Short Stories

The Hollow Soul

((Gonna just do some Benadryl ramblings rq then go to bed))

Malcolm looked at the clock on his desk. While time didn't truly exist in hell, he and Spencer set them up to match the human realm so Malcolm didn't lose track of time. He was known for spending ten or more hours at his desk without something to check in with reality.

Malcolm turned off the lamp, put his fountain pen in a drawer, and stood up from his chair. He never used to make noise when he stood up, but 30 years ruling Hell will do that to you.

According to the clock, if he left his office now and made the ten minute walk across the palace, he could be in bed with Spencer sooner than usual. Spencer was never one for getting angry, but if Malcolm was late enough to bed, Spencer could get.... Miffed.

When he first became King, Malcolm had made his palace to resemble Versailles. He had gone there when he was 11 or 12... definitely no older than 13. Anyways. The band was on a European tour, and his fathers had taken a day off to show him the artistry of Versailles. Malcolm was entranced. He could have stayed there for days, but alas, the palace did have to close for the day and that was that.

Walking the halls of his twisted version of Versailles now made him sick. The beauty of that place never should have been corrupted by the realm of eternal damnation. Malcolm had picked Versailles because it made him happy, but now it simply reminded him of a life that was no longer his. A life that was stolen from him, and that he in turn had stolen from his husband and daughter.

Malcolm wrapped his robe tighter around himself, and with that movement looked at himself in a mirror. He stopped. Who was this middle aged man with greying hair, a drooping face and poor posture. Surely this wasn't the same person who was homecoming king, who used to draw passionately, and lived life like it was worth living.

No.

This was a man who hated what he had to do, why he had to do it, and most importantly who it had made him.  Spencer would tell him he was the same man he married all those years ago, but Malcolm could see the way he looked at Malcolm differently. With pity. Like a problem to fix.

A servant coming to dim the lights snapped him out of his trance. They nodded to each other silently, and Malcolm continued on his trek to slumber.

In four minutes, he would be undressing into his pajamas while Spencer talked about his day in the garden or the library or on Earth. Malcolm would listen, genuinely interested, but unable to shake the thought from his head.

The king of hell was meant to suffer alone. Why had he dragged the loveliest person he knew into this darkness? Why had he dampened Spencer's potential?

Because Malcolm needed Spencer.

In life.

In death.

And in damnation.