Heads or Tales

James

The coin floats in the air, suspended in its twisting. Time appears to move gradually as the winking top of a snake exchanges for the beating wings of a pigeon in an endless circle. I realize that I've committed an error.

Lucifer

I find it captivating how this little man watches my coin in the air. Such trepidation. Such yearning. I've gone through numerous evenings remembering this equivalent, silly custom. Every day of the week, people paint stars around and around with the blood of this creature and that creature, expecting to see my face. Petitioning a divine being they've quit trusting for a brief look at a villain they've quit dreading. When did I turn into a parlor performer for these self-fixated youngsters?

James

Is it the unsurmountable intensity or the psyche desensitizing dread that sends dabs of frigid perspiration running down my sanctuaries? My psyche meanders as the coin tumbles toward the ground. Scenes of Theresa overpower my contemplations, flooding my faculties and moving me back to more joyful times. Various times.

As memory pours its despairing sensations upon me, I wind up remembering each extraordinary second connected at the hip with each gloom I experienced since she was conceived. I consider the moment her most memorable feeble, little cry rang out. Her mom shrouded in sweat and blood and tears, wailing at the magnificence of the existence we had made together.

Years pass in milliseconds, carrying me to whenever she first stepped on a honey bee. She was four. She rushed to me, crying, "Daddy, my tongue feelth puffy." In no time, we were speeding into the clinic parking garage, dashing for the trauma center. We made it without a moment to spare. I will always remember the hints of her attempting to take in the rearward sitting arrangement.

Then, I consider the second that carried me to this point. I'm consumed by the misfortune that conveyed a man at Satan's feet, asking for an arrangement.

Lucifer

In spite of what they say, I despise this. I don't need the blood of the blameless. I don't devour the tissue of virgins. I don't delight in that frame of mind of man.

I'm like you. Such a lot of like you people. Damnation isn't my space. It is my discipline however much it is yours. Regardless of whether you accept it, I attempt to be a standard supporter, and my dad is the standard creator. His standard is that I torture the heathens, regardless of the amount of compassion I possess for you. Regardless of what compassion I have for this man.

James

All I see is her face- - Theresa's face- - wide-peered toward nevertheless.

She's six, mature enough to be left all alone while she plays in her room higher up. I hear her chuckling. She's playing with dolls and the dolls are playing school. I hear her feet dance across the floor, one doll telling the other that she simply adores her dress.

Then, at that point, her body crashing upon the floor. She must've slipped on one of her toys. How frequently have I advised her to tidy up her room so this kind of thing couldn't occur? I put down my cigarette and the book I was perusing so I can go up and mind her. That is the point at which the sound of strides come beating a few doors down. She's crying, yelling as loud as possible about her head, "Daddy!"

"Dial back!" I holler. She knows not to run when she's higher up. With how quick she's moving, I'll have the option to get her at the flight of stairs. Her moans ring from the subsequent floor, she's moving quicker than I anticipated. I've nearly come to the base step when I hear her little feet mix down two steps. Then, the third and fourth. She's actually running. "Stop!" I order, at last turning the corner so as to see her outing over her own feet.

Theresa misses the majority of the means. Her speed brings her through the air, somersaulting like a gymnastic specialist. Momentarily, her eyes meet mine. They question me, "For what reason would you confirm or deny that you are getting me, daddy?"

For what reason wouldn't I be able to get her?

Lucifer

In spite of what they say, I despise this. I don't need the blood of the blameless. I don't devour the tissue of virgins. I don't delight in that frame of mind of man.

I'm like you. Such a lot of like you people. Damnation isn't my space. It is my discipline however much it is yours. Regardless of whether you accept it, I attempt to be a standard supporter, and my dad is the standard creator. His standard is that I torture the heathens, regardless of the amount of compassion I possess for you. Regardless of what compassion I have for this man.

James

All I see is her face- - Theresa's face- - wide-peered toward nevertheless.

She's six, mature enough to be left all alone while she plays in her room higher up. I hear her chuckling. She's playing with dolls and the dolls are playing school. I hear her feet dance across the floor, one doll telling the other that she simply adores her dress.

Then, at that point, her body crashing upon the floor. She must've slipped on one of her toys. How frequently have I advised her to tidy up her room so this kind of thing couldn't occur? I put down my cigarette and the book I was perusing so I can go up and mind her. That is the point at which the sound of strides come beating a few doors down. She's crying, yelling as loud as possible about her head, "Daddy!"

"Dial back!" I holler. She knows not to run when she's higher up. With how quick she's moving, I'll have the option to get her at the flight of stairs. Her moans ring from the subsequent floor, she's moving quicker than I anticipated. I've nearly come to the base step when I hear her little feet mix down two steps. Then, the third and fourth. She's actually running. "Stop!" I order, at last turning the corner so as to see her outing over her own feet.

Theresa misses the majority of the means. Her speed brings her through the air, somersaulting like a gymnastic specialist. Momentarily, her eyes meet mine. They question me, "For what reason would you confirm or deny that you are getting me, daddy?"

For what reason wouldn't I be able to get her?