Chapter 4.5: The Demon at work
1500 Words
The front door clicked shut behind him.
Lucien stepped inside, cool air brushing against the back of his neck as he exhaled slowly. The house was dim. Quiet. Too quiet.
He placed the takeout box on the entryway table like it was something sacred. Or dangerous.
“I’m back,” he called, voice calm, almost casual.
There was a pause.
Then from the living room, his mother’s voice—tired, distant.
“Hey.”
He stepped into the room and leaned on the doorframe. She sat on the couch, half-wrapped in a blanket, staring at the muted television with a glass of something in her hand that wasn’t water.
“Did he come home?”
She didn’t look at him.
Didn’t blink.
“No. Probably out with his usual people. Or passed out in the car again. Who knows.”
Lucien nodded once, slow.
“Okay.”
“You eat?” she asked absently.
“Brought leftovers,” he said, holding up the white box.
“I’m fine,” she muttered.
“Yeah,” Lucien said, already turning away. “We all are.”
He left the room without waiting for anything else.
The door clicked shut behind him. Locked.
He stood still for a second.
Breathing.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
He stared at the room.
His room.
Too clean. Too quiet. Too still.
The box of food sat on his desk. Steam drifting up.
And something inside him snapped.
“I TRY!” he roared, suddenly, violently. “I f*****g TRY!”
He slammed his fist on the table, the box flying off and crashing to the floor — wrappers scattering like shrapnel.
“TRY TO BE BETTER! BEEN TRYING SINCE I LEARNED MY GODDAMN ABCs!”
He kicked the trash bin — full force.
It hit the wall and bounced back.
Didn’t matter.
“I FORGIVE, I TRY TO FORGET, I KEEP MY HEAD DOWN AND THEY JUST—JUST SHOVEL MORE AND MORE AND MORE f*****g s**t AT ME!”
His voice cracked.
His breath came in ragged bursts.
He clutched at his hair and yanked hard — pain helping him focus.
“That b***h really went there… she went there.”
His eyes were wild now.
Unfocused.
“She made fun of my most painful thing. MY f*****g BROON. MY BOY. FIRST SHE—SHE—”
He was pacing now. Unraveling.
“First she sent her little sissy boy scouts—her f*****g lapdogs—and they killed him. They killed him. Right in front of me. Like he was nothing.”
He punched the wall — knuckles splitting open, blood smearing white.
“And I tried. I tried to forgive it. To swallow it. I tried to be better—cleaner—human again.”
“But she reopened it. She cut it open again and poured acid in.”
He stumbled backward, half-sobbing, half-laughing.
“AGAIN. AGAIN. AGAIN. f**k!”
Another punch.
Another.
Then silence.
He collapsed to his knees, shaking.
Head down.
Shoulders trembling.
“f**k everything. f**k her.”
A long pause.
Then—
“Oh yes… yeah…”
A crooked smile twitched across his face.
“Yes, that’s right… f**k her.”
Lucien stood slowly.
Breathing calming. Shoulders straightening.
He wiped the blood off his hand with the back of his shirt.
His voice is now calm again.
“Guess I have my answer.”
He looked around the room — a mess now. Broken food container. Blood on the wall. Trash scattered.
And for the first time tonight… he was still again.
I’m not broken. I’m focused.
He tilted his head toward the door, listening for footsteps.
Nothing.
“Good,” he muttered. “Didn’t wake her.”
Not that he really expected her to come check.
She was probably passed out downstairs — glass still in hand.
Lucien exhaled.
Steady. Controlled.
“It starts now.”
Lucien glanced down at the mess he’d made.
Grease-stained wrappers. Some scattered salad. A squashed paper cup bleeding soda across the floor like it had taken a bullet.
He crouched, picked up the crumpled box, sifted through the remains.
“Ah, fuck.”
He stared at it — a battlefield of wasted calories and lost dignity.
“Dinner’s fucked.”
He poked around, fingers finding something vaguely intact.
“No salad,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the ceiling. “Of course.”
But there it was — one lonely piece of chicken roll, half-bitten but salvageable.
He sat on the floor, leaned against the bedframe, and unwrapped it with all the care of someone unwrapping a loaded gun.
“Guess this half-eaten roll and the mutilated chicken inside it is gonna have to do.”
He took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
The storm inside him didn’t calm.
But it waited.
Lucien walked into school the next morning at his usual pace — calm, unbothered, borderline invisible.
His shirt was clean. Bag slung over one shoulder. Hair combed. Smile polite.
Nothing about him screamed watch out.
But behind his eyes, the gears turned.
Fast. Sharp. Cold.
By the third period, he had already mapped half the building with eerie precision.
Every hallway. Every blind spot.
Every malfunctioning camera that sparked and died overhead like a failing nerve.
Every shortcut students used to skip class — and which teachers ignored them.
He lingered by the admin wing longer than usual that day.
Hands in his pockets. The ear is tuned like a radar.
From a cracked staff room door, he picked it up:
“West wing is getting reworked.”
“About time,” another staff voice groaned. “It’s been years.”
“Two more days. Then full maintenance. All feeds off.”
Lucien blinked once.
Noted.
Two days. Cameras dead.
He walked away with a barely-there smirk tugging at his lips.
Lunch break.
Anthony nudged him with his soda can.
“Hey, man. You’ve been wandering around like a sleepwalker all day. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Lucien replied smoothly. “Just… observing." I think I want to do a short story set in school. Need to get the vibe right.”
Christy raised an eyebrow. “You, writing a story? Since when?”
Lucien shrugged. “Therapy. Creative outlets. All that jazz. Besides…”
He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering.
“There’s something kind of poetic about all the places we ignore. The cracks in the walls. The quiet corners no one looks at.”
Anthony gave a slow nod. “Okay, damn. Lucien Shakespeare is kinda deep.”
Christy looked less convinced, but she didn’t press.
The West Wing,
Dusty windows. Flaking paint. Padlocked like it held something worth keeping.
It didn’t.
But it was perfect.
Lucien stood by it that afternoon, squinting at it like a curious cat. Quite conveniently, he stood by the water taps.
He made sure to stand in view of two teachers during his “inspection.”
Later, when one of them asked, he answered with casual charm:
“Oh, the janitor left the hose running. Thought I’d be helpful and check.”
Nobody questioned it.
Over the next two days, Lucien slipped in and out of unusual places.
Basement boiler room.
Empty classrooms.
Roof access stairwells.
Under the gym bleachers.
Each time, he had a reason.
“Helping the photography club with location scouting.”
“Looking for my lost earbuds.”
“Needed to call my dad — bad signal downstairs.”
“Sketching for an art prompt. Quiet space.”
Everyone bought it.
The teachers nodded.
Staff waved him off.
Christy sometimes frowned. Anthony teased him.
But Lucien handled it all with precision-grade charm.
Even Dr. Otto Vermillion, the school’s counselor — sharp-eyed — only caught a whisper of something... wrong.
They crossed paths just once during the second day.
Lucien was sitting outside the chemistry lab, sketchbook on his knee, headphones in. But they weren’t playing anything.
Otto stopped. Watched him.
Lucien noticed.
He looked up. Removed his headphones.
“Dr. Vermillion.”
“Lucien Thorne,” Otto said slowly. “Interesting spot to work.”
Lucien smiled.
“It’s peaceful here. I can hear the humming of the lab’s cooling fans. Helps me think.”
“Humming,” Otto repeated.
“White noise. Calms me.”
Otto didn’t respond immediately. He studied Lucien’s face. His posture. His stillness.
“You’ve been very active these past few days. More… social. More mobile.”
Lucien blinked.
“I guess that’s a good thing, right?”
A long pause.
“It depends on what’s moving underneath the surface,” Otto said quietly.
Lucien’s eyes didn’t flicker.
“Just art, sir.”
“Mmm.”
Dr. Vermillion eventually walked away.
But he didn’t forget the conversation.
And Lucien?
Lucien returned to his map — the one no one else could see — and began planning how a person needs to be disciplined thoroughly enough for them to change their ways of leading life.
Then What ? It was time.
- Writer
