The devil is trying to get out again. I can hear him rattling his prison door, howling with rage. I don’t react, even as the door shakes in its hinges. The worst thing I could do is react, the smallest response giving him just a little bit more power. I’m on guard though, mentally and physically, prepared for anything to happen. He won’t escape the cavea on my watch.
I can feel the flow of faith beginning to wane as the light of day slowly transforms into dusk. The visitors will be leaving, their sightseeing and praying coming to an end. Taking their wounded faith with them.
Each visitor is losing their ability to spread faith. It’s the long game that the devil is playing, despite all his theatrics in the cavea. Each soul that passes through, he punctures, a small pin prick, the loss of faith that they would spread into the world, leaking out, not reaching a destination. The souls don’t have to preach, just their being was enough to keep faith going from generation to generation. And now, over the past one hundred years, it’s been dying.
It seems unfair sometimes. That those with the most faith should lose their ability to spread their faith because of their pilgrimage. To keep the devil in, the church had to create this place, bring the worshippers here, and then the worshippers pay the price. Vatican City. It’s almost a joke, a stereotype, that the devil would be housed here in the city’s underground catacombs. It’s so obvious, no one would believe it.
The devil quits his wailing and turns his attention to me. He whispers promises in my ear, trying to turn me, trying to get me to open the door. He is tempting, I won’t lie, but I hold fast. He reminds me of my evilness, of all the dark and wicked things I do, of the fun and glory I could obtain if I just released the lock of the cavea. I remain calm, it’s nothing I haven’t heard a hundred times before. I have been trained to ignore the devil, been given a gift greater than he could ever grant.
My replacement arrives and the Devil goes off again, screeching and howling. I walk away from the cavea, away from the Devil, through the underground catacombs to my residence. I go into my palatial apartment, a feast of food and wine laid out before me. Young priests wait on me, undressing me from my uniform into comfortable robes. A trio of nuns comes in to entertain me as I eat.
The church found out long ago that it took evil to hold back evil. The devil could take out the faithful, they were always willing to die for the greater good and be rewarded with heaven. But evil, a truly black soul, would fight to live, would fight to stay on top. So, the church created a group to find damned human souls who would be willing to serve for rewards granted here on Earth. That is how I was recruited at the tender age of ten, already deemed an evil girl beyond redemption by my parents.
My sinfulness was rewarded by the church as I grew up in Vatican City. They trained me to fight, to resist the Devil’s words, to remain what I truly am. Then, they gave me a priest to love. He is maddening really. A man who loves everyone, equally, despite their sin and shortcomings. A man who loved me unconditionally, who continues to love me unconditionally. He sees and accepts me for who I truly am, and still, he loves me. I couldn’t help but love him back, at least in my way.
He enters my apartment, leans down, kisses my forehead. So chaste. I will corrupt him tonight as I do every night. For every moment he lets me abuse him, he ties me ever tighter to this place so I can never leave. And he in turn will never leave the Vatican.
Bio:
Elizabeth Rosell lives in Northern Ontario, Canada, with her cat Belle. She has spent her life working in the non-profit field, inspired by her own mental health issues with borderline personality disorder. Elizabeth has been published in Amsterdam Quarterly, The Amphibian, The Argyle, and Yale’s The Perch. When not writing, she spends her spare time crafting and baking.