Content warning: Racism, slurs, graphic violence, threats of rape, graphic depiction of a lynching, DARK FIC: PROCEED WITH CAUTION
1956
Erik dressed with shaking hands. The clothes were nice. He usually wore black, but he liked many colors. The shirt was linen and white. The slacks were khaki. The hat was a brown felt sports cap. Faux snakeskin saddle shoes, and the belt matched. Shiny brown leather. He liked them.
Shame he wouldn't be wearing them for long.
The last thing was a gold watch, heavy and very fine-looking. He was to be a wealthy man on Earth.
The original Erik watched him dress, then fixed his hair. "A short, neat cut. That's what the boss said."
The original Erik was nervous. He would feel everything that happened to the copy. Copy Erik was nervous. If everything went according to plan, he would be painfully discorporated, and rejoin original Erik by nightfall.
"No fancy eyelashes," the original Erik murmured as he trimmed down copy Erik's lashes with a brush of his fingers. "Perfect. Nervous?"
"Yeah."
"It's nothing we haven't done before. And just think! The rage you're gonna soak up! And you'll be home soon." The original Erik embraced his copy. "You're gonna do great!"
Original Erik broke the embrace, then handed the copy a pair of thick black framed glasses. The copy put them on.
"How do I look?"
"Like a dream! Time to get you to the boss."
Prince Beelzebub was waiting in a meeting room. Like all the meeting rooms, there was a steady stream of demons in and out. It was damp and smelled of mold.
No mistaking who was the boss. They enjoyed a few extra cubic feet of personal space. Nobody touched them, and everybody gave them a wide, wide berth.
Neither Erik expected what they saw in the center of the empty space.
It was Prince Beelzebub, certainly. They'd touched up their corporation for this adventure. They looked like a teenager. Prince Beelzebub wore a black felt dance skirt, the kind that usually had poodles on it, but this one had a black fly with red eyes, picked out in shining sequins. Their white blouse had pearl buttons and a peter pan collar. Over the blouse, they wore a black cardigan and a red chiffon scarf. Their black hair had been styled into a soft pageboy, brushed back from their face and curled under at the collar. A glance down showed black and white saddle shoes and prim little socks with lace around the hem.
Their lipstick was crimson. It matched their scarf.
"Erik," they said. "Exzzelent. How have you found Egypt?"
"Suffering, my lord," said the original Erik. "They fear that the West will start another war...and soon."
"They are right," the Prince replied. "Should be by the end of the year. All over that prezzious canal. War preparezz to ride there, and the whole thing should be enough to make angelzz weep."
"Wonderful!" Original Erik chirped.
"And do you know what I expect from you today?"
"I'm to go with you to a place in the States...we're to take a walk...and I'm to be lynched?" said the copy Erik.
"That'zz it," the Prince said. "We're going to a place called Brotherhood, Mizzizzippi. In all of Jim Crow, they've never had a lynching. That endzz today."
"Never? That's quite a record!"
"Indeed. A record we will break," the Prince said. "Crowley zzpent a lot of time in that plazze, laying the groundwork for thizz."
"Master Crowley?"
"Yezz, Crowley zzabotaged the factory that employed about half of the town, black and white. It was a textilezz mill," they paused. "The blackzz were blamed, of courzze. Zzo, we shall bring thizz tree to fruit."
"Should be a riot," copy Erik said brightly.
"It should be, indeed," the Prince murmured, checking their pretty abalone-faced watch. "It's time. Let uzz go."
Original Erik clapped his copy on the back. "Good luck!"
The copy nodded and stepped to the boss, who took his arm. Erik felt the world tilt as they rose up. They broke through the grass. Eventually, they were standing in the shade of a magnolia tree. A magnolia tree that bloomed in front of a church.
The scent was heady. It mixed with the green smell of Mississippi.
The church was so consecrated that even here, some twenty feet away from the broad front porch, Erik could feel his feet tingling.
"Nice church," he said.
"With any luck, the humanzz hatred should deconzzecrate it," they replied. "And your blood, of courzze."
"Of course," said Erik, trying to stay bright.
Prince Beelzebub glanced at the roots of the tree, and worked an infernal miracle. A dingy, stained cardboard box appeared underneath the spreading branches. Coils of rope waited in the box. Beside the box, a couple of rusted petrol cans squatted in the shade. Erik could smell the fuel that waited inside. And a pile of dry sticks materialized and stacked themselves next to the wall of the church.
"Come, Erik," the Prince commanded.
Erik swallowed hard. But he followed his order.
The Prince reached for him, took his face gently in hand. Erik tried not to let his fear show, but he knew his boss well enough to know that they rarely touched anyone. He wondered if he'd already disappointed them.
"The ropezz..." they buzzed. "You fear them. Rightly zzo. Thizz izz why we don't let you-any of the dark onezz-travel alone in the Zzouthern zztates."
"Duke Hastur and Duke Ligur spent some time here...didn't they?"
"Yezz," Prince Beelzebub said. "They zzpent a lot of time azz mazzter and zzlave, back when the humanzz here kept zzlaves. They drezzed in fanzzy clothezz and went to partiezz and kizzed. It cauzzed a fair amount of luzzt and wrath." They paused. "We did not dizzcuzz it, but thizz azzignment may call for kizzing. I azzume that you are up to the tazzk?"
"Yes, my lord."
"We're to be a courting couple," they said. Their thumb stroked his cheek, and Erik felt, uncharacteristically, warm. "We muzzt act it."
"Yes, my lord."
"For our time here, call me Bea," the Prince said as they led Erik away from the magnolia and the church. "Bea izz a common girl'zz name here. I'll call you by, 'Erik', but I'm not going to zzpeak much. The buzzing...it'zz unnerving to the humanzz."
Erik smiled and nodded, "Yes my...Bea."
"Try again."
"Yes, Bea."
"Better." They leaned their head on his arm as they turned off of Church Street and onto Main.
As much bustling and shoving as was de rigeur for Hell, most demons remained untouched and unloved. Erik was no great exception. He enjoyed the Prince's affections, even if they were pretended. He liked the way it felt to have someone on his arm.
To have a moment of warmth.
The afternoon sky was big, bright, and clear. The sun smiled down on the sycamores that lined Main Street. It was a boulevard, and the center strip exploded with white crepe myrtles and purple azaleas. A single, sluggish bee bumbled past them towards the flowers.
Arm-in-arm, they walked down the perfect, even sidewalk. The shop windows gleamed like teeth-the whole drag looked like a predator's smile. Or a salesman's.
They were noticed, almost immediately. A mother swept her pram and her toddler back into the Woolworth's that she had been exiting.
Two older men glared at the two of them as they walked towards them. One of the men spat at the ground in front of Prince Beelzebub.
Prince Beelzebub looked up at the man with very wide blue eyes full of an incredibly convincing amount of fear. "W-why'd you do that?" they stuttered, with a convincing Southern lilt.
"If you were my daughter, I'd beat your skin off of you," he said. "You nigger-loving slut!"
"You leave me and Erik alone!" they cried out. There was a pleading note to it.
"Hey!" Erik said. "You apologize for spitting at my girl. Right now!"
"Boy, you think I'm gonna apologize to a nigger's whore, you are dead wrong." The man snorted. "Or maybe you think that you're not a nigger just 'cause you're English."
"We ain't takin' kindly to the English, not after that red-haired sonuvabitch. He a friend of yours?" asked the other man.
"Do you have ANY idea how many gingers there are in England?" Erik demanded. "I don't know all of them! And you're going to apologize to my girl or we're going to have a problem."
"C'mon, Erik," the Prince said, laying a gentle hand on his chest. "They're not worth it."
"You leave us alone," Erik said as he relented and walked away from the humans.
They continued down the street. When enough space had passed between them and the humans, he leaned down and asked, sotto, "How was that, do you think?"
Prince Beelzebub leaned up and brushed his lips with their own. A door near them slammed and locked. Erik blushed and smiled, shy and sweet, at his boss.
"Thingzz zzeem to be going well," the Prince said. "Thezze people are ready for zzome violenzze. Ezzpezzially after Crowley came back here azz a company rep and announzzed that the factory wouldn't be reopening."
"I was wondering how the humans knew Master Crowley," Erik said.
"He told them that their livelihoodzz were gone," Prince Beelzebub said. "Look, a diner,"
The sign declared that this diner, Davey's, was home of the "WORLD-FAMOUS DOUBLE-CHOCLATE MALTED!"
Another sign, smaller, declared that Davey's didn't serve Negroes.
The diner was ruby red and lily white, like blood on snow. Prince Beelzebub walked across the linoleum, to the Jukebox. They moved as if they owned the place. Slowly, they started reading through the options.
"Any requezztzz?" they asked, wrapping a casual arm around Erik's waist.
Erik shrugged, and the Prince picked out a few dewy teenage romance songs, "Moritat" from Threepenny Opera, and one last song.
"Strange Fruit" by Billie Holiday.
He knew that song.
"Can't y'all read?" asked the teenager mopping the floor behind the counter. "We don't serve no Negroes."
"It's alright, mate," Erik called back. "I'm not a Negro. I'm English." He leaned down boldly, and pecked his boss on their head.
They tittered agreeably. "We've got money. You'd think the only color you'd care about'd be green."
"English, huh?" said the mop boy, suspiciously. "I guess..." He wiped his hands on his apron. "Miss Jenny's gonna take your order. She's in the back." He handed two menus across the counter. "Here ya'll go."
"Thank you," Prince Beelzebub said, shyly. They took the menus and led Erik to a back booth.
Erik sat down. He and the Prince could both see out the big picture window to the street. People walked back and forth. Their strides had purpose. The women were fleeing. And the men?
Best not to think about the men.
"What happens now?" he asked the Prince, hesitantly.
"Lazzt meal. Anything you want."
"Thanks," Erik said. "How long do we have?"
"If thingzz go well," Prince Beelzebub said, tilting their chin against one fist and browsing the menu. "The sheriff will show up during the zzecond verzze of Mack the Knife, and they'll drag you out to 'Zztrange Fruit'."
"What about my body...?"
"I'll be there when they burn you," the Prince said. "You're going to the flamezz alive, but the rope should finish you. That fire izz going to burn hot with my zzpezzial fuel." They paused. "It'zz going to take the magnolia tree and-if the humanzz' rage and your blood are enough to deconzzecrate the ground-it will burn the church. They won't be zzurprizzed that they can't find your corpzze."
Erik nodded. "What was the name of that church? I didn't catch it."
"Temple Bethel Church of the Holy Archangelzz," Prince Beelzebub replied, lazily. "I think I'll get a malted. The malted izz zzupozzed to be quite good."
"I think I will, too."
They heard squeak of the waitress' shoes as she approached, a blank-faced woman of about forty with ash blonde hair going grey at the temples. She held her pad in her hand.
"You actually from England?" she asked, pulling a pencil from behind her ear.
"Not precisely," Erik said, cordially. "I'm from Hell, you see? It's just that the door that I tend to use is located in London."
"He's funny," Miss Jenny said. "Let me get your order. But look, eat fast and get on out of here, okay?"
"Why?" the Prince asked, all wide eyes and fake innocence.
"Nothing against you, sug," said the waitress, "but...if the rest of the town sees y'all in here. Look, they ain't gonna be able to tell that he's English from seein' him through that window. They're just gonna see another nigger."
Prince Beelzebub clutched at the top button of their cardigan and then reached over for Erik's hand. "Alright, then."
"Your country is positively bonkers," Erik said. "Oh, don't worry, dove. I'll be fine."
"What'll you have, then?"
Prince Beelzebub ordered one of their specialty cheeseburgers, fried onion rings, a Dr. Pepper, and the malt. They managed to order in the correct accent, without buzzing.
"Sounds good," Erik said. "Same for me."
The waitress wrote it down and walked away.
"Nervouzz?" the Prince asked.
"I've died a million times...but...it's never...it's always...fresh..."
"Do you know how much faith I have in you?" Prince Beelzebub asked. They squeezed his hand. "Danzze with me?"
"We're REALLY gonna tick off those humans." Erik stood up, still holding their hand. "Might I have this dance, my Prince...ess?"
"You may," they replied.
The song changed, to a jazzy instrumental. The count was ¾, a waltz.
"'Valzze Hot'" Prince Beelzebub answered before Erik had the chance to ask. "I'll lead."
It had been quite some time since Erik had waltzed. 1793, to be exact. Yet it came back to him quite easily. The Prince danced precisely. Each step measured and perfect. They felt good in his arms, between the jukebox and the picture window.
He could feel the town begin to percolate with wrath. It jumped as brightly as the trumpet that he danced to.
"This zzong is a bit of a tragedy. The trumpet player and the pianizzt...they died in a car crash. Not long after thizz record was prezzed."
"Didn't know you were a jazz fan," Erik said.
"I loved the Prohibition, zzo I ended up liking jazz," the Prince replied. "You're an exzzellent danzzer."
"Thanks! I learned in the courts of France," he said. "I was an advisor to the king, sort of."
"I remember," they said. "You did good work there. You got a medal, didn't you?"
"I did, my P...Bea."
"Oh, I don't think anybody'zz lizztening."
The drums kicked up and their footwork went fancier. If one could waltz a tango, that's what the Prince led him through. Erik matched them, feeling the mop boy's eyes on them, and several other pairs of eyes, as well. Those peered in from the window.
And he tasted their envy, their powerful wrath. Their lust. For both himself and his boss.
The drums surrendered territory to the rest of the band, and the Prince moved back into a traditional waltz. They held him tightly, closer than the waltz called for.
As tight as a lover, he assumed. Had Erik ever had a lover, he might know for certain.
The song finished, and they bowed to each other.
"My...lady," he said.
"Darling Erik," they replied.
"Food's up, y'all." Miss Jenny brought out a tray full of plates, glasses, and flatware. "That was some fancy dancing, that's for sure!"
"Thanks, ma'am," Erik said.
Prince Beelzebub managed a shy flush and a schoolgirl's giggle.
The food was delicious. Impending discorporation did tend to spice his food well, Erik knew. The onion rings were hot, sweet, and crisp. The malted deserved to be "famous". Maybe not world famous...maybe famous to the county over...
And the burger was absolutely perfect. As fine a last meal as any demon could ask for.
And through the meal, there were little touches. Small kindnesses, received (and eventually given, after a few bites of burger emboldened him). Touches, caresses, the feel of his boss' instep dragging along his calf.
Two kids in love.
The jukebox changed songs just as Erik washed down his last onion ring with his last swallow of malted.
"Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear.
And he shows them pearly white.
Just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe.
And he keeps it, out of sight..."
"Showtime," Prince Beelzebub said, kneeling up in the padded booth to wipe a smudge of ketchup from the corner of Erik's lips.
Mack the Knife continued to play as the waitress cleared the table and went for the bill.
The crowd outside had grown. Erik could feel them. The rage. The need for flesh. To rend. To tear.
The diner door opened, and sheriff and his deputy beat the waitress to the back booth. The sheriff was a fat man with a cigarette that was about fifty percent ash hanging precariously between his teeth. He already had his club in his hand.
The deputy was very young, and kept nervously sweeping the diner with his watery blue eyes. He did not have his baton out, but his fingers twitched beside it.
"Boy, what do you think you're doing?"
"Paying my bill, officer," he said, brightly. Erik reached for his pocket. "Uh...where's my wallet?"
"Thieving nigger," the sheriff said.
"I'm not a thief," Erik said, indignantly. "I misplaced my wallet. Probably dropped it somewhere..."
"I have money," Prince Beelzebub said, rummaging in a purse that Erik knew they didn't have the moment before.
"Boy, you're about to find out how we deal with uppity niggers who don't pay their bills in Brotherhood."
Erik heard Prince Beelzebub shriek as the sheriff struck him behind the ear with his hickory baton. His nice black-framed glasses clattered (so loudly) to the Formica table. The red and white diner swirled like a child's pinwheel.
Oddly, Erik also heard music. A woman sang slowly, mournfully, soulfully.
"Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees."
His Prince was still crying out. "Stop! Stop! Y'all have to stop!"
They weren't lisping or buzzing. Their accent was perfect. He could feel their emotions. Calm. Their emotions were a deep, still pool. The Prince was fine.
He could feel blood trickling from the strike to his ear. Erik reached up and touched the wound. Skull fracture, definitely. It hurt.
Erik supposed that, in spite of the skull fracture, he was fine for a demon that was about to be discorporated.
He opened his eyes and saw his Prince out of their seat and face-to-face with the nervous deputy. His face was red and his frown was deep. Prince Beelzebub was screaming words that suddenly came into focus.
"-and we love each other! What's wrong with that? What's wrong with y'all?"
That seemed to be the last straw for the deputy. He struck Prince Beelzebub across the mouth, tumbling them backwards. They launched themselves at the man, lashing out with human fingernails, human strength, and human tears.
The deputy rounded up the Prince easily. "Looky what we got," he said. "A real hellcat."
A trickle of red leaked from the corner of the Prince's mouth. They must've used an infernal miracle to make the blood red. The blood on their face-red on white-like blood in the snow.
Erik turned his own blood red with a thought. Nobody seemed to notice. They were busy watching the Prince.
"Bring her, she gets to watch," the sheriff knelt down in front of Prince Beelzebub. "We gon' kill this nigger 'cause you spread for him. What d'you think of that?"
Prince Beelzebub spat in his face and then kneed him in the crotch.
"Fuck! Fuck! Jake, get her in cuffs. Yer gonna suffer fer that, you fuckin' whore! You bitch!"
"Bea!" Erik cried out. He hoped he sounded stricken enough.
"Erik!" they called back. "Erik! Er-ugh!"
The sheriff was back on his feet and had punched the Prince in their gut. The deputy closed the cuffs around Prince Beelzebub's small wrists.
"You're hurting me!" they cried out.
Erik could feel the burst of dark triumph in the deputy at the Prince's words.
"Good," said the deputy. "Suffer, bitch."
"Criminey!" The sheriff waved a meaty fist and several townsmen slammed the diner door open. "Help me get him. We gonna have us a barbecue, boys."
"Reverend," the deputy said to the man in the lead.
A meaty man in his fifteies pulled Erik out of the booth. "What've we got here?"
"An English nigger." The sheriff answered.
"Let's send him to Hell."
Fucking finally, Erik thought.
"Leave him alone!" Prince Beelzebub whimpered.
"That's his whore."
"It that Matthew's daughter? Is that Caroline?"
"Nah, I think they were just traveling through."
"Well, y'all are done travelin', I think."
"Rev, should we string her up, too?"
"Nah, she's a good-looking girl. Where are you from, darlin'?"
"New Orleans, you pig," Prince Beelzebub said. Still fierce, even on their knees in the humans' handcuffs.
"I'm sure we got some boys who can set her straight. Some white boys." The Reverend smiled a tight little smile. "Then we can send her home. Does your daddy know you're with this nigger?"
"My daddy's dead," spat the Prince.
"In that case, we'll see what's left after the boys have their fun," the Reverend said. "Hell, I would, but I'm a married man."
"My deputy gets to go first," the sheriff said. "Looky what she did to his face."
The Reverend looked at the bleeding whelps that wept across the deputy's cheeks. "You get to apologize for them scratches, then," he said.
"Never," the Prince replied. There was steel in their voice.
They felt the Reverend's indignation, his lust. The Deputy's lust. The sheriff's wrath. And, smaller somehow, the fear of Miss Jenny and the mop boy.
"You'll feel different once yer ass is raw," the deputy muttered darkly.
"And who's gonna do that, you limp-dicked piece of shit?" Prince Beelzebub returned.
The deputy flushed, which made his scratches bleed more.
Billie Holiday fell silent, and the deputy's hand across Prince Beelzebub's cheek was very loud in Davey's Diner, Home of the World-Famous Double-Chocolate Malted.
Prince Beelzebub began to weep, softly. Erik could feel how their tears fired the loins of their captors.
Humans were awful creatures; that was for certain.
The sheriff rubbed his paunch through his button-down shirt. "Let's get this show on the road."
The Reverend and the sheriff pulled Erik through the diner, with the deputy dragging Prince Beelzebub behind them.
The crowd outside let up a whoop and a cheer. Erik could feel their glee. Their need. To rend. To tear. To destroy.
The humans were running late, but the Prince didn't seem to mind. Soon (really soon) Erik would be back with his original in Hell and everything would be alright. He stumbled, and was hauled roughly back to his feet. He lost his cap.
"Please, his hat. He needs his hat," Prince Beelzebub mumbled. They sounded so broken, so fragile.
But he could feel the Prince, too. They were calm. He let their calm wash over him. Their calm-
The diner door opened and the townsmen started shouting. A thick gobbet of spit landed on Erik's cheek. Then another. He saw a bouquet of pastel shirts, smelled the humans' sweat, and tasted the metal of their hate. He staggered, half-dragged and half-carried by his captors, through the crowd. Men lashed out with feet and fists. Erik's cheekbone splintered when he was struck by a big man in a bloody apron. The butcher, he surmised.
There were other fists, other kicks. More than he could count. His skin bore the bloody evidence of the rage of the town.
Erik felt an infernal miracle from the Prince. The Reverend loosened his grasp on his arm, but only for a fraction of a second. Long enough for an idea to light up his brain.
"Got a nice magnolia tree down by the church," said the Reverend. "That should suffice."
"Alright, let's go."
They dragged him back down Main Street. The sun was still so bright and warm. The flowers bloomed as they had when he first saw them. Seems like the world ought to weep. It should be raining. It should be grey and dreary.
Tears fell from Erik's eyes. Colors blurred behind his tears. Everything hurt. There should be rain.
Erik remembered that the weather was lovely when the humans killed the Christ. There should have been rain on that day, too.
They turned off of Main and down Church. He could see the tree, the gas cans, the kindling.
The box of rope.
Now he struggled. Now he pulled away. The humans held him fast.
He could feel his Prince. He tried to focus on their calm. But there was so much hatred. So much wrath.
Erik didn't know when he started screaming, but he heard his own voice. It seemed to come from far away. "No! No, no, no! You can't! This is barbaric!"
The words wrenched themselves from his throat, thick as it was with fear.
"We can and we will, nigger," said the sheriff. "That's a nice watch, boy."
He slipped it from Erik's wrist.
"O, now who's the fucking thief?" Erik demanded.
The human cuffed him in the jaw, and pocketed his new bauble. "Let's string him up."
The Reverend and the sheriff held Erik's hands out and the butcher tied them together. A few teenagers began to stack the kindling. The deputy dropped the Prince roughly to the ground and went to help.
"This is a good bough," the deputy said. "C'mon boys. Stack it up under here. There's some proper firewood 'round back. Let's do this right."
The Prince sat on the grass, their feet curled up under them. Their blue eyes met his, and he felt a wave of reassurance, of peace, from the senior demon. He closed his eyes as the men threw the rope over the branch.
The sheriff tied the noose himself. Then pulled it around Erik's neck. He tightened it, maybe a bit more than was necessary.
"Please..." his Prince whimpered. "Please...no...Erik...not Erik..."
Absurdly, Erik thought that he should have kissed them more. Who knew how long it would be before someone touched him with kindness? He sighed. Too late for that.
"Any last words, nigger?" the sheriff asked.
"You said that you'd send me to Hell," he said. "I want you to know that I'll see you there."
The sheriff frowned, making his ugly face uglier, and then he hit Erik across the face with his baton. Blood, spittle, and two teeth flew from Erik's mouth.
He could smell the fuel that the teenagers splashed over the firewood and the kindling. It didn't smell like petrol. Not exactly.
"Wait," said the deputy. "Them's some nice shoes."
The deputy pulled them off of Erik's feet. The ground, so very consecrated, burned hotter without the shoes.
"Take the belt as well," Erik said, the words feeling thick in his broken mouth. "They match."
"I will," the deputy replied, undoing the fine leather belt and pulling it out of its loops and away from Erik.
"Alright, boys," the sheriff said. "All together, pull!"
The boys, in their eagerness, nearly launched Erik. He felt the rope tighten around his neck. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.
That might not discorporate the original, but it would surely do in a copy.
Someone had lit the fire. His nice khakis and his cotton socks began to catch. The smoke burned his eyes.
He heard the Prince begin to keen. Erik could feel them, his Prince. Ice-calm, in spite of the noise they made.
He held on to that calm. As the flesh on his feet began to erupt in blisters, as the flames rose higher and higher and higher. He held on to the calm of his Prince, and the words of a singer in Harlem.
He felt himself begin to discorporate, his original was calling to him. Soon, very soon.
The humans' whoops and shouts had turned to shrieks. The consecration had broken, and their church was burning.
If he had the air, Erik would laugh. There was a familiar lurch, a loss of all feeling in his corporation, and he discorporated.
Erik slammed back into himself in Hell. The demon adjusted, adding the copy's memories to his own. The human rage and fear and lust soaked up by the copy strengthened the whole. A few moments of pain and misery, yes. But Erik's existence was pain. What was this, but just more of the same? He soothed himself, stroking his unburnt feet and his unbroken face. He was fine. He was fine.
He wept into his hands. Billie Holiday sang in his ears, as loud as his own pulse, which would not slow.
"Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck.
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck.
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop.
Here is a strange and bitter crop."