Sympathy For The Devil

1:57 a.m.. I must have looked at the clock a thousand times, and every time it still reads 1:57 a.m.. A tired mind in a sleepless night plays tricks on a man. The weight of burden stirring worries in my mind provoked me to lurk about my home. The soft glow of cloud covered moonlight cascades through the bay window in my livingroom. The gentle beams of white lay across dust covered picture frames and knick knacks. My shelves full with photos of better times and trinkets serving as tangible reminders, give subtle life to that which has long been lost. The warm carpet beneath my bare feet was a comforting sensation as I ran my fingers along the wooden shelf considering how long it had been since I had dusted. I decided I'd go to the kitchen and grab a dusting cloth to make use of my insomnia. When I approached the dimly lit archway, the familiar scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. This was odd since I live alone and haven't been a smoker in many years. I immediately began to feel anxious at the thought that someone else might be in my home. It could possibly be a burglar, or a bum seeking shelters from the freshly fallen snow and frigid temperatures of the winter night. I cautiously and quietly rounded the corner into my kitchen and caught a startling glimpse of his silhouette. Under the ambient glow of moonlight cast through my kitchen window, the dark figure of a man begged my attention. A glowing ember traced through the subtle darkness amidst the thick smoke that clouded the room. I glanced once, and then again hoping that my eyes hadn't seen him, but they did. His voice was something like the rumblings of gentle thunder far off in the distance. He never seemed to rush or consider a consequence. He was nothing at all as I had imagined him. There were no glinting teeth, hooves or horns. He wasn't at all a snarling beast. No pitch fork or burning flesh, only a casually dressed man at my kitchen table, burning a cigarette and asking me for a cup of coffee.

I stood at the entrance of my kitchen somewhere between panic and curiosity. Before I could make up my mind as to which, he asked "may I trouble you for a cup of coffee? If its too much trouble, I suppose that I could make it myself, but since this is your home I thought it might be rude of me to go trouncing about your kitchen". In my bewildered state, I managed to stutter only a few words "do... do I... know you?" To which he replied with a grin "not directly, but you know of me. Now, how about that coffee, James"  My rational mind begged me to call the police, escort the man out of my house with the pistol that I keep for such occasion, or to shoot him right there in my kitchen. Rather than doing any of those things, I moved with trepidation toward the coffee maker sitting atop my kitchen counter. Strange how a circumstance so intriguing can muffle the script of rational, logical thought. I felt almost as if I were a willing hostage. Maybe I had been lonely for far too long, or maybe the mundane backdrop of my life just needed some excitement. Whatever the reason, my desire to understand his presence in my home was alluring and my inquisitive impulses took over.

There was a silence about the house that I'd never heard before. As if the whole world around it stood still waiting for permission to speak. Only the sound of coffee brewing and the occasional crackling and burning when he took a drag from his cigarette echoed through the stillness. As moments passed, the silence became unbearable, so I asked him his name.

"I can only assume your being in my home has something to do with the harsh weather, or maybe you're looking for a hot meal. Those things I can provide if your intentions are good. However, I don't recall you volunteering your name" The stillness persisted as the silence seemed to grow louder. Just as I was beginning to think that maybe I should have shot him, his response broke free, only to reply casually and without hesitation "I am the devil, Jim. I'll have my coffee black, with sugar, please". I let out a nervous chuckle at first, believing he was trying to joke with me, but not so much as a grin escaped his emotionless face. I stood silent while pouring coffee into his cup. I placed the cup of coffee in front of him, and myself accross from him at the round wooden table just beneath my kitchen window. I then asked, "So, you're the devil, huh? I thought you'd be taller". A very toothy grin wrapped around his mouth before these words fled his lips. "That's what I loathe about mankind. You sit accross from me; a being beyond your wildest comprehension and you make jokes. Human nature is something clumsily put together, but somehow has managed to thrive. You things are the abortions of lesser Gods. While I am the abomination to your God, you are the abomination to me. You sit there in your chair uncertain of who or what I am. If I were a man, what would be the consequence? If I am the devil, would your fate be worse? Am I here to bring you suffering; am I here to do maleficent things? Jim, I am that which you fear; nothing more, and nothing less."