Laughter infiltrated the battle scene. Four boys, arms folded over their chests, eyes crinkled with humourless smiles as they watched me. They were a few years above me, but I recognised them from Sunday mass.
“Who are you playing with?” one of the boys asked. His mother was in the choir and his father organised the charity bowls. James was his name. It was muttered by his friends who snickered and shoved him forward.
“I’m not playing with anyone,” I stated the obvious.
James leaned down to retrieve a stick of his own, longer and sharper than mine. “I can play with you,” he said. His friends laughed. “You were playing… swords, right?”
I nodded, oblivious of the torment to follow. Although I preferred my own company, I would be lying if I told you I didn’t find the idea of a real opponent, a real playmate, appealing. Since Auden was still too young for games like these, I had no one to play with. Given the rare opportunity, I could not refuse.
Our sticks collided gently. I imagined that I was a gallant knight combatting a cursed warlock; a hero entrusted with saving the kingdom from his evil grasp. It was fun, but James played the role of 'cursed warlock' far too well. His advances grew in strength, our sticks connecting with a force so strong it snapped mine in two.
I staggered backward, losing hold of my weapon as James aimed his sword at my chest. Fear flooded through me, their laughter circling me like vultures, hungry for the kill.
James grinned, drinking in the fear that poured from me like a raging waterfall. “Scared?” he taunted, raising the stick higher with both hands, a soldier prepared to land a fatal blow.
The laughter ceased. His friends drew closer. My gaze locked on the sharp end of the stick, breath evading my lungs as time slowed, the weapon falling lower and lower.
I rolled at the last second, James’ stick landing inches to my left with a loud snap. There was a collective gasp as I stood, leaves tangled in my hair and dangling off my jumper, a smudge of dirt on my cheek.
Take his sword and slam it into his throat.
The voice was soft, coaxing, almost melodic. It was not a voice I had heard before, but the presence was familiar. The mirror flashed behind my eyelids. Black eyes, the flesh melting from my face, the pool of insects devouring me. It was the Devil. He was here.
I ran. I ran without looking back. I did not stop until I reached the library, safe amongst the shelves where I could hide from James and, more importantly, the Devil.
It was there, where I sat between two shelves, that I realised I was not the hero I liked to pretend I was. I was only a coward.
***
I was weary of the Devil returning that afternoon when I entered the House on North Lane. He did, but not in the way I had anticipated. The moment I stepped through the door, I was greeted by earth-shattering screams and distraught, violent sobbing. The former my brother, the latter my mother.
Alarmed, I dropped my bag in the entryway and followed the sound of my brother’s distressed wails. He was on the floor of his bedroom, in only a diaper, his face and chest covered in what was either food, vomit, or both.
My mother was on the other side of the room, back against the wall, knees hugged to her chest. Her shoulders shook, hair spilling over her hands that clawed at her swollen eyes.
This time, I could not run. This time, I had to be the hero.
I scooped Auden up into my arms and carried him into the bathroom, carefully removing his nappy before lowering him into the small tub to fill it with warm, soapy water.
“Shh, Auddie, it’s okay,” I tried to soothe him, reaching for a clean cloth to wipe the food—or vomit—off his body. He flinched at the sensation, threatening to release another scream when I reached for his bath toys to distract him. It worked, giving me enough time to clean him up and dress him in a red and yellow Winnie-the-Pooh romper with a honey pot stamped on the back.
His crying ceased, but his eyes remained red and swollen. With his security blanket hugged to his chest, I carried him to his bed and set him down, stroking the hair out of his eyes as he watched me with big, unblinking eyes.
“Are you feeling better now?” I asked him.
He dipped his head in a nod as his eyelids fluttered shut, his face softening, all tension fleeing his body. With Auden settled, it was time to face my mother.
Her shoulders had stilled, though her face remained hidden beneath her untamed hair. I approached her, slowly, and reached for one of her hands. She flinched, as though scorched by flame, and lifted her head to look at me, tear-stained face twisted in anger.
“Demon,” she hissed. “Do not touch me!”
I withdrew, hands falling at my sides as I whispered, “It’s me, Mumma. Augustus.”
“Augustus?” my mother repeated. “How dare you say his name,demon!I know what you are!”
Dread carved into my chest, the memory of the Devil’s melodic voice replaying in my head. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
A cold laugh escaped her throat, eyes wild as she reached for my wrist, fingernails digging into bone as she rose to her feet.
