I do not own American horror Story: Apocalypse.
I do not worship Satan. I promise.
True Believer
There really wasn't much to do after that.
Miriam Mead went home.
She read the paper.
She watched Gordon Ramsey psychologically destroy aspiring head chefs on Hell's Kitchen.
She updated her blog and cleaned her two bedroom bungalow.
She performed her daily absolutions and incantations to the Dark Lord of All Creation.
And, she waited.
She waited for the mail, for her tax return.
For laundry to dry and the goat's head to ripen to perfection.
And she waited for the advent of the new world.
She missed Michael, of course she did.
She missed his sweet smile.
His brilliant blue eyes.
His obedient nature toward her and the Order of Satan.
The way he tortured neighbors' dogs.
Hey, let them off the leash, there's no telling what'll happen to them, eh? They just run right off.
So she missed him, sure.
She had been his self-appointed caretaker for nearly ten years when all was said and done.
Ever since that fateful night when she caught him rummaging through her garbage cans.
She'd thought it was raccoons again.
She gone out with a broom at two in the morning.
"Get outta that mess, you sons of bitches!"
And instead found a scared, half starved seven year old boy hunkering next to her azaleas.
"Please stop! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
Her aim faltered out of pure surprise, the broom glancing a blow off the side of his head.
He had yelped again in pain.
And she had doubled over, dropping the broom, stomach clenching, head buzzing.
Something running up and down her spine like jitterbugs.
Like something deadly.
And magical.
Then she had gotten a nosebleed.
Easing herself down onto the cracked pavement beside the her house, she had wiped her dripping nose onto the sleeve of her black velvet bathrobe.
The moon had waned slowly overhead.
The skittering had faded and the bleeding had stopped.
And eventually she had spoken to him.
In a softer tone, a more gentle tone.
A curious tone.
"What's your name?"
"M-M-Michael."
And she had just known.
Heaving herself to her feet, Miriam Mead had dismissively slapped the dirt off of her robe.
And gestured to the boy.
"Well, come on in, Michael. I'll fix you a sandwich so you don't have to eat garbage. Then you can get cleaned up."
He had hung back, regarding her warily.
"Are you . . . are you going to hurt me?"
"Not if you wash your hands like a good boy. Now come on."
And he had gone.
Like the good boy he was.
And now, ten years later, he was grown and gone and she was alone again.
And that was okay too.
That's what mamas did.
Devil or no.
They cared for their children, raised them.
They taught them and guided them.
They loved them.
And then, when the time came, they let them go.
Out into the world.
To make what they could.
And if they did well, the ones left behind watched on with pride at their accomplishments.
And counted themselves lucky to have been a part of it.
On the day when the tv and radio and internet went crazy amd people ran screaming and panicking in the streets, Miriam Mead watched it all gleefully from her front yard.
"Yes! Yes! It's finally coming, it's finally here!"
She shouted with joy, face upturned to the cloudless, blue sky, arms outstretched, fingers reaching.
There, between the lemon tree and the standing bird bath, she cried tears of happiness.
Michael had remembered all this time, even through the beginnings of his most important work, he had remembered her.
"Let it come, Satan! Bring the new world!"
Michael had sent her this nuclear holocaust.
Especially for her. Especially on this momentous day.
What a good son. What a good boy.
I'm so proud.
He remembered me.
He thought of me.
Even on my birthday.
Kathy Bates is just unbelievable, isn't she? My goodness.
Anyway, this was fun for me and I hope you enjoyed it too.
Everybody appreciated feedback. Leave a review if you like.