Number 1, Marshall
They stood there, huddled around a fire, looking soberly at the sparks that flew from the flames. That’s what most alleys consisted of these days, people who had nothing left in life, barely noticed as the rest of humanity passed by. Many of those such people wasted away before experiencing the beauty and excitement of life, traveling only to the next shelter, the next fire, the next meal. They were like lone wolves, scavenging in the wake of others, a hair away from utter despair wherever they go. No one tried to help them, no one spoke up in their name. They were doomed to follow the same cycle of survival over and over again, not ever questioning why.
“Put in some more newspaper, she’s dying out.” Grumbled one of the three men that circled the barrel, which contained their source of heat. The man was the oldest of the three, with a short, gray beard and sad eyes. He turned to the others, and a crack from his hip could be heard. “You see what taking care of you fools does to me? I’m creaking like a staircase in a haunted house!” He scolded the two, looking more sad than angry.
“We’re going , we’re going!” Said the next guy, who was much younger than the old man who had yelled at him. “You in a hurry or something, Jenkins?”
The man called Jenkins glared at the boy, who gave him a slight smirk in response. The young man then reached over and grabbed one of the papers lying around in the alley. “Look at this, it says that one of them rich and fancy folk got mugged a few nights ago, and the thief made off with a few hundred dollars!” The man exclaimed, looking pleased with what had happened. “Good for that guy, maybe he’ll be able to afford some actual food now!” He said, with a obvious glance towards what appeared to be his backpack.
“Don’t praise him. George!” Jenkins growled, “You and I both know that the poor soul will be in jail soon enough.” He looked sadly at his companion, who had put his head down and sighed.
“I know, but sometimes it’s good to see one of our kind to make a stand, ya know?” George ran his hand through his hair, a habit that seemed to be born out of boredom and misery. “Hey, Marshall, cat got your tongue?” He looked at the young man who had not yet joined the conversation.
“Not really.” Muttered Marshall. He keep his head low, and stood farther away from the barrel, while Jenkins and George were pressed up against it. He wore a large black hoodie and dark jeans. The hoodie hid a large purple scarf.
“Oi, speak up! You know I hate mumbling!” Jenkins yelled. with obvious favoritism towards George. “If you want to hang with us, you follow my rules, you understand?” He looked down unto Marshall, who silently nodded. “Good. now then-” Jenkins started, but didn’t finish, as the fire had gone out.
“Hey! What happened?” George cried, already feeling the cold nip at his toes.
“How am I supposed to know?” Jenkins shouted, as he clambered around in the dark, trying to find some matches. “Marshall, don’t just stand there, give us a hand!” He yelled over his shoulder.
“Why would I do that?” Marshall said loudly, cocking his head. Both Jenkins and George stopped what they were doing to stare at him. A small flame lighted in the barrel, illuminating just Marshall’s face. He lowered his hood, to reveal two blue horns. He flicked out a forked tongue and smiled, looking quite amused. He clucked in a disappointed fashion, moving in front of Jenkins. “I don’t like being told what to do, old man.” His eyes flashed dark, dark blue.
George sprinted away from the alley, his mentor’s bloodcurdling scream scorched into his memory for years to come. Never would he forget the demon that had caused him hell.
Marshall stood up from his kneeling position over Jenkins’ body. He straightened his scarf, ran his hand through his blue hair, and laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed, absolutely so amused by his actions that day. A demon, yes. A murderer, yes. A forgiver, no. He took off his hoodie, revealing a whiplike tail that been tucked up in the article of clothing. He stretched, leaning left then right, and began to walk towards the street. In his wake, a thin trail of frost could be seen.
Stepping out into the streetlight, Marshall licked his lips. All around, people walked, drove, and moved about. They were just ready for the taking, ready for Marshall. He sat down at the nearest bus stop, and waited for his next victim, whoever the poor soul turned out be.
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The days past, turning into months as Marshall continued threatening the lives of the people he came into contact with. Some showed up dead, others frozen, others clawed as though attacked by a wild animal. The city had never had such a high death rate, but could never catch the one who caused all the pain and suffering. The notion of a demon, a horned, death-defying demon, never even crossed any of the citizen’s minds. Only one knew who was to blame, the only witness had ever survived.
George was marked off as insane, when he told his story, carted away to an institution, where never again would the public heard such awful things. Many, however, soon came to follow George, trying to find someone to blame for the loss of their loved ones. George gave them that scapegoat, an escape in the form of a demon. Marshall lived without the knowledge of the army that was growing against him. With every life he took, two more people joined the cause against him.
Perhaps later, when Marshall the demon had satisfied his thirst of death and pain of others, he will no longer endanger others. But because of one miniscule mistake, one unimportant person allowed to live, he will never not be in danger.
