Like Dust; Part 1

He smelled like dust, but not the kind you find under a bed. The kind you smell in an antique shop. In a way, he was an antique shop. The gel in his hair smelled like the plastic my grandmother put over her furniture. The cologne on his handkerchief reminded me of my brother, who would douse himself anytime he had a “date.” His sweat even had a smell. Not a bad one, mind you, but a peculiar scent that made me want to cry and hug him. It brought me back to a time when things were simpler, but reminded me how awful things had become.

I’d never met someone like him, not that I could remember, at least. His skin was soft, yet I knew he’d worked a long time. It was old and fragile. I could smell him and feel him, taste him if I wanted to.

But I couldn’t see him.

And it scared me.

When I met him, I thought maybe he was an angel. Or a devil. After all, “if wings were not the essential element in determining the difference between a hawk and an airplane, they were even less so in the recognition of angels.” Not that he had wings, I don’t think. My point is the only difference between an angel and a devil is their intentions, and intentions cannot be viewed from the outside.

At the time, he was wearing a very nice suit. At least, I think it would be called a suit. I wasn’t good with the terminology of certain clothes. It was red, I know that. And when I would end up feeling it, I remember it being soft, a sort of velvet feel, where you brush it one way and it’s soft but you brush it the other way and it’s scratchy and uncomfortable. He also had a flower sticking out of a black pocket on his red coat-blazer-thing, whatever you would call it. It was a rose, a red one. He was practically bathed in red,

His skin was fair and his hair dark, contrasting each other harshly, it almost hurt to look. His eyes were dark, dark enough that I couldn’t tell what color they were. They could’ve been a dark brown that sang when the sun hit them, or they could’ve been an abyss in his face, black like the night, and I would’ve been none the wiser. He was exactly how my mother described the Devil. So upon seeing him, I was scared.

The day was hot and humid, like they always were. I was sitting on a log, tossing rocks into the water and seeing how far I could get it to go. My hair stuck to my forehead with sweat, as did my shirt and khaki shorts my mother insisted on me wearing. They were the only pants I had besides my church clothes, and my father would kill me if I wore church clothes out in the swamp.

I heard footsteps approaching me from behind, and I figured it was someone I knew because strangers never came to our little town. I threw the rest of my rocks into the water and turned to face the footsteps. But instead of a friend, I saw him. He was smiling, which made sense because it was polite, but still it scared me. Despite it being hotter than Hell, I shivered.

He noticed this and laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that thundered through my soul and made me feel like I was going to pass out. It was the “mwa-ha-ha” of a villain, but dripped with charisma and made me think I was being pulled into his abyss-eyes. Normally, I would run from what I was scared of, but I didn’t move. Like my brain cut off control to my legs so I was just stuck on that log, staring into the Devil’s eyes, his evil laugh echoing in my head, his scent wafting under my nose and floating to my brain, making my head fuzzy. He was a poison.

Just as soon as he was there, he was gone. I blinked, but he still wasn’t there. Finally I could stand but suddenly I didn’t need to. Just from his dusty musk I knew he was next to me, and like that I was frozen again, my muscles tensing and my joints stiff. His hand rested on my shoulder and I jumped, making him laugh again. His hand was soft on my bare shoulder, softer than skin, and then I realized he was wearing gloves, black gloves to protect his hands from the nasty swamp we sat in.

I looked up at him, my head spinning with adrenaline. He was talking, but I couldn’t really hear him, and I didn’t know why. Eventually he stopped and looked down at me. He spoke again, and I heard nothing again. He looked irritated, which scared me, and he took his hand off my shoulder and snapped his fingers.

“Can you hear me now?”

I nodded warily. His voice was deep and lulling, but it could cut like a knife and soar like a hawk. He could win wars with his voice alone, woo 1,00 women (though I didn’t think about that too hard since my mother would never allow it), and probably even sing me to sleep. I had, at this point, forgotten that I couldn’t hear him before and therefore didn’t bother to question why. Again, he spoke, and again, I felt as though the world around me was melting.

“Do you know who I am, Ryan?” Again, I nodded. He found this funny. “Then who am I?”

“You’re the Devil.” My voice came as a surprise to me, as I thought that I would never be able to speak again. Yet here I was. And oddly enough I felt naked. I had put my soul out in front of this man, pinned down on a tray like the frog we dissected in school last year. The man held a scalpel, carving out pieces of me and laying them out on a plastic mat that detailed the anatomy of my being.

He laughed again, shaking my bones and causing me to cower slightly. “The Devil? Well, that’s quite the guess. But I’m afraid you’re wrong.” He stood and offered me his hand. “Walk with me.” Hesitant, I took it and pulled myself up, automatically going to wipe the muck off of my clothes. I felt like a small bug standing next to him, he so tall and elegant and put together, me sweaty and dirty and frazzled. Together, we walked down the paved path running through the sticky swamp. I was trying harder than normal to keep up with him, his long strides looked so effortless and I once again felt embarrassed to be beside him.

He led us down to a thick grove of trees. I’d never seen them before and I didn’t know where they came from. I looked around in wonder. It didn’t smell like moist algae and stinking fish and alligators anymore. It was fresh and green, the soil potent and the air clean. I smiled. It was wonderful. Next to me, I heard him chuckle again. I looked up at him, curious.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

I nodded. 

“I made it myself.” 

I tilted my head in question. 

“Well, you said I was the Devil, didn’t you? Can’t the Devil make a forest?” 

I looked ahead at the trees. I supposed he was right, after all, but I never thought the Devil could make something so beautiful. I shrugged in response. “I guess. But Mister,” I looked back up at him, “you said you weren't the Devil.”

He nodded slowly, considering my comment. “Yes, I suppose I did.” Suddenly, he stopped and turned to look at me. “You would like to know who I am then, yes?”

“Um..” I paused, looking anywhere but at him. Suddenly, I felt nervous. Scared. Again, I felt like he was staring into me, seeing everything I saw, feeling everything I felt. I shuddered. “I don’t know, Mister.”

The man rested his hand on my shoulder, looking me deep in the eyes. It was then that I realized his eyes were neither brown nor black, but empty. As if someone had carved away his iris and pupil, and if I looked close enough I could see into the back of his skull. I stumbled back, tripping over a root and falling hard on the ground. I remember him approaching me, but that’s when everything went dark. I didn’t pass out, because I could still feel him picking me up. But everything was dark and empty.

He smelled like dust, but not the kind you find under a bed. The kind you smell in an antique shop. In a way, he was an antique shop. The gel in his hair smelled like the plastic my grandmother put over her furniture. The cologne on his handkerchief reminded me of my brother, who would douse himself anytime he had a “date.” His sweat even had a smell. Not a bad one, mind you, but a peculiar scent that made me want to cry and hug him. It brought me back to a time when things were simpler, but reminded me how awful things had become.

I’d never met someone like him, not that I could remember, at least. His skin was soft, yet I knew he’d worked a long time. It was old and fragile. I could smell him and feel him, taste him if I wanted to.

But I couldn’t see him.

And it scared me.

I tried to push him away, push myself out of his arms, but my efforts were futile. He continued to carry me through the forest he supposedly made as I yelled for help, cried for him to let me down. And then he dropped me.

My head hit the ground with a heavy thud and a crack. Something warm began to creep over my ear, soaking my hair and my shoulder. I pushed myself up to my knees, still blind and afraid. Something briefly whispered in my ear and I turned toward the noise, swinging my arms around, but felt nothing. My heart was pounding and my breath was fast. I tried to stand but heard another whisper. Still nothing. I sat in deafening silence for God knows how long, maybe seconds, maybe minutes, maybe days. I didn’t know and I couldn’t tell. I felt myself grow dizzy and reached up to feel the now stabbing pain in my head. It was wet and sticky. My hair was matted down in the stop where the warm fluid was coming from. Most of it had dried but some of it still dripped slowly down, hitting my shoulder with quiet, echoing slaps.

I blinked. I could feel my eyes close and open again, but it was still dark. I couldn’t see anything, no matter how hard I tried. I reached down to feel the ground beneath me. It was smooth, like the linoleum tile that covered my school’s halls. I ran my hand over it and found the puddle of blood where I had landed. I immediately pulled away with a yelp of disgust and mortification. I began to crawl, hoping to find maybe a light switch or some way to call for help, anything, I didn’t care. As I crawled, I reassured myself that this was all a dream. It had to be. I wouldn’t suddenly go blind for no reason. That’s when I landed on something.

I was moving so quickly and was so panicked that I didn’t realize I had hit something until it was through my hand. I heard the disgusting squelch of blood spewing from my palm as I cried out in pain. Whatever I had pierced myself on wasn’t attached to the ground, because when I moved my hand, the object moved with it. Sitting back on my heels, I felt for the end of the object. It was sharp and slender, slick with my blood. The other side was flat, right against my palm. It was a nail. My breath coming in short gasps, I grabbed the flat end and pulled. The nail moved slightly, rubbing against exposed nerves and raw flesh. I yelled, letting go of the nail. I didn’t want to do it, but I knew I couldn’t keep going with this thing still in my hand. I took a deep breath in, gripped the nail, and pulled. It slid out and my hand continued to bleed, even more now that the wound was open. I pulled my hand to my chest and fell on my side, sobbing. Through my tears, I could barely hear the whispers nipping at the back of my mind.

Struggling to catch my breath, I sat up. I slid my good hand along the ground before shuffling forward a few feet. I continued this process a few times, hearing nails scatter across the floor occasionally. At one point, a piece of what I assumed was barbed wire drove into my leg. Tired, angry, and scared, I ripped it out and kept going. I needed to find help. If only the whispers would stop.

More whispers came. Slowly, they grew frequent and loud, frequenter and louder, insistent and deafening. They drove into my brain like a drill, poking and prodding at every thought and secret. I yelled, cried, begged for it to stop. And then it did.

It was silent again. I could feel a slight breeze on my skin. Light slowly returned and I blinked, adjusting to the brightness. The forest came into view. I looked down at myself. I was covered in blood, my own. My hand was still bleeding freely. Had tears not blurred my vision, I would’ve seen the shoes of the man before me, standing there as if nothing happened. He knelt down and laid his hand on my head. I looked up at him.

“Why…?”

“I needed you to be ready.” He began to dissolve into what I could only describe as shadows. A voice spoke within me, reverberating through my bones. “We needed you.”