He didn't understand, They never did. I was a demon. I didn't feel love or sympathy. I did feel want however, and desire. Sometimes, a sick sort of glee even. Especially when the young master would order me to kill; I could feel the anger, hatred, and hurt tainting his delicious little soul. Some said the faint taste of hope was bitter to the palette but in my experience, if you seasoned the target soul with just enough hope and love it added a certain spice when devoured. Delicious. After all, there was nothing quite like the moment of first taste, having waited and seasoned to perfection.
My tastes have refined over the years; at first I was willing to satiate my hunger with any tramp I could fine as long as I had my fill. You can only eat so many sandwiches before you crave lobster. And so, I worked my way up; experimenting with the different emotions a soul can have and what flavor each emotions lent. The young master was innocence, so young. There's nothing quite like the innocence plucked at just the right peak, at the moment when the innocence is broken and beaten but it clings tightly to the hope in a dance of spinning steps across the palette.
That's when I found the young master. At that exact moment, the perfect meat, the perfect base for a delicious meal. It just needed the right amount of time to steep, like a good tea. There's only one difference in humans and tea - the tea stays in the pot. I season the young master to my tastes, but that doesn't mean he follows willingly. I can only imagine what his soul will taste like once our contract is through. He fascinates me, he is a contradiction. One moment he is predictable and the next he thinks of a move I couldn't have fathomed in my current demon state. Care is beyond me unless it directly involves my meal. The way the young master shows compassion - my mouth waters at the thought of what that will bring to the seasonings of his soul.
And yet, there is always a danger of being unfulfilled. What if this meal, that I have waited for, and crafted so painstakingly…. What if it is the best meal I have ever made? What shall I do then? How will I replicate it? There is not another young master. No one will take the turns that he did. If it is the best meal… it will be my last meal. I could I continue on knowing there is no way to obtain it again? I highly doubt that the young masters soul could be anything but delectable. I wait patiently for the moment to taste the quality of a hand crafted meal; but I also wait with anxiety. I suppose, one part of me wishes for the young master to be mundane; and yet, a larger part of me wishes for him to be the last taste. The young masters flavor is worthy of being my last.