War of the Angels

Chyerti, they call us. Demon bitches, demon bastards. Your kind deserves hell.

We, for centuries, have laughed when these words came out of their mouth, and we will always be laughing. We’re evil, right, in their eyes; because we don’t do things that are right. We don’t stop listening when people call us this. Neither do we accept and acknowledge it. We think it’s ironic. Rather than those angels, who only care about themselves, who stabbed each other from behind with their flaming swords and hope that they can trust their poor souls to each other, those other angels they call “siblings”, we are not hypocrites. We are not liars who said that we will treasure people’s lives and took it right after.

No, we say it outright if we do; yet always, they cower and accept it.

Angels these days, arguing about territories and whose the worthiest, yet they turn the blind eye on humans who crawl like maggots in the earth, refusing to help—or even look!—at the frail word that is so entrusted to the most worthy being of all, humans. We may have old beefs, we chyerti and those entity protected by their frail bones and flesh and skin, but we help them. We don’t turn a blind eye. We watch, and we help when we’re needed.

Demons watch. We watch, with our shining yellow eyes, with our painted lips, with our glass-made teeth, and we never took our eyes away. We are not jealous, we are not fond of them, but we pity them, most of all. The so-called superior race that is supposed to lead their big, breathing world, end up burning it with their self-inflicted hellfire, and who’s the superior race now?

Pity; if we help, we do it for pity, and out of boredom. We breathe terrible things, the stench of death and rotting flesh are like flowers to us, but seeing the same thing over and over and over again makes you bored and frustrated. So once in a while, we descend. We took human faces, voices, names (souls, every once n a while), and we stand beside them. When we are called, we listen. When we whisper, they listen. It’s our own mutualism.

When you call us, we come. For a deal. For an exchange. For power, for wealth, for love, or for lost souls scattering on the hard ground, slipping away from grasps.

Because the world is a puppet show, but none of control the strings nor write the script. We, chyerti, creatures of the depth, only stand as instruments and audiences, ready to clap and help, while the humans act out their terrible improvisations.

 See? We’re better than those angels. What did they ever do?