September 29th
Mene.
My name's in this notebook, so now it's mine.
I've erased all succubus behaviour from my mannerisms—not on purpose. I spend so much time pretending to be a human—pretending to be all kinds of humans, my brain purged succubus behaviour and made room for things like nail biting, or sitting in a strange position and insisting to everyone else that it’s more comfortable.
I'm still a succubus. That won’t ever change. Not that I'd want to if I could. Still, the idiosyncrasies of my race atrophied.
The habit of marking things as mine hasn't left, though. As soon as I brought this notebook home I opened it up and scribbled my name on the first page. Didn’t think, just wrote it down. Humans mark things too, maybe that’s why. I like this notebook though, so I’ll happily claim it as mine.
I’ve never thought of spending money outside of food and rent—expenses of living as a full time human. It’s a pain, but when in Rome. I don’t want for anything—there’s nothing in the human world worth wanting (there's food, but that's a need, so it doesn't count). Especially not a trifle like a notebook.
When I overhead some girls in class mention a “food diary”, I made an exception. I didn’t listen to their conversation beyond that. It's self explanatory. A diary. About your food. Of course, mine won't look like my classmates. I don't eat human food—not enough to warrant keeping a diary. Tasting everything at least once helped me develop a nice pallet though.
My meals are emotions of whatever human lets me feed on them... that's the annoying thing about being a demon. There's this strange rule in our culture about being “invited in”.
Us demons can wreak havoc on a human's life all we want, but only if they let us into their lives first. There’s no rule against deceiving a human into letting you in—it’s encouraged even. But should a human grow tried of one’s demonic hi-jinks and take the proper steps to send you away, you leave them alone.
Anything from an elaborate ritual to saying "piss off" with unwavering confidence will do. There’s reasons to these manners. In the same way, there's reason for humans to say "please" when asking for something.
I don’t know why humans say things like “please” and “thank you” or hold the door open for others though. And I don’t know the why the initiation rule is important. It’s just an inconvenience.
Especially since my I have more variety in my diet than the average succubus. Most only feed on sexual emotions. I can see why you'd and invitation to feed on that. You'd need your target to want you. However, in my case... I’m sure the office worker next to me wouldn’t mind if I eat their stress.
But I can't... us demons have rules. I'd rather not find out what happens if I break them.
Sometimes I think about switching back to a traditional diet. Getting full would be a lot faster and easier. But, I'm not too fond of sweet things. And sensual emotions are sickly sweet—apples and cherries coated in honey. Having the same meal every day and a sweet one... I don't understand the appeal.
Sounds like a punishment. Instead of rolling a boulder up the same hill for eternity, Sisyphus eats from a bottomless bowl of candied apples and cherries.
I'd take the boulder.
Enjoying a new meal every day, discovering what combination of flavours I love or makes me shudder in disgust. That's the only thing that brings joy to my eternal life. Not every human’s emotions taste the exact same, so I seldom eat the same meal twice. I don't mind that, but reliving my adventures in emotional gastronomy through this notebook sounds nice.
I've written a page worth nonsense so far, but I'm not sure if I'll do a good job of describing my meals. Ideally, I want to feel like I'm eating these meals a second time just by reading about them.
I've read books by both fellow demons and human authors. I doubt I’ll be as good with my works as they are, but I’ll my best. There's no way I'm as talented as any of them. I can shape shift and I have a wealth of supernatural powers... though I've forgotten what most of them are as I don't need them. Still, using creative words is out of my skill set.
Now, about yesterday's meal.
A married couple had me take the form of their daughter who passed away in an accident... or a terminal illness. I don't know. I take the form of lots of dead relatives—the causes of death blend into each other. The point is: they had a daughter, now they don't, so they hired me to pretend to be her for a day. All for the low price of their emotions and $45.00 an hour—acting classes aren't cheap.
Being seen by friends and family with your dead child would cause a lot of confusion, so we met up in a different town. I didn't even charge them extra for my transportation fees.
The couple pulled up to our agreed meeting place in an expensive looking black car that made what we were doing seem more shady than it actually was. They practically jumped out of the car and pulled me into a cozy—albeit suffocating—embrace the moment they saw me. I don't remember what their daughter looked like—faces blur together even more than deaths do. Whatever the girl looked like, I'm sure I copied her appearance just right—enough to fool them, at least.
Tears of joy streamed down their faces and onto mine as they called the name of their daughter over and over like a mantra or a prayer. Each time the name escaped their lips, I tasted something light and sweet. Like someone dropped pieces of cotton candy into my mouth one piece at a time. The day barely begun, and I already had a feast of pure joy.
The couple promised their daughter a day at the amusement park. She died before they could make good on that promise. Unfortunate but that's what I'm here for, right?
I spent the day being spoiled, and lavished with all the love and attention a human child I could ever want. Not something an adult succubus could ever appreciate, but I played the part well. My eyes lit up when I saw stuffed animals or candy, and I asked for them in the dead girl's small voice. I screamed with delight when we went on rides and smiled in every picture they took.
Joy was all I ate at the amusement park. I don’t have a sweet tooth, so it didn’t take long until I got bored with the couple's saccharine emotions. A few hours passed, and I tasted the vomit in the back of my throat more than anything else.
As the day progressed, bitter notes crept into the sweetness. It tasted less like cotton candy, and more like coffee with just enough sugar. The impending end of their perfect day brought down the couple's mood somewhat. A welcome change.
Our pseudo family outing ended with me feigning sleepiness and the man carrying me to the car on his back. I pretended to sleep in the back seat whilst they drove me home. Once we pulled in front of my apartment, my fake persona melted away.
Human manners rubbed off on me over the years, so even though I didn’t enough the meal I said:
"Thanks for the meal," as reached to open the car door. I used my voice. I wasn’t on the clock anymore.
Before I left, the man called the dead girl’s name, expecting me to turn around. I didn’t—it’s not my name.
"You don't have to go, you know." he said, his voice broke like he was going to cry.
"Please stay. Things will be better, I promise. Mom and I won't fight anymore."
This happens a lot. My clients get confused and think that I whoever they ask me to impersonate. It’s a pain to deal with, so I set them straight quickly.
"I'm not your daughter." I answered, using my sharpest tone. Being gentle with people like this isn’t wise.
The man gripped the steering wheel and looked at me in the rear-view mirror with an expression as pitiful as a puppy left in the rain.
“When my wife showed me your ad, I didn’t believe her. She'd already put us in debt by going to fake mediums and psychics. Then she said there’s someone who can turn into our—”
I don’t remember the girl’s name. Why would I? It’s not mine.
“I thought this had to be another scam, but you really turned into her. Not just her appearance. Her voice, her personality... you brought her back to life.”
The wife chimed in.
“We'll pay you, of course. Name your price, we don’t care if we bankrupt.”
Of course, she'd say that she spend their money on scam mediums without a second thought.
I didn’t even think about their offer before I refused. If I wanted the same meal everyday, I’d go bacj to normal succubus diet. At least then I wouldn't have to play house.
It’s common knowledge that demons always lie. And I the lie I sold to this couple was the hope of seeing their daughter again. But even a demon can be honest when they need to. As I opened the car door, I said:
“I’m a demon. I’m care to make you suffer, but my goal was never to make you happy either. I exist only to take from you. I’m not your daughter, and I don’t want to be. Sounds boring. If you want to see her again, I won’t stop you. You’ll have to wait at least a month or two, though. I’m overbooked.”
If I could, I’d eat the heartache off of them before I left—would’ve been a nice pallet cleanser. But, the end of the day, marked the end of our contract, so I couldn’t feed on them anymore.
I’ve had better meals. In hindsight, this one wasn’t worth writing about. I have a few meals lined up for tomorrow though, I might enjoy them better. Let’s hope for something savoury.
