—is other people

Demoncember writing prompt — Demon whose love is boundless, and yet you have still managed to provoke their terrible anger

Emily’s private hell is a caricature of a family living room. The proportions are weirdly wrong, like a forced-perspective illusion room seen from the wrong angle to trick the eye; the decorations are bright and festive, but if looked at directly they’re just nonsensical splashes of colour and light, with no proper shape or meaning, signifying no real specific holiday.

The figures in the room emit a constant low rumble, as if of conversation, but it’s impossible to focus on any of it; if words are actually present to pick out, they recede to indistinct glossolalia under attention. And, of course, all the figures, with their pinched and disapproving expressions, their perpetual stares, all arranged to face inward at Emily, are taxidermied.

Her cage is very much like an oversized birdcage. The padlock on the door is sticky with forever almost-dry blood, keyhole — if there even is one — filled and gummed over with it. Any attempt to tamper with or handle the lock stains the hands, and once there’s blood on you, it gets everywhere: unobscurable handprints indelibly marking What You Did.

“EMILY,” the only other real thing here says, in dolorous disappointment.

It says it’s her mother.

Mother squeezes into the room, through the door which Emily can’t quite crane far enough to see out of. Mother is long and bulbous and moist and lizardish, bulgy-eyed.

“EMILY,” Mother says. “WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS.”

“Like what?” Emily says, in a raw and defeated voice.

“DON’T TAKE THAT TONE WITH YOUR MOTHER,” Mother says. “I WISH I KNEW WHAT I EVER DID TO DESERVE ALL THIS ATTITUDE.”

“I don’t have an attitude,” Emily says.

Emily does, sometimes. It’s hard not to. But the exhaustion with all of this comes and goes, and right now she couldn’t muster an attitude if she fucking wanted to; she’s just so tired.

She tried ignoring it, early on. Engaging with Mother is a no-win game, but ignoring it is worse. Ignoring it makes it angry.

“OH, OF COURSE NOT,”, Mother says. “EVERYTHING’S MY FAULT. EVERYTHING’S ALWAYS MY FAULT. I’M THE VILLAIN HERE, AREN’T I. I’M JUST INTOLERABLE, WANTING TO HAVE A NICE TIME AND SEE MY KIDS AND SLAVE OVER A HOT STOVE—”

There’s no food, of course; Emily’s sure she’s been here for half of forever, and there’s never been any food. The cooking is as imaginary a guilt trip as all the rest of it.

“GOD FORBID I LOVE MY FAMILY,” Mother says.

Emily closes her eyes and breathes. When she opens them, Mother has its head crammed up against the bars.

“OH, NOW I GET THE SILENT TREATMENT?” Mother says.

“No,” Emily says. “No, of course not,” but it’s too late; Mother is pushing its head against the immovable cage, the wire bars pressing in against its sickly skin, shape distorting like a stress ball, squeezing and oozing like a goo-filled balloon through the gaps, until a large bulge of face pops through one gap in particular, guiding the rest of the horrible head to flow viscously through after it, crowding, filling the small space, shoving Emily back against the opposite side, an endless stretchy goo-ball mass of face swelling into her and threatening to crush her body.

The squished and rubbery jaw writhes. “WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE ME GRANDCHILDREN?” Mother demands, voice as stretched and muffled as the rest of her.

“Oh no,” Emily chokes.

They’ve been here a long time. Mother’s vindictiveness is endless, but not especially creative; Emily knows what comes next.

“GRANDBABIEEEEEES,” Mother drawls like a battery-operated toy running down. Its tongue lolls, running wet with something the cold consistency of cheap lube.

It’s not a tongue, of course, any more than this parroting fucking parody is Emily’s mother.

It’s a wet and fleshy, orifice-seeking ovipositor.

“GRAAAAANDBABIEEEEEES,” Mother hoots, barely comprehensible, tongue crawling up Emily’s leg.