Impact. Lucifer spun and twirled into and out of Sasifraz’s sphere of influence. Marty had briefed him well, but the blast of reality was more than Lucifer was prepared for.
Shock waves hit Lucifer physically and emotionally. A darkness descended so he could not see. He struggled to hear and a voice came. Chanting at first, repeating over and over, “You are nothing. You are nothing. You are nothing.”
Lucifer grappled for something solid to root himself. He tried, “I am good.”
“You are part of me. There is no good,” Sasifraz spat back.
Lucifer remembered to think of J, the object of his search. “You cannot see her,” Sasifraz told him.
“You cannot stop me,” Lucifer said and believed in his own power. Then, the rolling blackness stopped.
In his mind’s eye, he saw J and reached out to touch her. She was younger than he expected. She flinched at his approach. Seeking to reassure her, he told her his name. “I am Lucifer Christopherson, sent to you by …” At the utterance of his first name, she grimaced and shut the door between them that was wide open only a moment before.
Feeling a failure, he managed to bypass Sasifraz and headed for Martineau’s reassuring presence. Marty was patient and confident. He reminded Lucifer this was only a first step and others would follow. “Success is measured in inches not feet.”
* * * * * * *
(1987)
The adult me couldn’t remember why living with my father was so difficult. When I tried to focus on that month with him, I got tripped up in pictures.
They were black and white oblong pictures drawn like a cartoon. One was a hand holding a knife poised in midair. One was of two hips next to each other—a smaller one and a larger one. One was of a big chest and arm yanking on a smaller one.
I was both terrorized and fascinated by them. I felt they held the key to that month with my father. I wanted to know what they meant and I didn’t want to. Telling Barbara about them sent me into fits of stomach muscle spasms. Never mind the fact that I knew more pictures existed than I could even imagine looking at.
All of a sudden, the twenty-nine year old me got hung up in my fourteen year old’s past. Sasifraz resumed the place where he’d left off years before. The adult me fought him with all the new weaponry that I’d acquired over the years. But after several weeks, I gave in.
* * * * * * *
Not proudly, the adult me drove to a place at night which would be secluded and somewhat lit. Uncertain whether I could still do it, I drew the razor blade out of the envelope. Hand poised above my arm, I didn’t know if I could make a respectable cut. Balancing between what I wanted and what Sasifraz wanted, suddenly I jerked the blade.
The skin split and separated. For a moment the cut was white, then blood rushed to fill the void. I felt relieved. “Thank God, I can still do it,” as if some safety valve was still in place.
Waiting for my arm to stop bleeding, I wondered how long this part of the process would take. How long before I could look at all the pictures, put them in order, and restart the frozen action in them to see what had really happened? I sighed and started the car to go home and face the consequences of arm cutting in my present life.