the living Satane

She sat on her bed of fire, head held high, oblivious to the pain. She drew it towards her; she grasped the cold little head and shook it. It was long since dead. She laughed, low and deep in her throat. She ground it in her numb, articulate fingers and threw it to the floor. She trembled in exultation as she heard the crack of its bones, the splintering of flesh... the slow, trickle of blood. She snatched it up again, slammed it against a stone pillar, felt its neck break under her fingers, the silky curls turn to an emaciated mass.1

That baby had cried once, cried out for warmth, for food, for shelter, for comfort, for all the things it needed to survive. And it cried safe in the depth of loving arms. Kisses of a loving mother had frozen on its cheek, its hands were still clenched from holding Daddy's thumb tight as it drifted in to dreams. Its eyes were still smiling, but the living Satane did not know these things. Deaf, dumb, numb and blind, she was her own.2

She trampled on it, feeling her sharp talons sink in to its remains. The nose was best, she decided, feeling that neat little lump squash and bend in two. She snorted fire on to the baby, and it burnt to ashes.3

And then, she wept for something she knew not of. Tears trickled from her sightless eyes, evaporating instantly on the last of the flames. Mute sobs, silent to the world continued, not from her heart, but from a place she had no control. For although the living Satane was an evil connoisseur, she had never felt love, never been cared for; held close and told she was cared about. She bawled to the world until she blew it up around herself.