Photo credits – Google.
Victoria Island early in the morning is a confluence of conflicting humanity. On one side you have the revelers from the previous night, men and women, dragging their weary bodies back to wherever it is they sleep, trudging along on leaden feet, with hooded eyes, their hair less than perfect and their faces pasty from being absentmindedly wiped a million times with soaked handkerchiefs.
On the other side are the drones on their way to the daily grind. These ones have their residences so far flung from work that they’re forced to leave the homely warmth of their beds just after midnight every work day to be able to get to the Island early enough. Their joints ache abominably from being folded uncomfortably over the long-distance commute, their eyes are bloodshot from interrupted sleep, and they are usually just an unintended bump away from an angry outburst. Both factions meet at the bus stop, but that is not the primary concern of this piece.
This is a cry for help, and it is about a demon. Yes, you read correctly, a demon. I don’t know them all (I don’t know if you do), but I’m talking about one demon in particular, and that is the one that roams the topmost floors of my office’s highrise car park at dawn on any given day of the week.
The car park in question is a six-floor affair, built a couple of years ago and painted white. Huge halogen bulbs were installed at the time it was built to illuminate every corner, but most of those have gone dark over time and have never been replaced, so the place can be eerie at times, especially early in the morning and late at night, when most of the staff are yet to arrive or have left.
The early bird that I am, many times I am the first to park on my floor, being one of those aforementioned drones with far-flung residences, but fortunate enough to have a car. The first time I chanced upon this entity I almost fainted. Even now, seeing it still gives me the shivers, but I have learned to master my fear (for the most part).
Every morning I huddle in my parked car, observing the form as it flits about unchallenged, decked in tattered robes and ugly black shoes (although its feet always seem to hover above the floor), its forked tail twitching as it moves, its globular eyes awash with flames and seemingly seeing all but settling on nothing in particular.
Finger length fangs are bared as it waxes lyrical in a gravelly voice about heights, freely falling human bodies, rushing wind, last wishes, huge splats of gore on hard concrete, and liberation from the shackles of life’s many pressures that death brings to a human soul.
The suggestive nature of its lyrics is way beyond permissible.
Something has to be done about this malevolent entity that roams the topmost floors of our highrise car park, and it has to be done swiftly before it gets into that huge horned head to mention my name as it sings.
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