Would you trust the Devil to take care of your child? No? Understandable, most parents wouldn’t. Now I, as the Devil, take mild offence to that. I’d like to think I’m nice once you get to know me, but then again, I am also the Devil so a lot of the terrible stories about me aren’t wrong. I’m quite laid back and I’m not fussy about a lot of things, except my coffee with two sugars and no milk at 9pm every night.
Something everyone’s surprised to know about me is that I’m great at looking after kids. Yes, it’s true, believe it or not. Kids love me, I think it may have something to do with younger children being demons and then when teenagers get moody, they are actual hell on earth. I’m over 3,000 years old, I’ve seen it all.
It’s a normal night in my office in Hell when my assistant Amanda walks in with my coffee at 9pm, but she also has a note with her. Not that that’s unusual, I’m an important man. She places the cup and note on the desk in front of me and leaves. I finish my drink and look at the note on my desk.
“There’s a woman outside who wishes to speak with you; she wants your help.” Amanda’s handwriting is fancy, so I read it in a posh accent all the time. It annoys her but I’m the Devil, it’s not like I have a great reputation. I toss the note in the fire and walk out to the reception/waiting room area.
I saunter into the waiting room and see a small woman sitting in a chair reading a book. She looks up as I enter and smiles. I smile back because I have manners and invite her into my office. We each took a seat, and I turned the AC on. Humans tend to find the heat of Hell unbearable, but if I lower the entire temperature of Hell the souls will die. Just because the physical person is dead doesn’t mean their soul can’t live on.
“So, tell me your name and why you’re here” I say, leaning back into my chair.
“My name is Mrs Andrews and I’m here today because I hear you’re great at taking care of kids, especially teenagers. It’s about my daughter Delilah,” she says, as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a photo. It’s a girl with strawberry blonde hair and a nose piercing. “She’s gone out of control and no one else is willing to try and help me with her.” Her voice is shaky; she’s clearly distressed so I ask for more information about her daughter.
Delilah is 15 years old, loves painting and is terrified of heights. She used to be a sweet girl but then one day she acted strangely, and she hasn’t been like herself for the past year. Mrs Andrews is worried about her, especially because if she vandalises another building, she could end up in juvie for the summer. I tell her that I’ll help her out, but I’m technically off work at the minute so that she should expect me at 12.30 tomorrow afternoon. She gets off her seat, thanking me. She waves on her way out and the doors slam behind her.
I leave my office at 7am to avoid rush hour in both Hell and the Overworld. That’s the dreadful thing about multidimensional travel; you get twice the traffic. Unfortunately, I got caught in Hell’s rush hour. It’s 10am when I arrive in the Overworld, so I pop into a cafe to get a coffee and some breakfast to kill time. At 12 I make my way towards the house where I would be staying for the next month. This should be a breeze.
I knock on the door and Mrs Andrews opens it. She smiles when she sees it’s me and calls Delilah down to meet me. I hear footsteps and a girl in a black button-up and black skirt comes down the stairs. She looked the same as the photo, except the silver stud in her nose had turned into a black hoop. Mrs Andrews sits me and Delilah down in the sittingroom to introduce ourselves.
“So, Delilah, tell me a bit about yourself,” I say, trying to make conversation. She ignores me and continues to text away on her phone. I clear my throat, hoping she would offer to get me a glass of water, or at the very least she’d look up and acknowledge my existence. Nothing.
“Hello? Do you know who I am?” I’m beginning to lose my patience now.
“Oh, I know who you are, I just don’t care. Anyway, why are you here?” She sighs without even looking up. I turn her phone to ash in her hands, that’s what she gets for being so cheeky. I feel like it’s common knowledge not to be rude to the Devil, yet here we are.
She starts freaking out, saying I’ve ruined her property and blah blah blah, I zone out because I don’t have the energy to listen to her whining. She finally shuts up and I tell her to take a seat. She goes to storm out of the room, but I’ve already locked it. I’ve been looking after demonic kids for thousands of years, I’m pretty much prepared for nearly everything. Reluctantly she sits down next to the pile of ashes that used to be her phone.
“Now I’m going to make myself clear, Delilah Andrews. I expect respect and I will get it no matter what it takes. Now, I’m not going to repeat myself. Tell me about yourself.”
“I’m 16, I like painting and talking to my friends, but I can’t really do that now because my phone is dust because a certain someone has anger issues.” Her eyes are glued to the floor but other than that if she’s scared, she’s doing a fantastic job at hiding it.
“You can always get a job and save up for a new one.”
“Nowhere will take me because of my record. They think I’m some vandal who’s going to steal from their shop and destroy the building.” She looks me in my eyes now. She has lovely amber eyes, shame it took her this long to make eye contact with me.
“And are you?”
She looks puzzled at my question. “Am I what?”
“A vandal,” I repeat.
“No, well . . . I mean vandal isn’t the word I’d use. I graffiti buildings sure, but art isn’t a crime, I should be allowed to express my creativity, the Government’s just soft.” She’s clearly very passionate about this, she’s walking around the coffee table in a circle, waving her arms around in her rant while I nod along.
Over the next few weeks, I followed her everywhere without anyone but her mother knowing. I just shapeshift into the odd spider or beetle and chill in the corner of her classroom and, oh my word, she’s an absolute nightmare in school. Dare I say it, she’s worse than me. Arguing back with teachers, arguing with the students and never doing anything. Outside of school at home, she was Hell reincarnated. I don’t remember letting any demons out of Hell’s gate in the past century, yet here we are. Arguing with her parents, fighting with her siblings, never helping at home and in general being extremely difficult to work with.
However, when she’s by herself doing her art, she’s completely different. I follow her one night when she sneaks out to do her graffiti murals. She puts her headphones on and digs in her bag for her paints and works away, quickly but precisely, taking extra care around edges. I watch her work away, fascinated by her work. The gears start turning in my head when I suddenly come up with a great idea. I shape back into my human-like form and approach her.
“Hey there, Delilah, what’s it like in New York City?” I sing, then laugh at my bad joke that had earned me a glare. “Sorry, I had to do it at least once. Anyway, I have an idea and I think you’ll like it.”
I’m back in my office in Hell when there’s a knock on the door. I smile, knowing who it is and why they’re here. The doors open, revealing Delilah and her bag full of paints.
That’s right, I’m giving Delilah a summer job painting a mural in my office and the money she’ll earn will be enough to buy her a phone, I felt bad destroying hers.
I left to let her do her wonderful thing, and return a few hours later to see a wall of roses with the words:
“Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company – Mark Twain”
