Congress With Demons

Notorious men never lack for attention, given the erotic aspects of hybristophilia, the desire to bait the predator again and again without the fear of actual harm. It is the same fetishistic impulse which causes famous and infamous alike to attain the heights of iconic admiration from legions of adoring anonymous masses, ever-searching for a new deity when the old pantheon begins to tarnish.


It was such a phenomenon which allowed someone like Malik Leahy to receive fanmail.


Petra delivered a stack of letters to the Angel almost daily, forwarded from his attorney, from what she contemptuously referred to as prison groupies: declarations of love, lust, and offered salvation filling each carefully lettered page. One could literally feel the weight of the obsession which drove these women (and a few men) to write to someone they knew only from media coverage of his ignominy.

Malik’s expression was always carefully composed as he read them in the Common Room – he was allowed access to his mail but not allowed to retain it as part of his personal effects – and he would send postcards in response to the varied fantasies and declarations, a single question followed by the looping mass of his signature: one which a handwriting expert hired by the plaintiff’s family characterized as “aggressive and focused on social engineering. . .an attempt to draw people into his web of influence.”

Is this what you really want?

The postcard employed was a reproduction of a painting featuring the archangel Michael: sweetly androgynous, wings fully spread, holding a sword aloft. He sent them out on Tuesdays and waited for the results, generally slavering and eager to please.

Yes, yes, oh YES!


Dun was shocked to see the payphone alcove completely empty, there was generally at least one person holding an imploring conversation there every afternoon, depending on the generosity of their benefactor. The residents were allowed to use phone cards, if they were provided by family and/or friends, and once they were exhausted then so was the privilege of using the phone. Dun’s mother continued to send one each month, but he usually sold them so he could buy skateboarding magazines while in the outside world. However, he wisely held onto a couple for emergencies.

Johnny’s cell phone number was still readily engrained in Dun’s synapses, past all considerations of altered states, medicated or otherwise. He used their signal: allowing the phone to ring twice, then disconnecting the call and calling again a minute later.

“Hey man,” Johnny’s husky drawl greeted Dun’s ear, “how you doin?’”

“Hi Johnny, uh, I need to ask you a favor. Can you do me a favor?”

“I can try, dude.”

“They don’t let us have the Internet here, can you look up somebody online for me?”

“Who?”

“His name is Malik Leahy, I don’t know if there’s anything about him out there or not.”

“Oh dude, that guy was all over the news six months ago. If it’s the same guy, but it’s gotta be, with a name like that.”

“Blond?”

“Yeah, real good-looking. That’s the guy.”

“What did he do?”

“What, is he in there with you?”

“Uh. . .” Dun paused, looking around. “Yeah.”

“Holy shit! Shelly’s gonna freak, she’s gotta thing for him. Oh my God, and she never wanted to drive me out there to see you, but she will now! Is he as pretty as he is on TV?”

“Johnny, stop. Listen to me: what did he do?”

“Uh, lemme see. His girlfriend disappeared and he was the prime suspect, of course. But the police could never pin it on him. Then he went into hiding from her family, but I guess he tried to kill himself, or something, so his family had him committed. They used to say he couldn’t have done it because they were all so Christian; yeah, like that makes any difference.” Dun’s friend let out a breath, a sound of disgust.

“Heh,” the other said, looking around again, as the hairs on his arms were rippling in response to something, but the corridor adjacent to the alcove was empty.

“Yeah so, I’m sure I can find some articles about the trial and stuff.”

“Wait, I thought you said the police couldn’t charge him.”

“They couldn’t, but her family filed a civil suit anyway. You know how it is, dude, if you wanna sue somebody in this state bad enough it’s gonna happen.”

“Yeah, can you print some up and give them to me? Don’t send them, though, they read our mail. Leave them at the thrift shop in an envelope with my name on it. Put some other stuff in there too, like comic books or something.”

“Sure man. Hey, I’ve tried to catch you at the shop, but you work during my school hours.”

“It’s okay. I appreciate this, man.”

“You doin’ okay? Are you feelin’ okay?”

“Yeah yeah, I’m okay.”

“’Cause you sound depressed.”

“Well shit, I’m in the fucking nuthouse, man!”

A moment of silence, followed by laughter.

“Okay dude, I’ve gotta go. My mom is here to pick me up, I’m over at Rollerworks.”

“Yeah okay, take it easy, Johnny. And thanks.”

Dun was left with the hum of the fluorescent lighting in the corridor and underneath that he could hear a whispering. At first he imagined it to be the buzz of his damaged mind, but the question came again and he found himself answering. They were encouraged not to respond to the voices - encouragement meant that they would never cease – but Dun was angry at being second-guessed by his own cognitive processes. So he spoke, the words forced out between clenched teeth.

“Yes goddamn it, I really want to do this. I don’t have a choice.”

That's what you said the last time.

"And it's the same goddamn thing now, okay?" He clamped his hands over his ears, as if that had ever stopped the Voice before, and it did not now. He sought his room, and a return to the darkness, but was willing to settle for the sound of his fluttering heart.


What did he do, anyway?

This question again, a-buzz among the drones of the enforced hive, a certain visage having been spotted by more than Dun on the favorite channel. But no answer was forthcoming, as the Angel had complained of a virus, or something equally convenient to keep him out of public scrutiny, locked down in the Infirmary. So Dun was left with the other unanswered question, as he had coaxed Eishka out of her room and into the Game Room, where they played Chinese Checkers. A radio broadcast of a baseball game filled the backdrop, and as Dun heard the cheers of the spectators over the boisterous voices of the announcers he wondered what it was like to be in a large crowd. Various outings were always planned for the residents, but most of them fell through because not enough staff volunteered to be chaperones. Dun didn’t blame them, he wouldn’t want to be responsible for a group of loonies let loose in the world either.

“Why did you lose your wings?”

“I was punished for subverting the Design.”

He put a hand over hers, as she reached for a blue marble, taking it up into the cradle of her fingers. When he let go, she cupped her palm and regarded it with an indulgent smile.

The Spheres, what music they do make, when they click and clack through the web of time, falling into the weave of the Great Design.

“What is the Design?” Dun asked, though he felt it was perhaps an avenue of inquiry best left uninvestigated.

“It is everything. We are all the threads, woven together. But just as one does not see every thread in a garment, one does not discern every being in the Design. We see what we are meant to see, and no more. Though it is possible to move between. My kind, that is all they longed to do, to go up and go down, to meet every being and know them.”

“Why does Malik want to kill you? What did he do?”

“I took something from him. But he does not understand the way of it, of what transpired. Only Dog can judge me, and did, and now I am a girl and no longer a demon. But the Angel, he is trapped here with me.”

“Why?” At this Eishka looked around, wide eyes searching for things Dun could only guess were there. Her supposed mortality did not render her any less supernatural by his reckoning.

“I cannot say. To speak the Purpose would surely court disaster.”

His head began to hurt again, he ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. Every question seemed to lead to even more questions, and he despaired of ever learning the truth to his satisfaction, when all he really knew was that the one person he treasured was afraid, and the fear was not merely a delusion of a troubled mindset, but possessed a presence which was oppressing everyone in this place: a former refuge, now hostile asylum. Dun knew how to deal with constant fear, he had experienced it during his time in Juvie at the labor camp. But this was something beyond the terror of a beating, or the humiliation of rape, this was far more profound and terminal, beyond even the finality of death itself.

Because if the Angel was to be believed, death meant nothing in the realm of the Great Design.


“Malik, I wanted to discuss your journal for this month.”

He raised an eyebrow in response, but his expression did not transform.

“There is only one entry, dated two weeks ago.”

She opened the spiral-bound notebook and read the page in question.

This world.
This pearl?
This shit.

She closed the book and stared him down, mindful that he was known for his unflinching gaze, which had unnerved an entire courtroom once. Upon his admittance the psychiatrist who had performed most of his pre-trial assessments paid her a visit and after half an hour of statistical analysis and pleasantries finally broke professional composure.

I don’t know what frightens me more: the fact that he’s a complete sociopath who were it not for the fact that he’s had some kind of break would be walking around out there doing God knows what. . .or, even worse, that he’s so goddamn attractive any of us would let him get away with it.

“I was having a bad day,” he finally responded. She had learned to listen carefully as he deliberately employed the monotone at all times. “I was frustrated.”

“How so, Malik?”

“Sexually frustrated. It is difficult to receive so much attention that I cannot follow to any logical conclusion.”

“But that frustration is of your own making, you do realize that.”

“I realize that I will never make anyone understand my torment. And that is why I am here.”

As he watched her face, her forehead creasing as she considered some empty platitude to console him with, Malik wondered if she thought about him in the way all women thought about him. It was his purpose, after all: to inspire boundless adoration, a walking prayer to the glories of creation. A covetous desire that does not cease, it longs to devour all things, but at the center of the hunger is the angel, the being of light and of love.

There is none other but Thee, and I, as Your creation, bear witness to Your Mighty Love.

He felt a wall across her mind, even as he sought to expose her feelings, to manipulate them to his advantage. Now that Malik was recognized in the world, his abilities were failing him, and he despaired. The despair led him to attempt self-immolation - the only way he could eradicate his presence on this plane – but Dog would not allow self-destruction, it was a subversion of the Design. And so he was punished, just as that ugly brat was equally punished for her transgressions. The thought of spending a mortal lifetime ensnared in insipid human legalities and in close quarters with that thing, who had the gall to act as he did and claim she was asked to do so, it was entirely unworthy of his Purpose, his true Purpose in this world.

But that was all over now, and surely would be entirely so when his vengeance was brought to bear.

“Malik, you need to accept that you have feelings, that you have problems, and being human means we not only recognize these issues, but we work to overcome them. I’d like you to think about that, to write about it in your journal, before our next session.”

But I am not human, not really. And that is what you do not recognize.

He nodded, slightly. His face was as still as the Sphinx and equally enigmatic.


The memory of Saturday night was a tenacious one with the residents, looking to reprise at least one beloved ritual come that day of the week. More than reliving, reminiscing consumed their efforts.

“Man, seems like Saturday was the only night of the week I didn't wanna kill myself.” Taylor said, playing blackjack with Dun and Malik. Dun wasn't entirely certain why Malik had agreed to play cards with them, but he felt it was better to keep an eye on him. Just as he had settled into a somewhat comfortable rhythm of concentrating on his cards and letting the noises of the room lull him into a half-daze, Eishka entered the Game Room and made a beeline for their table. She looked thinner than ever: a waif in a faded pink sweater and washed-out jeans, their tight contours accentuating the gauntness of her limbs. The shadows under her eyes were darker as well.

“Don't play with him,” she said to Taylor, who gave her his usual half-wary, half-sardonic appraisal.

“Who, Mal? He is winning, but I'll catch up.”

“No. He can see through your cards.”

“What the hell you talkin' 'bout, girl? Ain't nobody can see through these cards.”

“No one but Malik, the Agent of -”

“If you wish to keep your tongue then silence it, girl.”

Dun was suddenly alert, suddenly aware that Eishka was ready to reveal something important. He looked down at the table. Taylor was the dealer, showing a six. Dun had chosen to stand at 16. Malik made a scraping motion with his cards, he had already been dealt a five and a two.

“Damn, you must be holdin’ low!” Taylor exclaimed, dealing him another card. It was a ten.

“Aw, busted!” the dealer cajoled.

“No.” Malik said, his hand held flat over the pile of cards.

Taylor flipped over his other card to reveal a ten. Malik showed his original cards: an ace and a two.

“Jesus!” Taylor said, then looked at Dun, who showed his cards.

“Push,” Malik intoned without expression.

“Dog is with you,” Eishka whispered in his ear.

“But not with you.” Malik smiled at her, and any other female would have been made weak at the sight. But she narrowed her eyes and her mouth pursed with disdain.

“Kahil is with me. And he says you should forgive me.”

With an economy of motion Dun had only previously witnessed in a martial arts movie, Malik rose and backhanded Eishka across the face. She collapsed in a heap, nearly striking the card table on her way down. Dun got up so fast his chair clattered to the floor, and he realized Malik had at least five inches and about fifty pounds advantage on him.

And what are you planning to do, boy? You cannot harm me.

His voice, so very loud in Dun's head, and the shimmering returned. He swayed dizzy and frightened, as one of the monitors caught him before he too ended up on the linoleum.

“Now Mal, just when we were ready to ignore all those nasty rumors about you and pretty young girls,” the monitor scolded.

“Oh they're true,” Malik said, ever-quiet. “Every single one.”

He was smiling, and Taylor felt profoundly disturbed, as looking at him gave rise to several different impulses:
longing to entwine his hands in the flaxen gold, to draw him closer and kiss that perfectly full mouth
let him open every scar upon his body and watch the blood run red through the air
do his bidding, whatever it was, or would be, do it with all questions silenced in the pleasure of serving such a beautiful creature
. . .he swallowed hard, his larynx bobbing and clicking in the sudden silence, as all eyes in the room were turned toward the scene.

“You've gotta come with me to Lockdown, that's the rules.”

The monitor led Malik away as Dun stumbled over to where Eishka lay, her eyes closed and a crimson mark blooming upon the snow of her cheekbone. He gently lifted her head just as Petra burst into the room.

“What the hell? I go out for ten damn minutes to get a Lotto ticket and Mal starts slugging people?!”

The other on-duty monitors rushed to defend themselves as Eishka sat up, taking her jaw into her hands. Dun watched incredulously as she popped it back into place, moving it in a way which did not seem possible.

”Did you eat an angel?”
“Oh yes. But now that I'm becoming a girl I'm not allowed.”

“Was. . .Kahil. . .an angel?” he whispered to her.

“He was friend. He was lover. An Agent of Agape. Like Malik. But not quite. . .angelic.”

“Okay, I am officially freaked the fuck out by that guy. Seriously!” Taylor proclaimed, gathering the cards on the table and reshuffling them. “C'mon Dun, come back and we can play cribbage.”

“No more games,” Dun said to him, his voice hoarse with a residue of fear. “Not tonight.”


“Taylor, I’m not sure I understand the nature of your request. There is no other facility we can transfer you to, given the fact that you’re entirely dependent on Medicare.”

“You’re tellin’ me there ain’t no other facility in this state I can go to?”

“None with any space. I did run an inquiry yesterday and of the two facilities you do qualify for, neither has a free bed currently.”

“Well that’s just fuckin’ great!” Taylor threw up his hands and as he let them drop they struck his thighs hard, the smacking sound causing the therapist to jump in her office chair.

“Let’s talk about your current agitation. What brought this on?”

“Not what. A who.”

“Who, then?”

“Malik Leahy, that’s who. That guy scares me.”

“I understand he disturbed a great many people when he struck Melinda last week, but he has been sequestered now, he’s not going to threaten anyone else.”

“It’s too late now, you all can’t (caint) stop him.”

“Taylor, it’s not like you to ascribe illogical attributes to people, did Malik do or say something that upset you directly?”

“He didn’t have to, that’s what you all don’t get. Shit, I don’t even know why I’m tryin’ to explain it to you, it’s just crazy talk to you ain’t it? It’s all just blah blah blah and it don’t make no difference.”

“I’m going to recommend you take some Klonopin for the time being, until you’ve had a chance to recover from this – it’s obvious that whole episode was very trying. Do you feel responsible in some way? That you failed to protect Melinda?”

“I don’t give a shit about that girl! If anybody’s crazy it’s her, you hear me? And I don’t wanna take that stuff again, it didn’t help me the first time and it’s not gonna help me now.”

“Taylor, if you continue to act in this manner I’m going to have you admitted to the Infirmary.”

He stopped suddenly, then ran a hand through his hair and sighed. She thought him to be strangely colored: according to his file he was 27 and yet he had gray hair; a dark gray, like it had been bleached from black to white, but stopped short of the final result. His eyes were gray as well, with a blue ring around the irises which made them beautifully unusual. She found it a pity that such an attractive man was so utterly miserable, but such were the vagaries of psychological disturbance: it did not discriminate or indulge. Its’ manifestations visited all types equally, its’ gifts bountiful and difficult to exchange for something more satisfying.

Then again, sometimes she wondered about the acceptance factor in regards to her clients and their outlook on life. It was often as if they enjoyed their skewed and clouded view, their anger and sorrow, their thoroughly different method of perception.

“I’ll be good, okay? Let’s just pretend I never came in here.”

“Now you know I can’t do that. But is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

“Naw. Same ole shit.”

“Until next week, then.” She gave him a pleasant smile, and he automatically grimaced. The first time he presented that expression she immediately asked, “Now why would such a cute guy want to make such an ugly face?” His response was entirely unanticipated.

“Lemme tell you something about cute, doctor. If cute means havin’ people look at you like they wanna hurt you, tell you you’re too pretty and you need a lesson in humility, or chase you around like they’re gonna show you how much they like you whether you want it or not, well, then cute is somethin’ ugly, as far as I’m concerned.”

She took a breath, and attempted a look of concern.

“I am wholly familiar with your history of sexual abuse, Taylor. But that has nothing to do with your physical appearance. Those acts of persecution had nothing to do with you, but were the result of fantasies of power on the part of your tormentors.”

He gave her a frankly scornful look and declined further comment.

After Taylor’s departure she found herself taking Malik’s file out of the stack on her desk and paging through it, though she had reviewed it just yesterday in order to make her recommendation regarding his current disciplinarian action. The administration had wanted to assign him to the restricted ward immediately upon his admission, pointing toward reports that during his incarceration on suspicion of murder he required segregation, as his mere presence caused a great deal of unrest among the general population for reasons unknown. But both the defense team and his family had insisted he be treated like any other patient, claiming he was only a danger to himself; and that was due to the pressure of current scrutiny, which they believed would be exacerbated by isolation.

Patient displays a lack of outward emotion which is consistent with the initial diagnosis of negative psychosis, but arouses strong feelings in others, perhaps due in part to his own “blankness.” Has been documented as using his physical appearance to manipulate and engender sympathy with authority figures – suggest utilizing primarily male staff in everyday encounters.

She had no new insights to contribute, and thought perhaps it was better to leave him in the restricted ward for the time being, at least until they could figure out why he struck Melinda. Upon viewing the surveillance tape, she was mystified as to why Malik had been so upset by what Melinda had said to him. She had called his mother, asking her if the name Kahil had any significance to Malik.

“I don’t believe so. It’s a lovely name, it means ‘friend’ or ‘lover’ in Arabic, but he never knew anyone named Kahil.”

“Since his incarceration, perhaps? Or as a result of the recent publicity?”

“Doctor, I cannot claim to know everyone Malik has come in contact with since all of this happened, but I believe he would have mentioned it to me if the contact was of significance. I believe I remain my son’s primary confidant.”

“Of course, Mrs. Leahy. I’m merely attempting to ascertain the root cause of the incident.”

“I still have a difficult time believing he struck a woman. We did not raise him to be the type of person who would do such a thing.”

“Unfortunately Mrs. Leahy that is exactly what transpired. We have over twenty witnesses and a surveillance video which corroborates the monitor’s report.”

“He’s been under such a lot of pressure!” She then began sobbing, which his therapist was used to in the course of these conversations. She waited patiently for his mother to stop crying, sipping at cold coffee and staring at the photograph which had made Malik into an worldwide object of lust – a typical courtroom headshot, his face perfectly composed into a bland mask of indifference – as it was easy to view the shoulder-length shining hair, bright eyes, generous mouth and believe that anyone so beautiful couldn’t possibly be guilty of anything, much less murder. She still found it amusing that the administration had insisted on briefing all female personnel in regards to the Angel. She knew many of the clients had taken to referring to him thus, just as he was portrayed in the media, and found it hard to resist the temptation to do the same.

The conversation had ended with assurances and protestations and frustration on both sides. She sighed to remember it and noticed with chagrin that she had taken to sighing much as Taylor did. She could not allow herself the comfort of cynicism, though the process became seductively facile when dealing with the hopelessness of the mentally disturbed.