then the bed itself. By the l end, I sat panting on the ground, exhausted and wondering if lack of exercise was making me weaker already.

“I mean, I’m sure I can figure it out myself, but these fuckin’ books are insane,” I heard Angel say at some point, his voice growing louder. “I’m tellin’ ya, I have no idea what kinda fucked up code he was usin’.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to explain,” Vox said. I could have punched that mother-fucking bastard. He would not humiliate me. Oh no. I would never allow public humiliation.

He tried to open the door and then went real quiet.

“Val, why won’t the door open?” He said, his voice so unnervingly calm that I nearly shuddered when I heard it… and then I almost slapped myself for feeling so nervous. I was not some trembling slut. “I’ll count to ten, Val.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” I said, forcing my voice to drawl and carry as calm and controlled as ever. “But I’m in no mood for visitors. Maybe another time.”

“One.”

“Voxxy—“

“Two.”

“Be reasonable, honey—“

“Three… Four.”

Angel cut in. “Fuck,” he said. “I ain’t gonna be here when the shoe fuckin drops. Text me what ya find out ‘bout that code, Vox. Al and I gots an appointment t’ keep anyways.”

“Five. Of course, Angel. I’ll let you know. Six.”

I listened for their departure, ignoring the rest of the count until I heard the faint click of the front door.

“Ten.”

The furniture seemed to explode in a blaze of static and fire, thrown back several feet. I wondered if I would need to sleep on the floor from now on. Fucking pathetic.

The door swung open.

Vox said nothing at first. He took a deep, long-suffering sigh. I tried to explain that I couldn’t be seen like this. He had to understand.

He wouldn’t listen to me. He just… quietly took my hand, kissed it, and led me to the closet, pushing me inside, and locking the door behind me.

I screamed at first. I shouted, cursed, and thrashed. I called him every name in the mother fucking book. Then… after several hours… I stopped yelling and started… started…

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

Has it been a full day? Time feels funny. He takes me out briefly to use the bathroom every few hours, and I suppose I should be grateful, but he keeps the room dark, all the windows blacked out. I don’t know what time it is.

I’m a moth… and his screen is now the only light.

I’m writing in the darkness so I don’t lose my mother fucking mind. I don’t like the dark. He knows I don’t like small, dark spaces. I don’t like it. It’s hard to breathe.

It’s hard to breathe.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

What Day is it?

I don’t know. I’ve stopped trying to keep track. If I close my eyes maybe I can pretend the shadows aren’t suffocating me. This closet feels like a coffin and I hope the words on this page make some sort of sense, though I know they won’t.

His eyes look so sad whenever he opens the door. He pulls me into his arms, pets me, and kisses me. He tells me he loves me, he will always love me, but I’ve gotta behave or the punishments will only get more severe.

He doesn’t want to break me, but he will. He doesn’t want to hurt me, but he’ll do whatever it takes to make this work… All that mother fuckin’ bullshit.

He forgets that, of all people, I know how to tame a troublesome whore, and it’s obvious that’s exactly what he’s trying to do to me. He’s trying to shatter my mind into a thousand pieces, to remold me into something more manageable.

I won’t be remolded by anybody.

In actuality, I’m already too far gone to change again. I’m not malleable. I’m hollow, hard, and fragile as glassware. I’m not who I once was, a young man with stars in his eyes. I’m a demon, through and through— a lecher, a monster, an insect.

What does he want from me? What version of myself would please him and how could I play that part without him knowing it was all an act, because I can’t change even if I wanted to. There’s no redemption for someone like me. There are no excuses I could use or apologies I could give that would cleanse the mistakes I’ve made or the actions I’ve taken that have hurt others so deeply.

Even if I feel… a strange pit in my chest where the anger was, a dark pit that seems so endless and long. Even if the words I write soften my mind and make me wonder ‘was there another way’ and ‘why did I say that, do that, think that’, in the end, I can’t go back, so what does it matter? I can’t undo it, so what do I do? If I can’t move on, isn’t it better to remain where I am… who I am…?

I can’t change. I can’t change.

I can’t change… even if I want to.

Right?

How do you become a better person after you’ve done terrible things?

I don’t know.

I shouldn’t think about it.

When I was young I saw a light,
Twinkling far away,
And though I strained to reach for it,
I’m reaching to this day.

When all is lost and quiet,
That light I think of still;
A time when I was heaven bound,
Before I found ill will.

And so I wonder who I am,
And why I fell so far,
Sinning like a moth to flame,
Begging for the scar.

And can I change?
And can I change?
And is it worth a try?

And if I fail myself again
Can I finally… just… die…

Baby, baby, baby…

Words are funny things, baby. They fill your head with so much goddamn nonsense it’s hard to think… practically. Funny words. Baffling words.

—

Day 14?

Velvet came today.

My plan proceeded flawlessly, sugar. I knew it would, though I suppose my genuine lack of color and spark helped seal the deal. She was so very worried about me. She looked about ready to cry and I’ve never seen her gaze on another creature so piteously before.

I don’t wanna know what I looked like to her.

I feel tired, baby. Cold. Empty.

I took the key in my hand without crooning or smiling. I thanked her, but the thanks felt dry on my tongue. It’s a chance to start over again, I know that, but something inside me keeps pulling me back towards him even as I drive further and further away. Nonsense. Stupidity. Codependency.

I’m staying at a motel on the outskirts of Pentagram City. The City is a monolithic thing, massive and expanding. I paid for the night in cash, chose a room without a television, and now find myself huddled on a bed in tatters wondering how long I can stretch the money she gave me before I need to start… working.

Working… it’s been a while and I’m not exactly looking forward to the prospect.

I just glanced at myself in a mirror for the first time in a long time, and now I see why little Velvet seemed so worried. Drawn features. Dim, glassy eyes. Clipped wings. Frail limbs. Trembling. Yearning for… something. Someone.

No. No. This isn’t Valentino.

This isn’t Valentino.

What was my name?

—

Day 16

Voxxy is angry.

I suppose I expected a little agitation. Oh certainly I did, baby, but Voxxy is more than just agitated. He’s crazy-eyed, burning, spitting mad.

He appeared on screens all across Hell today, sitting in a high-backed chair behind his monochrome desk. He steepled his fingers and stared out into the audience with a look that sent chills down my spine, made me pull my black hood further down to shadow my face.

“Val,” he said, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He leaned forward, my nickname spat like a curse from his tongue. “You have 24 hours.”

The countdown is on every screen in Hell, mocking me.

He didn’t specify what happens when all those numbers hit zero, and no matter how many times I tell myself it’s all empty threats, my heart won’t stop racing. I keep trying to get further and further away, but there are always screens somewhere. Everywhere. Screens like eyes watching my every move.

Bright. Hypnotic. Charming.

Why am I like this?

I miss him. It’s fucking ridiculous, really. I don’t know why that idiot has such a hold on me. I thought I was made of stronger stuff than this, but I keep thinking about him. Yearning for him.

Love, baby, is a goddamn trap. Never fall in love.

The countdown is getting smaller and smaller. I keep looking at the numbers, moving further away, though I know— deep down I know— there’s no escaping screens. Screens are everywhere. He’s everywhere.

He’s in my head.

—

Day 17

00:00:00

…

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

There are faeries in the garden.

Baby, Baby, Baby. Do you see them in the corner of your eye, through half-closed window shades? They flicker over blooms. They slide along the vines. No matter how old I get, no matter how jaded I become, this I know is true.

Watch the shadows on a moonlit night, see the swaths of darkness like inky cloth draped across a whispering field. Perhaps you will see them then. They twinkle like pinpricks of starlight in the black expanse. They wink in the stillness, hovering over wildflowers and between tall blades of grass.

There are faeries dancing in the twilight. Pretend you don’t see them and they will come, as a surely as a memory you thought you’d lost long, long ago.

Lights. Lights. Fairy lights.

Lights. Camera. Action.

I remember my little sister, Sally, loved fairies from the moment she laid eyes on a picture book borrowed from the Andrew Carnegie Public Library. The selection, I recall, was limited. The whites-only establishment on the other side of the tracks had a far greater number of books that we would never see, but still… for a time this little “colored” library was our oasis in a city falling apart— a decaying stone structure even then.

I often walked Sally to the library, hand in hand. I kept my eyes alert and my back straight as she bounced at my side, her braids rustling with each hopping step. The smile on her lips, white and broad, glowed as luminescent as a streetlight through the fog. At ten years old, I told myself I needed to be the man of the house. I was the eldest of five. The ‘big boy’. Mama’s little man. My job was to protect my sisters, my Mama, my home… and all that jazz.

And so I walked Sally to the library, I escorted her, Doris, and Evelyn to school, I did my chores, made pennies wherever I could, and watched over baby Marjorie while Mama worked. All the while, I brandished a smile, coated my words with sugar, and learned how to talk sweet so no one would see me as a threat. Well, no one… dangerous. I couldn’t afford to be “scary”, after all.

Gunshots in the neighborhood. Glass shattering. Neighbors yelling. Alarms. Passing men with false promises. Whispers of found family. Ideas. Wild ideas. Cages. Wings.

All for a time long after faeries.

One day, Sally asked Mama if there were faeries in our garden— that collection of pots, flowers, and vines that Mama kept on the side of the house, between the dust, dumpsters, and bits of wire.

Mama looked at her with far away eyes. Tired eyes. In her arms, she held a basket of laundry. On her back, she carried the weight of raising five children alone, working three jobs to keep food on the table and light in the home. Mama didn’t like fantasy, and that’s probably because no prince had ever come to save her. I wanted to lift the burdens from her shoulders, but I was too young back then and not yet a man.

“Baby, baby, baby,” she said, her voice soft and low, like a song. “Ain’t nothin’ in that alleyway but rats and roaches. Come on now. You know better than to ask mama such a silly question.”

Sally’s eyes lost a little shine— a little sparkle. They became hollower, like Mama’s eyes. Grown up eyes. “Oh,” she said, bowing her head. “Sorry, Mama.”

“Too many books,” Mama said, but she patted down Sally’s braids and smiled fondly at her despite her severe eyes. “Ya oughta stop takin’ so many trips to the goddamn library, fillin’ your head with nonsense when I could use your help cleanin’. In fact, I should take you to work with me one day soon.”

“Sally’s too little, Mama,” I said, puffing out my chest with all the bravado I could muster. “But I’ll go to work with you.”

“No, Baby. House cleanin’ ain’t the job for a little man,” she said, shaking her head. “And Sally’s nine years old now. She needs to start growin up. I know it’s early, but…”

Far away eyes. Sad eyes.

We both said, “Yes, Ma’am” and then wandered into the small, cramped alleyway, where the make believe garden added a touch of green to the rust colored bricks and gray scenery. Sally sat down by a selection of broken bottles and I told her a story, half remembered from the picture book, about fairies with butterfly wings.

Or was it moth wings?

“Once upon a time, in a place not so far away, there was a fairy named Sally,” I said. “And her wings were all the colors of a sunset.”

I danced as I told the story, made my voice big and then small. I shifted characters and expressions with all the ease of a child practiced in make believe. And as I told the story, I saw the light return to Sally’s eyes and the brightness glow in her smile.

I noticed Mama watching us from the window after a time, but she frowned, said nothing, and disappeared into the shadows of the house.

I worried she might be mad.

The next day, we discovered a little house in the garden, made from flower petals, twigs, and twine. Sally asked me if I made it, and I said no. We whispered amongst ourselves over the culprit, and Sally insisted it must be faeries.

I chose not to disagree.

The following day, we found little shells leading up to the door of the house, like a walkway, and then a week later we discovered a second home formed from cuts of cardboard and a bottle cap.

The fairy town grew and grew, appearing in pieces overnight like magic.

I suspected one of my other little sisters, but could not catch them in the act. Surely Mama had no time for such silliness.

In the end, I did discover it was indeed… faeries.

I saw her one morning, still dressed in her uniform from work the night before, bags beneath her eyes like dark bruises against her brown skin.

She bent over the kitchen counter, glasses perched on the end of her nose, and crafted a scene atop a plate with tweezers pinched between her thumb and forefinger. I noticed a tiny table made from discarded popsicle sticks, bound together by glue and string, with river rocks arranged like chairs all around. I spied bowls crafted from acorn caps that she filled with bits of fruit, rice, and seed.

Why? Why would Mama waste her time on fantasy for us?

I saw them then, reflected in the mirror behind her. They took my breath away and I doubted my eyes at first, but I swear to this day I saw them. They were there, as real to me as memories gilded by time: Wings.

She wore them on her back alongside her burdens. Were they heavy on her shoulders? Did they ache?

The sunbeams that trickled through the blinds made them seem golden and sparkling, a bow of light reflecting along the edges. I watched them shudder, open, and close.

Yes. I remember how the morning sun filtered into the room, setting dust particles alight. Particles like fairies, golden and dancing, drifting in a procession through the air. Mama in the chair. Mama with wings. Mama surrounded by a court of sunshine.

Why am I remembering all of this now? Why is the life I’d forgotten coming to me in worthless pieces— chunks of melancholy that I can do nothing with.

Mama died young with her hands behind her head.

00:00:00

I’m out of time, baby. I should be worried that I’m out of time, but I find myself sitting at a bar in Imp City staring at the countdown clock on a silver screen, knowing he knows where I am, while still wondering if Sally has butterfly wings the color of a sunset.

I have these pages open, and I’m writing as the words and pictures flash through my mind, an endless stream of consciousness I didn’t know I could remember.

And now, Baby, it seems the reckoning has arrived.

Until next time, Sugar.

XOXO Valentino?

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

He touched my hand when he arrived. I recognized his fingers the instant they slid along my skin, tingling with static. A simple thing, really, but oh-so powerful. His palm closed around my own like a small cage I didn’t want to leave, and I looked up at him, blinded by the blue light of his screen.

Voxxy never failed to dress his best, even in a shithole in the middle of Imp City. Tailored suit. Sharp tie. Cold smile.

He took a seat beside me, his back rigid, and ordered a scotch from the bartender. His eyes, angry images on a sheet of glass, flicked over my face, flashed, and then studied me more closely.

“So, Val, what’s your plan?” he said, arching a brow as he spoke. His tone had playful little lilt to it that might have set me off in the past, but I was too lost in my own thoughts for anger… for once.

I tried to school my features into the crooning, easy smile he knew so well, subtly tucking away the notebook and pen into my bag. I made my voice sugary and low for him.

“Voxxy, baby, I just wanted a chance to…” I stopped myself before saying the words ‘start over’, because in that moment starting over seemed impossible, improbable, and almost too fucking ridiculous.

Why?

“To…?” He squeezed my hand, sipping his drink. Expectant. Impatient. Agitated.

Silence.

“I don’t know,” I finally said, watching his thumb caress my open palm, stroking in slow concentric circles that stung with electricity. “Voxxy, Baby, I know you’re angry. Can’t we just—“

“Of course I’m angry, Val,” he sighed, shutting his eyes tight with a grimace. He seemed to be coming to a decision, one that took him more effort than he dared show me, one that might have even pained him greatly. I didn’t need to wait long to find out what that decision was. “But I love you, and I’m gonna offer you something I know I’ll regret.” Another pause. The silence felt weighted, heavy on the air. He ran a hand over his screen, as if massaging his brow. “You can start over outside Pentagram City. Wherever you want, I don’t care. I’ll pay your way for six months. But… you can’t come back, Val. If you do, I’ll destroy you. We’ll be enemies. You understand? That’s Option A.”

Baby baby baby, I should have jumped on that deal. I should have pounced on the opportunity then and there. It was what I wanted, after all. It was everything I wanted. And yet…

“Voxxy, what’s Option B?” I said.

He stopped petting my hand, looking a touch startled. His eyes narrowed. Suspicion, I suppose. He searched my face for schemes. I didn’t have any, baby. I didn’t have any… and the false accusation in his eyes hurt, though I suppose I’ve hurt others far worse, including him.

He straightened on the stool, rummaged through his jacket pockets, and set a pet collar on the bar between us. Strange insignia glowed on its electric blue surface, capturing the light and flashing it back into my eyes like the promise of a prison.

“You come home with me and follow my rules from now on,” he said, tapping the collar with a single finger. It flickered, the words strange and shifting. “And you wear this to keep you from running away again. No more fighting me. No more kicking and screaming. No more lying and manipulating. I love you, Val, but I know you. I know we can’t be together in a normal way. You’re power-hungry, jealous, vicious, and scheming. I’m not going to let you use me anymore. I’m not going to let you break me, berate me, or play me.”

He spat the words like poison. They made his screen burn hot with a rage I was still unaccustomed to seeing from him.

“Voxxy, where’s your finesse?” I teased, though my throat burned far too dry for my liking. “You’re not exactly selling Option B, Baby.”

“I know,” he said, removing his hand from my own. It suddenly felt oddly cold and clammy. “If you choose me, I will punish you publicly, very publicly, for running away. Just be aware of that.”

He said those words with such a bland expression, tight and restrained, as if he were bottling a thousand thoughts deep down inside himself, knowing my answer and wishing I would stop teasing him by asking about the option he knew I would not choose— the option that promised captivity in his arms.

He didn’t know me as well as he thought he did.

I took the collar in shaking hands and clasped it around my neck. I made a choice, and maybe it was the wrong one and maybe I would suffer for it, but at least I made a choice. I made the choice that felt right. Silly me.

He stared at me for a long time, as if buffering under the shock of that quiet, unexpected gesture. Then, he leaned in and kissed me, almost tenderly, while attaching a leash to the collar.

I felt the briefest spark of his lips followed by a tug forward that wrenched me from my seat. I stumbled to the ground, bracing myself on my hands and knees, caught off guard and off balance.

“Val, I’m gonna ask you this once,” he said, looking down at me. People never looked down at me. At least not in a long, long time. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Small, powerless, and afraid… how many times had I made others feel how I felt in that moment, but worse?

But worse…

“I don’t know, Voxxy,” I said, arranging myself to kneel at his feet, to press my cheek against his hip and feel the caress of his hand patting my head. Blissful. “But I love you, and I’m… sorry. I’m sorry.”

“…What?”

He didn’t believe me. I knew he didn’t believe me. Any restraint he’d maintained up until that moment snapped like a chord held taut and worn thin. He didn’t believe me. He thought I was playing another game.

After all, I’ve done this shit before.

He swept an arm across a nearby table, sending glass, ice, and strong-smelling liquor flying. Naturally, nobody said a word. They watched, wide-eyed, as this fuming overlord lost his goddamn mind and… gave them a show.

“Bend over the table, you lying rat,” he snapped. “You say you’re fucking sorry? Really? Prove it.”

I stood on shaky legs and bent my ass over the table. Chords snapped from all directions and ripped at my clothing, tearing it into strips and wrenching those pieces from my body, until I stood there, ass up, bare for him.

Silence. His hand rested on my behind, massaging one cheek until I shuddered.

I glanced over my shoulder and found him watching me with a look on his face I could not quite discern.

Disbelief? Confusion?

Something else?

I didn’t expect his fingers, zapping and staticky, to dive between my cheeks and rub my asshole. I lurched forward with a yelp, clinging to the edge of the table. The sounds that escaped me, shrill and desperate, caught me off guard. I covered my mouth with a hand to stifle them, but he gave the leash a jerk, a choking warning not to quiet my sounds.

It had been… too long, I suppose, and the second one of those digits breached the tightly puckered ring to prod around inside me, my knees turned to jelly. A few haphazard thrusts against my prostate and my dick stood erect, leaking pre cum onto the table.

I started stammering, saying his name in a way that sounded like a plea and wagging my ass like a slut. Ridiculous. Absolutely fucking embarrassing… but I couldn’t stop myself.

He removed his fingers, drew back his hand, and brought his palm down hard across the left cheek, leaving behind a dark imprint. First one cheek, then the other. He struck me again and again, varying the tempo and pace, with each strike stinging and rocking my body. The SWAT sounds rang across the room alongside my gasps and cries.

A crowd of imps watched as the “once great Valentino” was reduced to a sobbing, babbling mess, publicly humiliated with his blazing bottom bare for all to see. I could barely contain my shame, especially when Vox leaned over my back, kissed my neck, and I came all over the table.

“Good boy,” he whispered by my cheek. “Good boy, Val. You did so good. Come on. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let’s go home.”

He scooped me up in his arms, as if I weren’t so much taller and leggier, and carried me to his waiting car. He kissed the tears from my cheeks.

“Voxxy, wait, my bag,” I said, and maybe the panic in my voice caught him off guard. I don’t know why that panic was there, or for what reason I keep writing this shit down, but he fetched the bag and placed on the floor of the vehicle before wrapping me in a blanket.

And now, here I am… right back where I fucking started. I don’t understand it either. It doesn’t make sense, does it? I keep replaying the scene in my mind, but I can’t imagine taking the other option no matter how hard I try.

All of that bullshit happened yesterday.

This morning, I woke up in his arms and looked at him for a long while, wondering why I loved him and why he loved me. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

His eyes blinked open and he caught me staring at him.

He smiled.

Really smiled.

My chest ached.

“Good morning, Val,” he said, sitting up and leaning in close to look at me as if I were some mystery he needed to unravel. “What are you… thinking about right now?”

“What’s your name, baby? Your real name?”

Needless to say, the doctor will be making an emergency home visit today. Voxxy’s been hovering over me in a fuss for most of the day. He thinks I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

Maybe I have…

XOXO,

…Valentino?

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Voxxy’s been real dotin’ lately. I think he's afraid he might’ve broken me, and no matter how many times I tell him I'm still whole he doesn't seem to believe me.

Well, baby, that's alright. I don't think I mind much. In fact, I don’t think I mind one goddamn bit. I guess I missed the old nuggets of affection from him. I missed the tender touches, the careful caresses, and the sweet sentences whispered in my ear. I never knew how much I needed his love until it was some distant thing, overshadowed by the sting of a hard hand.

And yet, even while I don't mind his change of disposition, it also fills me with dread, because I know it's only a matter of time… before I lose him.

He wanted to break me… and now that he thinks he's broken me it seems he's disappointed with the result. He doesn't like it when I'm obedient, I worry. Maybe I knew all along he wouldn't. It still hurts though. I can feel him standing so far away, on the precipice of abandoning me.

What happens when he stops loving me? I made a choice to stay with him. I made a choice—a hard and stupid choice— to belong to him. What happens when he walks away? And where do I go? And what do I do?

My head is spinning with questions, baby. Too many questions and not an answer to be found. I'm drowning in all these questions. The water has overtaken me, I've lost my sandcastle on the shore, and now I'm slowly drowning in a current that promises to pull me under.

For a while I was trying to keep track of the days, but now it seems pointless. The afterlife is a long, endless journey, and if I continue in this fashion I'll be naming numbers forever. One day I'll look down at these papers and see digits I don't recognize… numbers beyond my understanding. No, I don't want to see that. Why break my own heart? Why bother? I'd rather play pretend. I'd rather not know how long it's been.

Another doctor just walked in. I wonder how I'll convince this one that I have not gone mad. I wonder if he'll believe me.

I know he won't.

Every day begins the same. I wake up at 6:30 AM, slide out of bed, and walk to the kitchen where I cook breakfast for the two of us. Freedom to roam the entire apartment… A little privilege I've earned, I suppose. It sounds asinine when I write it down.

But really, it's not so bad. It's not so bad. At least I chose it this time. At least I'm continuing to choose. The choosing makes all the difference. Every once in awhile, Vox offers me the option to leave. He places that old deal on the table, and offers me the chance to take my freedom back, to start over.

I never take it.

At 7:00 AM, Vox drags himself into the dining room, looking tired with his dim screen and narrowed eyes. I serve him breakfast and then take my place seated at his feet with my head in his lap. He strokes my scalp absentmindedly, chattering on about friends, social events, business, and other things I might quietly comment on.

He gets ready, he kisses me goodbye, and then he goes to work, leaving me in this apartment all alone. That's the hardest part. I try to busy myself with writing, cleaning, and focusing my attention on some minor unimportant projects. However, eventually I always find myself in the same place, curled up on the bed and lost in thought.

I keep trying to remember my name. I know I sound like a broken record, baby, but it's my current obsession, I suppose. Another thing I do is make up apologies in my head… to Angel…to Vox… to the others…

I try to put the words together, to make sense of them in my head. Apologies don't come easily to me. I just want them to know… that I'm sorry… but it doesn't seem like that's enough. I don't know what would be enough. I don't think anything would be enough. So what do I do? Even if it's not enough, do I just say I'm sorry? And how do I know if they want to hear an apology or if they just want to be left alone? How do I know what the right thing to do is? What is the right thing to do? Why is this so much easier for other people? Why am I like this?

Can I be better than what I am?

Vox found me after work today lying on the bed lost in thought. I didn't notice him until I felt the bed dip, and by then it was too late. He'd seen too much, watching my eyes search my mind for the words I didn't know how to say.

He ran his hand down the side of my cheek, looking so very serious. But I believe that for all his pomp and circumstance, he was too scared to ask what I was thinking about.

Instead, he pulled me into his lap, entwined me in his arms, and rested his back against the headboard. I suppose I could have fussed and bitched just for his benefit, but instead I laid my head on his shoulder. Playing hard to get is exhausting. I’ve lost all energy for artifice. “Marcus,” he said, rubbing slow circles into my back. “My name was Marcus. Mark for short.”

“Marcus,” I repeated the name in a low, quiet sort of voice, tasting it on my tongue and wondering what prompted the brief candid moment.

“You know, most people respond to an introduction with one of their own,” he said, his tone light and playful. “Your turn, Val.”

I paused for a moment and looked him in the eye— really looked at him. He tightened his hold around me, his expression… warming. Melting? I started to think that perhaps his love wasn’t so fickle after all, but then I shook the thought away, because I know better.

There’s no constancy in a man’s heart, baby. When you forget that little truth, that’s when you start believing in fairytales and legends that are better left forgotten.

“I don’t… remember,” I said. “I’ve only got bits and pieces of the past, baby. The rest is… like some fairytale I heard long ago, and I can’t quite recall all the details. I remember my life in fuzzy clips, more color and sound than substance.”

“Val—“ he paused on an exhale, pressed a staticky kiss against my lips, and cradled the back of my head in his hand as if to draw me closer to himself. “Lately, you’ve been… are you…” Silence. He considered his words, taking a real long time. “Val, do you love me?”

“Yes, Mark, I do. I love you,” I said.

Why did I say it?

He smiled. “I love you too.”

We sat there for a moment, and it sank into my mind that for once when I told him I loved him he believed me. He really, truly believed me. And how strange that was, to be believed. How odd it seems now that the moment’s gone.

Maybe it was all in the name.

Maybe…

“What are you thinking about right now?” He said, his hands roaming over my clipped wings, which were slowly but surely growing back— healing themselves. “Sometimes I wish… I could see into your thoughts. No matter how hard I try to wrap my head around you, you never cease to fucking surprise me. It’s like you’re always just two steps ahead.”

“Am I redeemable?” The question came from my mouth like an announcement of something serious. Vox sat up straighter and gaped at me as if I'd just told him I wanted to go join that ridiculous Happy Hotel or something. I continued speaking, though my voice was a little softer than before. Less confident. “THAT’S what I’m thinking. I know the answer already. But even if I’m not redeemable, can I be better than I am right now?”

“Val, when did you start thinking about stuff like this? Why—“ he paused again, running his fingers up and down my sides. “Listen, you don't need to worry about whether or not you're redeemable. Just... Rely on me. Let me take care of you. Everything you've done, everything you ever did, it doesn't matter anymore, Val. Just focus on being here with me. I'm not going anywhere and I'm gonna protect you from everything… even yourself.”

I shouldn’t have said what I said next. Maybe I felt too close to him. I got too candid. The words just… slipped out. “Eventually you’ll get bored,” I said. “If I’m not keeping you on your toes, eventually—“

“What? What the fuck, Val?” His voice sounded strained and I got the feeling he was resisting the urge to reposition me bent me over his knee. Static buzzed on the air. “You seriously… you think I’m just gonna up and leave you? After all the shit you’ve put me through, all the stuff I’ve put up with, you seriously think my love is that fucking fragile? It’s been DECADES, Val.”

I said nothing and suddenly he looked very sad. He took my face in his hands and stroked his thumbs across my cheekbones. I don’t know why my skin felt so hot… and damp.

“I-I don’t know,” I said, stammering like a damned fool.

“We’ll get married tomorrow,” he said, all firm and decisive. His fingers curled around the collar and he pulled me in for a kiss that shocked and tingled. “I like you like this. Never think I don’t like you like this. Honest… reflective. I’m not bored, Val. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but being thoughtful, open, and… sweet… that won’t drive me away. I swear to Satan it won’t.” Maybe he saw the uncertainty in my eyes, because he sighed and held me close to his chest again, petting my tattered wings. “You just tell me what you need to feel loved, alright? Keep telling me… what you’re thinking. I want to keep talking. I like this.”

We never spoke much about thoughts or feelings before. I kept my topics superficial or spiteful in nature. I don’t know for sure if Voxxy means what he says, but I’ve decided to take him at his word.

We kept talking, and the more we talked, the lighter I felt, like some great weight was being lifted from my chest. He told me things I didn’t know about him. He told me about his family from before, his old dreams, and his sins. In turn, I gave him the pieces I remembered, little that they were, and I don’t think he’s ever held me closer. Fragments. Faeries. Sad stories. Happy ones too.

He listened to me with wide, warm 2-dimensional eyes.

Maybe we’ll be okay, he and I. Maybe his love isn’t so fickle after all.

I sound ridiculous… but maybe…

Maybe…

XOXO,

Val?

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Sally sold seashells on the seashore. Don’t know why, but she don't no more.

After Mama died, things changed. Of course, things changed. My siblings and I, sometimes together, mostly apart, bounced from foster home to foster home. I remember we were told not to bond too closely with any single family, because back in those days the average stay in any one home was only around 18 months or so.

Mama died with prayers on her tongue. When I remember that day, I see flashes of red and blue in my mind's eye. I hear gunshots. Shouting. Tears. Red and blue. Red and blue. Lights, blood, and uniforms too.

The world whittled away at us, and it felt as though we were leaping over obstacle after obstacle with ghostly hands grabbing at our ankles. How do you fly above your circumstances when every time you find yourself airborne so many hands pull you back down to earth?

Clawed hands. Pale hands. An unfathomable amount of hands in a world that pretends the hands don't exist.

And when the hands run themselves over your body, what are you meant to do? Tell me, what are you meant to do?

How did I become the man that I am right now? How did I become everything I once railed against… everything I ever…

I spoke to Angel the other day for the first time in a long time. He came by the apartment to finally get those answers he wanted and we sat stiffly across from each other, both frozen with some sort of strange, impenetrable silence.

The Radio Demon wasn't with him this time, I noted. I wondered why. His face appeared screwed with determination, eyes narrowed with focus.

“So you twos finally got married?” he said, gesturing to the wedding band on my finger. “So what, did he drag ya t’ the altar kickin’ and screamin’?”

His tone suggested something of sarcasm, which might have bothered me in the past, but his eyes belied a small ounce of concern. Angel Cakes… He was always a better person than I was. Worried for my wellbeing despite everything I've done to him.

“A small affair, baby, with only a couple witnesses,” I said. “No kicking or screaming required, I’m afraid.” I wrapped my robe tighter around myself, resisting the urge to drum my fingers on the table, a little habit of agitation that I knew might trigger a fear response from Angel. It usually preceded an… altercation.

Instead, I tucked my hands under my arms and sat back. He studied me for a long time, looking as if he were trying to analyze me. In the end, he simply sighed and set a stack of papers between us.

“Let's just get this ova’ with…” He lowered his voice then, and glanced around the room, noting Vox standing off in one corner distracted by something on his phone. “Listen Val,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “I might hate your guts, but if ya need t’ get outa here— well, no one deserves… not even you. So, if ya need help—“

“Thank you, baby, b-but I’m—“ I almost stumbled on the words, shock perhaps all too clear on my face. Vox glanced up from his phone and frowned, moving to step closer. I offered him a soft smile to settle his nerves, one that caused Angel to gape at me— dumbstruck, I suspect. “I’m just fine right where I am. And…” I paused, taking a deep breath. “I am… sorry. I’m so sorry. I know— I know that will never even begin to—“

“You’re what? What the fuck did ya just say t’ me?”

“I’m sorry, Angel,” I said. “For everything.”

He shook for a moment, and then he seemed… angry. “What d’ya expect me t’ say t’ that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” I hurried to fill the silence, shaking my head as I spoke. “You don’t owe me anything. Not forgiveness. Not a word. I just… I’m sorry. You were never worthless. You were never less than. You never deserved any of it. Every venomous thing I whispered in your ear was a lie. I envied you. I was afraid of you. I wanted you and I hated you. It was never… I just needed you to know that. I’m sorry, Angel. I hope you run this little empire in Hell better than I ever could.”

I think I gave back something that I stole from him. I'm not sure. His eyes grew glassy, but he maintained his composure and we refocused our attention on the task at hand. I can only hope that somehow, some way, my apology and the acknowledgement of what I did to him will bring something good down the road. I can only hope it gives him some peace.

But I don't know.

I don't know if I did the right thing. I don't know if I said the right words. I don't know if I made things worse or better. I just don't know.

I'm trying.

I don't know if intention helps matters, but I'm trying.

Maybe there’s no redemption for someone like me, but if all I can do is pick at the knots of this tapestry of hate and despair that I’ve woven, then I suppose that's what I'll do. One at a time. Knot by knot.

Maybe one day it’ll fall apart, and I’ll find myself standing amongst a pile of threads of many colors. Maybe one day I can start anew on a creation I might take pride in. Maybe one day…

Vox came to stand behind me after Angel left. He placed his hands on my shoulders, his knuckles turning white, his hold pinching. I don’t know why. I looked up at him from my seated position and saw his eyes narrowed on that screen. Red eyes lined with electric blue.

“Voxxy, Baby,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

His hand drifted to my throat, fingers coiling around my neck just above the collar. He squeezed, cutting off the air for a second too long, leaving me gasping and breathless when he finally relaxed his hold.

I watched his eyes flick to the ring on my finger, to the confusion on my face, and then he met my gaze, locking me in a stare that caught me up, transfixed by the light of his screen. Only when he had my full and complete attention did he seem to relax.

“Eyes on me, V,” he said, cupping my chin. He leaned down and pressed a kiss against my lips— a quick static sting of a peck. Then, he straightened his back, grabbed one of my antennae, and smiled a strange, far-too-wide smile. “If I ever see you start whispering with our ‘company’ like that again, I’m going to bend you over this fucking table and electro-shock your tight little asshole until you remember just who you’re fucking married to. Do you understand?”

Voxxy never used to be the jealous sort, or at least he never showed his jealousy so plainly before. But then, the dynamic had been quite different in the past. Maybe I’d ignored it. Maybe I’d forced him to repress it. “Voxxy, sweetie, I think you misunderstood. We were—“

His eyes clouded with anger in that moment, flashing like lightning as his grip on my antenna tightened, and I remembered times when I’d said something similar:

‘Voxxy, sweetie, you misunderstood. He’s a business partner.’

‘Voxxy, Daddy, you’re acting CrAzY. Since when are we exclusive? Ha! Can you imagine a man like me settling for ONE subpar blue cock when I can taste the rainbow?’

‘Voxy, baby, why all the dramatics? You’re ruining the fun. You’re acting hysterical. I’m not cheating you, you pathetic whiny little bitch.’

“I apologized to him,” I said, unhooking his grip with careful fingers.

“You apologized,” he repeated. “To Angel Dust?”

“I thought… I don’t know if I said the right thing. I’m trying, Mark. I want to be better.” He sat beside me then, clenching my hand in his own. “I suppose after all we’ve been through perhaps the whispering—“

“I overreacted, V,” he said, shaking his head and running a hand down one half of his screen face. “Ha. You apologized. You fucking apologized! It’s like you’re changing into a completely different fucking person.”

“I—“

“And I if I thought I was obsessed with you before, it’s only getting worse now.” I let him draw me into his lap and clung to him as he held me, wondering about this confusing, baffling thing we call love.

“My eyes are on you,” I promised. “I love you.”

Red and blue. These colors painted the worst moments of my life and the best moments of my afterlife. I see red and blue in my memories, illustrating my nightmares of a time before death. I see red and blue in his eyes, promising something worth trying for.

And maybe it isn't perfect.

And maybe it's a little broken.

But I’m a moth captivated by light and color. I’m a sinner ten thousand times over. I’m a monster rediscovering his humanity.

And maybe it’s okay that I’m happiest in his arms.

And maybe it’s okay that we’re learning my name… together.

XOXO

V