The Devil Gets His Due
~ Part One
The
room was light and airy; pale walls, beige or some other innocuous
color, with huge windows, looking out on a striking rocky seascape.
It was a peaceful room, calming. One could easily sit there for hours
watching the sea birds, the changing sea, the clouds, the rains come
and go; and one could be utterly content. The room had two occupants.
One was a healthy, hearty young blond man. He sat watching
out the window, as you could only suppose any inhabitant would. He
seemed pleasant, if somewhat innocuous. He had blond hair longish,
blue eyes that sparkled with hidden secrets. He had a wonderful tan,
obviously worked outside as much as inside. He was sprawled on a
couch that faced one of the large windows and every once in a while
he would glance at the rooms other inhabitant. He’d study the
dark
man for a bit, shrug and return his gaze to the sea. You could just
see he was a thoroughly happy fellow.
The other person in the
room was not nearly so content. He was dark, tall, thin, rakish,
beautiful and full of unspent energy. He paced. He ran his hands
through his hair. He’d perch on a seat for a moment, but
suddenly
leap up, as if on fire. He’d pace again. He rarely looked out
the
window. What was out there was nothing he cared about. It
didn’t
interest him. When he’d first come to this room, he sat on
the
couch and looked out at the sea with wonder. But he’d been
here a
very long time now. He had watched the room change, evolve. Nothing
really ever changed – the colors, the furniture and even
occasionally the residents; but nothing substantive.
He
perched for a moment, and then returned to his current life’s
work,
his pacing. He marched back and forth, seemingly with purpose. He ran
his hands through his hair. He wanted to scream, but did not. He had
tried that as well. It served no purpose other than to make his
throat ache. He looked at the blonde man. He studied him. He hated
him. He thought of slapping him. He thought of all of the things he
could say that might make the man cringe or cower. He had tried that.
It didn’t work. He threw some of his mightiest phrases at
him;
telling him just how lowly, how crude, how pathetic, how useless he
was. The other man remained unmoved. He smiled. He often pounded the
dark haired man on the back, proudly, as a father,
“That’s the
spirit!”
So now he paced. There was nothing else to do.
There was no paper to write on. He’d tried to write on the
walls.
Magically they seemed to erase themselves. They remained pale, bland,
unmarked. It was a pointless task to try to write. He tried to sing,
but realized that no one would hear his songs. There was no one else
to talk to. He’d tried to write and failed. He’d
railed at the
outrageousness of his current status and failed. He tried to talk
calmly and failed. Here he was. He was going nowhere and there was
nothing to do.
So now he paced. He’d run his hands through
his hair and he’d pace. Occasionally he would laugh at
himself. His
hair was long, curly and real. This was no wig. This was no fashion
statement. In the past, he would have loved to have natural hair as
flowing and beautifully curled as his own was now. He looked at his
clothes; a white shirt and blue jeans; very practical. He would have
loved to have had such practical clothes before. Instead he had worn
knee breaches, laced shirts, silken jackets embroidered fashionably.
He had been the man of mode. He had been important and he had been
respected and reviled, envied and held in contempt. He had been
someone. And now he was in a room with a view.
He strode up
to the window and crashed his fast against the glass. It had no
impact. The glass didn’t even shake.
“Bah!” he spit at the
window. He spun to face his room mate. “What’s the
point??”
The blonde man smiled. “What’s the point of
what?”
“Of being here? Of continuing? What’s the meaning
of it
all?” He asked, and while angry it appeared he expected an
answer.
The question wasn’t simply rhetoric.
“You’ve asked that
before.” The smile stayed in place.
“Of course I’ve
asked before you babbling baboon! Of course I’ve asked you
moronic
monkey. I want an answer. When does this all end? I’m tired
of this
daily routine of nothing!”
The smile continued. “Of
course you are. But what did you expect?”
“Damn you and
your vile attitude.”
“Precisely. But to be exact; I’m
not the one who is damned.”
Rochester returned to his
pacing. What was the point of talking? There were no answers to be
had. Not any meaningful answers, at least. He’d been in this
room
for well over 300 years and in that amount of time he had figured out
quite a number of things for himself. The blonde man had been his
constant companion, but never a friend. He never said anything that
would be of use. Rochester knew, for example, that he was in hell.
This was not Dante’s hell, he knew that as well. He knew that
counting angels on a pinhead had done him no good. He knew that he
was with no one he had known or loved or hated for that matter. He
was not burning in hell as he had anticipated; yet never had this
room been pleasant for him.
He was no longer ill. He was no
longer in pain. He looked perfectly healthy and he looked to be about
33 years of age. His hair now resembled one of the wigs he had often
worn, and it did that without any help or harm from himself. He knew
that too. He had taken a pair of scissors to the hair one day, out of
boredom, exasperation, anticipation; out of the hope for something to
be different. He awakened the next morning with it exactly the same
as it had been the previous day, prior to the shearing. He sighed. He
tried not to do that very often. It seemed to make the blonde
man’s
smile grow.
He knew he hated the blonde man. He assumed it
was the devil. Hadn’t someone said he would assume a pleasing
form?
It certainly seemed apt. He thought of Elizabeth. She had been apt.
Now the devil was apt. Perhaps aptness was in the eyes of the
beholder. He wanted to smile, but didn’t. His own wit no
longer
pleased him. It served no apparent purpose here. He didn’t
write;
he rarely spoke. There seemed little point to trying to be clever. It
was the devil’s game and he always won. Eternity. He did
often
ponder eternity. How long would it last? Was there to be a judgment
day? Would he be with this smiling stranger for eternity?
He
sighed again and very nearly snapped at himself. Twice in one day was
a very bad day. “What is the point?”
The blonde man took
one last long look at the sea and turned to Rochester. “You
want to
know the point, man? You want to know what it’s all about?
What’s
it all about Alfie? What’s the hurry, man? You going
somewhere?”
He laughed. He liked his own jokes. “I’ll tell you
something
important. But I’ll only do this once, man. And
don’t start
askin’ a lot of questions, bro, ‘cause
I’m not di-vulging
anything here that you shouldn’ta already figured out on your
own.”
He was getting red in the face. “You find one person who
gives a
damn about you, you find one lost soul who cares, and I don’t
mean
the weepin’ broads like the old battle axe you married, I
mean some
one with brains. You find just one person today who cares and
I’ll
let you go. Like a yard sale, man. One friggin’ person cares
a rats
ass about you, and I’ll send you to the guy upstairs. And you
know
what Johnny boy? I’ll do that happily. I’ll have a
real smile on
my face that day, because I’m tired of your whining. You
think
you’re important? Ha! You were nobody, and people were glad
when
you left the party man. So stop carrying on and give it a rest, eh
bud?” He turned on his heal and headed back to the couch.
Carefully he sprawled across the couch and more carefully
discovered something new outside to look at. He was alone in the room
again. At least from his point of view he was alone. He could turn
people off, and Rochester while physically there, had been turned
off.
Rochester on the other hand suddenly felt full of glee.
He found himself a reprieve. He had a way out. He sat down. For once
pacing and hair pulling had been banished from his thoughts. How did
he find someone who cared? How did he influence anyone? He ran a hand
through his hair. He pinched his side. No pain. How could he say he
felt no pain? Granted the fire in his innards had disappeared, but he
was constantly, consistently in pain. Being in this room, facing his
opponent daily, he felt unbearable pain. Yet he did bear it. How in
the Kings name could he find someone who cared? How did he influence
someone? He wanted to cry. He would be in this room for the rest of
his… death. Another long sigh escaped him.
He lay down in
the corner, away from the windows, away from the room’s other
occupant. He needed to think. He needed to clear his head. What could
he do? He slept.