The Messenger

Bashir laid in bed, book in his lap, lamplight buzzing and flickering ever so slightly in the distance beyond his window. It was just like any other night, home, alone, waiting for something and waiting for the world to shift and for him to no longer be afraid. Then maybe Bashir could leave, go outside the walls of his tiny apartment. But until that day, here he sat under the covers, a spot worn into his mattress from his stagnant movement.

He let out a sigh, letting his eyes drift from his book to glance around his room. Bookshelves along the walls, pages yellowing with age. Dust covering his dresser top, a few knick-knacks here and there. A short, balding man in a nice suit at the edge of his bed….wait.

His eyes flicked back, finding the object of his hopeful imagination still there. Looking him up and down, the hairs on the back of Bashir’s neck stood up. The man had pale skin, a little yellow under his eyes. And his pupils were red. Not bloodshot; red, like fire.

Even with the greasy suit and the black hair slicked back, Bashir knew who he was. He looked nothing like the creature he met back ten years ago, a boy of fifteen then, young and dumb. But there was no doubt it was him.

“Hello, Bashir,” he spoke with a greasy smile.

The blood drained from Bashir’s face, and he struggled to speak, “What are you doing here? I’m not dead.”

The sneer grew on the creature’s face, “No, I know.”

“So, what do you want?!”

“So hostile. Is that how you speak to an old friend?”

Bashir shifted in his bed, pushing himself further into a seated position, “No. But that’s how I treat the Shaitan who stole my soul! Now tell me what you want and get out!”

Iblis sneered, his yellow, jagged teeth reflecting at Bashir, “I need a favor.”

“Forget it,” Bashir ground out through gritted teeth.

“I’ll give you back your soul in return.”

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