In The Kitchen God Doesn't Reach

He reaches out a finger and touches the door. Then he lets gravity pull his hand down as he rasps the wooden planks with his nail. On the other side of the door he can feel the double lock and extra chain. Cute he mutters under his breath.

As his hand lands on the handle though, only a satisfying click sounds and the door glides open like an invitation.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a disturbing half smile. He’ll never not find amusement in his old tricks. Though, his smile quickly dies when he gets a good look inside. He frowns in disgust at the interior.

Old fashioned with the wallpapers starting to give up in the corners and a very obvious filthy mat displayed over the hallway floor. Even though he technically was some sort of celebrity, he wasn’t prideful enough to expect a rolled out red carpet at his arrival. But, he thought at least a clean one wasn’t too much to ask for.

He rolls his eyes at his luck and then steps inside carefully.

The floor protest loudly underneath him but that was to be expected. He did after all bore the weight of revelation on his shoulders.

At the end of the hallway someone immediately arrives. So he had expected him, but perhaps only by paranoia. The man just like the house has clearly seen better days. It wasn’t much the sporadic grey in his hair as it was his tired posture giving away the impression. There were deep set furrows between his eyes revealing he was a pondering man. Yet, the evidence of this visitation meant he wasn’t particularly skilled in reasoning.

He sighs and closes the door behind him. This one seems difficult.

He reaches inside his suit and pulls out a bundle of what appears to be only blank papers. At least to his client, or if client would even be the right word, he was still working on that.

In one smooth gesture he licks his thumb and then leaf through the papers. What had at first seemed to be only a couple of blank sheets now appears as thousands when he rapidly goes through them.

The man momentarily looks up to inspect his client or… subject? Whatever. Across him his client has taken a step backwards which he intercepts as caution. He raises an eyebrow in response. When he then looks down again he manages to find just the right file and pulls it out with a celebratory aha.

“Juan Perez,” he whispers and that seems to stir some emotional turmoil in the man across him which he immediately smells in the air. It’s stingy like fresh anger and salty like suffocated fear. Yet he answers with nothing but silence. Only stares with eyes colder than Siberian winters. Which makes him fiddle slightly at the end of his suit sleeves before forcing forward his most charming smile.

“Ah I see you have an excellent memory. Then I won’t have to tell you why I’m here. Saves us some time actually.”

He takes a step forward and in response Juan takes one backwards whilst beginning to cite passages under his breath. His eyes narrow in annoyance. The words are hideous but still a string of satisfaction prickles his skin. Indeed, the man is not skilled at reasoning at all. A war is won way before the first bullet is fired and this man sealed his fate a long time ago.

“See, that won’t help you now.” He lends the man a patient smile but he feels like he is running out of them. Juan in turn, goes quiet and the moment weighs heavy in time. This will be the time for a faithful man, a preaching one, to decide if he truly believes in saving. And when his shaking hand gestures into the kitchen it becomes clear he does. He walks past Juan and the man's thoughts whispers to him, revealing way too much.

They end up in a small kitchen and he notices to his horror several interior trends seem to wrestle for dominance in the cramped place. If his colleagues were around now he might take it as enough evidence to bet money Juan has had multiple women walk in and out of his life. Occasional gambling had almost become standard practice alongside clientwork. What type of shameful sins did they hide? Well, time did always tell. Especially in his occupation.

“Well, Mr Perez - where can we discuss business?” He asks while clasping his hands together in an enthusiastic manner.

The man doesn't seem to understand what he means. His wary eyes start to wander across the walls whilst he is debating strategy.

At that Juan's guest suffocates the urge to sigh loudly.

“Perhaps we can sit down?” He offers and Juan nods. At last, he had traveled far to get here and his body felt more tormented than usual. To his great satisfaction the chairs are comfortable enough to make him forgive their hideous appearance. Gosh, he hates the colour orange. Hates it to the point of closing his eyes as he bends down to pick up his leather suitcase. His hands work familiarly as they unclasp the locks. The fun would soon begin, but first - the formalities.

He reaches out a hand and it hangs in the air like a welcoming noose. Juan looks skeptical but gives in. As they touch the dim light above them begins to flicker. For a second the room seems impossibly dark, even for this late hour. Not even the faint light from the outside lanterns reaches in. It’s enough for Juan to violently jerk back his hand. Then the lamp sparks loudly back to life.

He now stares into eyes twice as big as before. The tension grows awkward and he tries to save it by clearing his throat.

“I haven’t introduced myself formally. I’m sure you heard of me though. Quite the big name around… well everywhere, but especially in your circles. The name is Beelzebub.” Juan doesn't even show a reaction.

“You can’t have her,” he declares and his emotions turn the air static. Beelzebub suddenly finds the violent rhythm of Juan’s heart lightly shaking the floor and the light intensifying. He squints a little trying to see Juan better.

“You signed a contract, I’m afraid it’s binding.” He tries the apologetic approach but really he can hear the strain of his patience being bent.

“The contract doesn't touch upon this.” His voice is even, presented as truth but the tension in his body is vibrating.

Beelzebub answers by displaying the paperwork neatly in front of himself and Juan’s mouth narrows to a thin line.

His hands are clasped together and lay resting at the table. There’s a focused expression in his fearful eyes that Beelzebub easily recognises for what it is.

“I will agree to explain this further to you but truly this is a mistake, my lord.” My lord? It was an exaggerated etiquette mostly believed to be preferred by old scholars.

“You say so? Why don’t we start with going over the details of your specific situation?” Juan gives a short nod and in response Beelzebub pulls out a paper from his file. He lightly frowns at it before holding it up to his face and blowing off the dust. And whilst he’s at it, the windows gently rattle in their place.

“Hmm… June 14, 1988. Just seventeen huh? Quite young to be striking deals with the devil.”

“I was desperate. As I’m sure you could imagine.”

“I can. It reads here your mom was accused of some by human standards, faulty behaviour. Adultery to be precise and at that your dad, local priest, disowned the both of you right after losing his job because of…” he turns the page “ah an alcoholic addiction. Your family suffered economic damage and lowered heavily in status. This resulted in your own words as being ‘shunned by the people who raised and cared for you’. Well, aren't religious communities a delight?” Juan only bites down on the silence.

“I assume this was a serious offence to you, the shunning? It bothered you?”

“Correct, my lord.”

“Please, enough with this my lord nonsense. I wasn’t even the one to strike you the deal. I’m a lawyer. And I know what you're thinking now - a lawyer from hell? Well, aren't all of us.” He chuckles a little at his own joke and at the other end of the table Juan tries a faint attempt of a smile to humor him, mostly because he dares nothing else.

“I will call you Beelzebub then if that’s appropriate.” The man was hesitant with his words, careful like setting off a bomb charge. He thought he could undo time. Beelzebub knew it. He did believe in saving, only not by a god.

“Much appropriate. Now you are alone outside, late at night, as you are approached by a gentleman. He introduces himself as Asmodeus, and says he can help you with your situation.”

The man nods slowly.

“Yes, but first he told me of my destiny, spun me tales. He told me I would end up like my father, a drunk. I…”

“Did you believe Asmodeus when he introduced himself?”

“Before he even opened his mouth I knew what he was.” At that Beelzebub cocks his head in curiosity.

“And yet you stayed?” He raises an eyebrow and Juan leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest in response.

“I was a young man but a godly one. I know hell is not my destination so I did not think it was death on its way to collect me.”

“Ah I see. Were you still a godly man by the end of the evening?”

“In a moment I might have strayed from my path. But I did it to serve. And I gave nothing away.” Beelzebub could taste the false certainty oozing of him but he had to give credit, he was skilled in concealing it.

“I don’t think the fine print agrees with you.” He smiles thinly and listens to Juan's heartbeats collecting speed.

“I promised away a first born daughter, something I don’t have.”

“Like something from a child's bedtime story. Oh well. Asmodeus loved your proposal.”

“I have no daughter.”

“Did you really think we weren't aware of your diagnosed infertility?”

“Just because I can’t have one doesn’t make her my daughter. I care for her because no one else does. She would have died of sickness without me. Died. That does not make me her father.”

“But she called you father when you put her to bed tonight.”

“I did tell her not to call me that.” He spits out and then shakes his head lightly. His breathing elevates and jaws tighten. Cracks are showing up in his demeanour and through them glimpses show of chaos rising in him.

Altough, Juan is stubborn and desperate with no intention of giving up.

He continues his defence whilst Beelzebub continues picking it apart with inhuman patience and calm. The papers are laid out like puzzle pieces in front of them and both of them spin them around in their own favour to paint whatever picture they desire. Long hours go by arguing. Juan turns more and more dreaded by adrenaline and exhaustion. His hair is damp with sweat and his knuckles white like hot iron.

Though Beelzebub counters with nothing but polite smiles and sound arguments because he is convinced the truth will always conquer.

And it keeps rising in their conversations, beating out the last signs of collection and civilization in his client.

“You’re a beast. A fucking monster.” He at last whispers with his chest rising and falling heavily. Beelzebub is almost amazed at his courage yet not surprised.

“Hero, villain. It all depends on who is telling the story.” He shrugs.

“Ungodly.” Juan puts his head in his hands and sobs out. “God I’m sorry.” But he knows he can’t hear him from here. Beelzebub can’t help himself and leans in.

“I was ungodly when you turned to us the first time and yet you choose to worship our powers instead. Is it because you know deep down he doesn't compare?”

He waits but only stifling cries answer him and they’re far from enough to still his honest curiosity. So he leans back disappointed and starts fiddling on his suit sleeves, eyeing his client up and down.

He knows the desperation is the weight of revelation finally dawning on him. It’s almost sad. Then Juan finally looks up again and Beelzebub's moment of almost empathy has passed.

“This is the last file,” he says with a monotone tone leaning over the documents. “You went to Rome on a paid scholarship and chose to study demonology. How very fitting,” he comments dryly. “After years you traveled back and were greeted with nothing but admiration. The people welcomed you as their priest, you ruled this town from the moment you stepped foot again on these pavements.” He inhales deeply and makes a pause for dramatic effects. “We held up our end of the bargain, it’s your turn.”

“She’s innocent.” His voice breaks with the last word. It breaks with the hope this man had that his study, holy water and double locks would add up over the decades to protect him. Beelzebub barely reacts. He carefully gathers together the paper work in a bundle ready to wrap this up.

“You read and agreed to the terms and conditions, I assume you know what will happen if you don’t honour our deal.”

Juan tries but can’t hide his reaction and his eyes widen slightly before he looks away. Beelzebub can feel the memories shifting place in Juan’s head until the right one gets played over. It’s Asmodeus explaining the seriousness of breaking the deal. He can feel the memory is worn out. How it has gone on repeat for thousands of times over the decades and how it has every time gripped Juan’s heart with fear like a cold hand squeezing it.

He won’t even contemplate it, doesn't even want to imagine.

Other memories beg for his attention as well. But he doesn't want to see them either, yet he can still feel the sensation of a small hand in his. And as the mere thought of her could nudge her awake, Beelzebub hears the fluttering of eyelids in another room.

He questions whatever to allow it but realizes he wishes to meet her. When he hears her bedroom door creaking open excitement thrills through him.

Whilst Juan is distracted he listens to the light tapping of footsteps on the floor getting closer and closer until she stands swaying in the doorway rubbing her sleepy eyes.

In one hand dangles a teddy bear she tightly grips around its leg. Her eyebrows are furrowed in surprise but she isn’t scared, only curious. Beelzebub could taste her innocent mind. How he would love to consume it.

“Who are you? Papa, who is he?” But Juan turns his tear soaked face away, unable to look at the young child he loves like a daughter. Beelzebub could hear the words of dont call me that get stuck in the man’s throat.

“I am a friend,” he assures her with warmth in his voice. “Now go back to bed Lucy.”

And she feels compelled to listen like she always does, but soon she’ll be a stranger to obedience.

She smiles at him unsure of what’s really going on before she wanders back to her bedroom half stumbling on her oversized nightgown. Beelzebub can feel her confusion but consoles himself that soon she will never again be left in the dark.

“She’s adorable,” he exclaims with eyes full of delight. Just as adorable as a sacrificial lamb can be.

He then turns back to Juan who's almost choking on his rage. His eyes burn like coal in a smouldered fireplace.

Beelzebub says nothing more but raises out a hand and it hangs in the air not like a noose but as the promise of tightening one. Hesitation lies between them but Beelzebub knows how this will end and so does Juan.

Time is stuttering. It could be seconds or minutes or hours or back and forth. But the ritual halts to an end as Juan takes his hand. And as their skin touches the electricity goes out but Juan barely flinch.

When the lamps slowly springs back to life with repeated long sighs, Beelzebub's face is distorted in pleasure. For the first time this evening he can feel his smile is genuine.

He wastes no time and stands up gleefully, clearing his throat whilst smoothing out his suit.

“You wouldn’t mind being the one making sure she’ll stay alive? She seems rather fond of you after all.” Juan’s face wrinkles in confusion and relief.

“She’ll stay? What will happen to her?” He demands, looking up at Beelzebub with eyes shifting between fear and rage.

“She’s a daughter of the church, all the devil desires to do is free her, nothing more. He will gift her knowledge and discernment, the true salvation.”

Beelzebub feels rather pleased about himself watching a trembling Juan trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. Then he reminds himself as he begins to head out, already halfway out of this hideous kitchen, that enlightenment seems like descent for those not understanding.

He leans against the doorframe and his eyes glisten with hunger. His voice is clearly taunting when he addresses Juan for the last time.

“But don't worry,” he says softly. “It will feel exactly like losing a child.”