Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 27

"You!" I yank my cheap earbuds out.

"Me," he says.

We stare at each other. I'm mouth wide open. He smirks. It's a toothy, insolent sort of smirk.

"You ... you ... you ...

"Me, me, me!"

"You're not real," I say. "You're a—"

"An imp. You remembered. I'm touched."

"I was going to say bad dream."

"Ouch!" The imp adopted a hangdog expression. "You wound me, Charity. You really do." He sighs theatrically. "And after all I've done for you."

"What have you done for me?"

He transfixes me with those beady black eyes. I notice he doesn't have irises. The eyes are all pupil and whatever the white part is called. Except the white part isn't white. More of an aged parchment hue.

"You know," he says.

I do. I remember. Peter, the apartment, the candles, the pit, those other eyes. It all comes rushing back to me. I shudder.

"That all happened," I whisper. "That was real."

"You got it, sister."

"And you?"

"We already had this discussion. Let's not repeat it. I'm your personal demon, here at your service, at your command, per our bargain."

"Wha-whoa-what?" I say. "We didn't make any bargain!"

I'm skeptical this isn't a wine and taco-induced dream of some sort, despite my vivid and disturbing recollections of Friday night. Dream or not, I know deals with demons are not a good thing, and not something I would ever do.

"You accepted a service from me, Charity, which means you agreed to the bargain, which means I'm your personal demon."

"I didn't accept any service from you!"

"Au contraire," says the imp. "I cleaned up that little mess for you at Peter's and got you a cab. That was a service. Two, in fact. Three, really." He ticks them off on his fingers one by one. "Make it all go away – done! Make you forget it ever happened – done! Send you home to wake up in your own bed – done! All just like you asked. Bargain sealed. And not a bad night's work, if I may say so."

"But now I remember it," I say, only a little accusingly. "So how does that count?"

The imp shrugs. "You didn't say you wanted to forget forever. You've got to be specific when you ask for something."

"I thought there had to be a contract signed in blood, that sort of thing."

"If you want to get traditional, we can, sure. But any lawyer can tell you all it takes to make a contract is offer and acceptance, and a consideration – which is me doing you a service. So, again, deal sealed. I'm your imp."

"But you don't get ... my soul?"

The imp guffaws. "Not unless you're offering." His eyes narrow. "In which case I accept."

"No!"

He laughs louder, holding his sides. "Oh, the look on your face. Priceless!" He cocks his hat back. "Don't worry, sweet cheeks. No souls needed. Remember, we collected from your barbecued boyfriend. This is all on his tab."

"He wasn't my—"

"Not your boyfriend, right."

"So I wish you'd quit saying that."

"You got it, boss. Your wish is my command."

"Boss?"

"Sure. I work for you. You're the boss."

I like the sound of that, actually. I do. It sounds good. I've never been the boss of anything, not really. So I guess I'm on board with this arrangement – or derangement, more likely. But I still don't know what that means.

"So ... uh, now what?" I ask.

"You tell me."

"Well, I – you know, I just realized I don't even know your name."

"No, you do not."

"What is your name?"

"That's a personal question."

"It is? You know mine."

"We imps and such keep our true name a closely guarded secret, hidden away from spying eyes and prying ears."

"What good is a hidden name? The whole point of a name is so people know what to call you."

"That is far from the whole point of a name, sweet cheeks. The true name of a being such as myself grants power over the being named. Being summoned, being commanded, that sort of thing. And who wants that, right? So we keep our true names hidden."

"Oh. Like to prevent identity theft."

"Something like that."

"But do you have a, I don't know, stage name? A not true name people call you?"

"I have many."

"Tell me one."

"Some call me Gordophantagomus."

"That's a mouthful."

"Any more would be waste." The imp snickers.

"It's kind of a long name," I say.

"My, you're picky. You asked for a name. I gave it. Now it's too long to suit you." He gives an exaggerated sigh.

"I'm sorry. It's just ... do you have a nickname or something?"

"None I care to repeat in mixed company."

"Can I call you Gordy for short?"

Gordophantagomus snatches the cigar from his mouth. "Are you calling me short, missy?"

"No! I only meant—"

The imp chuckles. "I'm yanking your chain,sister. Sure, call me Gordy. Believe me, I've been called worse."

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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2020. All rights reserved.

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