Babylonian | Michael Langdon

03 | she who feasts

The satanists are Michael's favourite people in the world. They treat him in a way that he's never been treated before. His proclivities are no longer 'horrifying' and with them doing anything 'against God's will' is encouraged, not punished. They never once bring him for an exorcism, like his Grandmother had done. The latin words were always whispered so harshly, and burnt his ears. Amongst them, he is celebrated. 

To prove his loyalty to them, he eats the heart of a young girl they bring to him. She's screaming, crying and pleading for help - Michael had never heard a more beautiful sound. Her blood tasted delicious, gliding smoothly across his tongue as he bit into her heart. For a moment, it had even felt like it was still beating in his hand. And the satanists marvel at him, they look at him, covered in blood, like he is something to be treasured. 

Ms. Mead is incredibly excited, her purple-painted lips tugging up into a cruel smile. "Oh, Michael, Hail Satan! He has come - our saviour is here!" She rejoices, steadily and reverently congratulating him before slinking off into the dead of night to dispose of the body. The others help her, but she seems to take the commanding role over them. 

The next night, they return with a second girl. This one is younger. She's pale in the face, her dark hair matted with a foul-smelling combination of blood and mud. Her clothes are in an equally terrible state, some university sweatshirt she was wearing has been torn to shreds, and there's blood on that, too. Dishearteningly, this one barely even screams. She seems to be more paralysed with shock than anything else, only daring to make a noise when a knife is rammed through her chest. She gurgles and splutters for a moment, before her body goes limp, crimson blood seeping out from her chest, staining the kitchen counter-top. Ms. Mead and the other satanists hastily encourage Michael to pull her through to the living room so they will have more space. 

He lifts her up with a grunt, stumbling slightly under the weight of her body. People tend to seem heavier when dead. Her limbs flop uselessly against him, and Michael eyes her dead body in sheer fascination. He's had the opportunity to take cats, dogs and birds apart, but never people. His Grandmother would always bury them far too quickly for him to have a chance. 

"Yes, Michael, put her here," Ms. Mead encourages him, pointing to a clear space in the centre of the living room. He's none too gentle with the corpse, simply dropping it on the spot, as the other satanists rush forwards to reposition it. 

"What are we doing tonight?" He asks, innocent in a child-like way, his bright blue eyes full of curiosity. 

She grins at him, pointing to one of the other satanists, dressed eternally in a black robe, who is carefully painting a circle around the body. "We're going to talk to your father tonight, Michael." 

"My father?" 

"The great Lord Satan," She says proudly. Michael always softens around her. He hasn't known her long - but his Grandmother never treated him with such resolute softness. Ben - the man that used to play with him - sometimes had, but he always felt like he was being watched and tested by the games. 

Michael's Grandmother used to speak of Satan often, but not in the same way his Ms. Mead does. His Grandmother would always hiss it at him, sharply quoting biblical scripture that would give him a headache. Ms. Mead was just as fond of Satan as she was of his son. 

The satanists continue the circle, painting red lines in the shape of a pentagram inside of it, bisecting the dead woman's unmoving chest.

"We're going to ask him for advice, tonight." She says. 

"About what?" He asks giddily. 

"Oh, Michael. You have a very special mission. We simply need to ask Satan for guidance."