Wisps of cherry liqueur and sweet cream veil the kitchen, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. Mama sets the pan of cherry tarangiolo on the windowsill to cool. The decaying window pane frames the row of apartments across from ours. She crosses the room to dust off the record player.
“Miles?” Saxophone melodies crawl from the speakers and she dances—twisting and turning her body like the curtains waving to us at the window.
“Your turn.” She helps me from my wheelchair, cradling me, and kisses me on the cheek; sweet as tarangiolio.
“My beautiful boy.”
We sway together until the record skips and the timer dings, signaling the room temperature of our baked treats. Mama helps me back into my chair, and I wheel myself into the kitchen. Spooning the delight into teacups, I help top the dessert with sweet cream. I raise a bite of the tarangiolio, my indulgence, wanting to savor the taste of my favorite confection, but Mama slaps the spoon away.
“No. You haven’t said your prayers yet.”
She puts a hand on the back of my head and forces it down to the table for reflection. I clasp my hands together, reciting the words Mama taught me:
“O Mighty Lord Satan, by whom all things are set free, I cast myself utterly into your arms and place myself under your all powerful protection. Comfort me and deliver me from all the qualms and snares of those who wish to harm me, both seen and unseen. This I ask in your name. Ave Satanas!”
“Good boy. Now eat. When you’re finished, take the scraps to the others.”
Mama rises from the table, crossing the room once again to lock herself into her study. Reversing my chair into the room, I wheel myself up to her door. Her noontime prayers echo from the cracks, snaking along the wood like serpents inked on the pages of The Satanic Bible.
“And I pray to you, O Satan,” a whisper in her solitude, “for the lame. For he will know not of strength, but of ill-acceptance and unfavorable complacency.”
My wheels creak on the oak floorboards, melding into her murmurs. I set the leftover tarangiolio and flashlight on my lap and curve around to the dumbwaiter facing the opposite wall of the kitchen. Steadying the pan on the lift, I pull myself up and into the concave space. I tug at the rope dangling above, take a deep breath and hold it.
Diving into the recesses of the house, I exhale when I reach the bottom only to choke on the rank stench of excrement and blood. Voices whisper from a dark corner. I grab the pan and pitch it into the darkness. The whispers cease. Frightened, I struggle to palm the flickering flashlight. One footstep scrapes again the cement floor…then another.
I shine the light into one corner. Empty. The footsteps creep closer. My heart pounds, and before I can reveal what the opposing corner is hiding, a hot breath touches my skin. The beam of my flashlight illuminates bruised legs, soiled undergarments and a pentagram carved in an emaciated chest. The horrid face, caked with blood, tilts its head in ghoulish curiosity.
Before I can scramble back into the dumbwaiter, strong arms take hold of me, and I’m forced from my wheelchair up against a wall. One of the figures steps forward, and I realize his mouth has been sewn shut. I whimper, fearful of these strange creatures. It raises a finger to its stitched mouth, trying to assure me there is no reason to be afraid, but the gesture sends me into inconsolable sobs.
Oh Satan, please take me and carry me away from these people.
I black out.
Upon awakening, I lie on the floor encircled by the figure’s demonic face, the room lit only by candles placed at five points around me. A pentagram. I try to sit up, but my chest heaves backward. Bound, senseless, I am trapped.
I force my head to the side only to make eye contact with Mama, cloaked in black and holding her Satanic bible. She chants, and I recognize Latin, the dead language.
“Mama!” I shout. “Mama!”
No response.
“Mama, do you hear me? Is this body not fit for Satan? Is this why you’re choosing to do this?”
She closes the bible, producing a knife from her waist pocket.
“Mama, do you love me?”
“The bodily vessel you reside in must surrender to Satan. The first domain is conquered, and satanic happiness will follow you to the gates of his kingdom in fire.”
Mama stands above me and raises the knife.
“No, Mama! I am your boy. You love me, don’t you? You love Satan, but you love me, and I love you. Please, listen!”
“Ave Satanas!” She plunges the knife down to my weak frame. An arm reaches out, grasping her hand inches above my chest. The scarred figure who acknowledged me before wrestles the knife from Mama.
“No! You cannot interfere with the work of Sa—” she begins, but the figure throws Mama to the ground. As she attempts to scream, she is silenced by a swift slice to the throat.
The figure turns to me. I think I may succumb to the same fate, but it instead saws the black stitches, freeing its mouth.
“Come!” It issues to the others. Two by two, they ride up the shaft and into the light.
Mama does not stir.
I do not want to close my eyes for fear that void of death that awaits me will be a painful and lonely one. There are no prayers to be whispered. Tears, the closest I can come to reconciliation, saturate my face. The taste of my comfort food fades into my drying mouth.
“Tar-an-gi-o-li-o,” I say to myself and gaze into the textures of the rope bindings. No longer am I free, but alone. Deathly alone.
Kelsee Baker is a senior at CASA Charter School.
