Chapter 15
Written by Bayzo Albion
The demon's voice chuckled somewhere in the back of my mind, pleased with my turmoil.
I ignored it and sat quietly in the tavern, hands wrapped around a cooling mug, trying to look calm while the storm inside me begged to break free.
"You're an idiot," the voice hissed, rasping with the satisfaction of a viper pleased to have struck true. "All of it is an illusion. The world, the people, morality—paper masks glued to a puppet show, fragile and fleeting. You control the stage, the strings in your hands. There are no consequences here, no lasting scars. Why hold back? Use it. Enjoy it. Break it if you must. Nothing is real, so why pretend otherwise?"
I squinted and leaned inward, searching the dark place in my chest where the voice lived, probing its origins. It wasn't a stranger; it felt like a memory with teeth, a shard of something I'd always kept quiet, buried under layers of civility. Calmly, I met it with the only weapon that had steadied me so far—language, wielded like a sword of reason.
"That's precisely the point." My voice was cool, quieter than the tavern's clamor had been minutes ago but full of a stubborn sort of warmth, a conviction born from introspection. "Some things are only beautiful because they're out of reach, guarded by the walls we build around them. Because you can't seize them with force without diminishing their essence. Call it fate, call it nobility, call it aesthetics if you like—name it whatever helps your tongue wrap around the concept. But the denial is what gives the thing its value, turning fleeting urges into enduring treasures."
The voice flinched—small, like a shadow peeling from a wall under the glare of light. I heard it hiss, more surprised than hurt, its confidence wavering. It tried another tack, more urgent, the tone coiled with impatience, desperate to regain ground.
"You don't understand beauty. You're sentimental, clinging to outdated ideals. You'd waste the harvest of an orchard because you're afraid of ruining the leaves, letting ripe fruit rot on the vine. You're pathetic, denying yourself the feast laid before you."
I smiled despite myself, the grin holding something like pity for this inner tempter. "Maybe. Or maybe I've seen enough of the world—both the old one and this—to know that some harvests are worth waiting for, nurtured with patience rather than plundered. There's a difference between wanting and taking, a chasm that separates desire from destruction. If all goodness can be bought or broken by appetite, then what worth does it have? What's left to strive for, to aspire to in this infinite expanse?"
It roared then—less a voice and more a small storm raging in the confines of my mind, lashing out with frustration. "Why make it hard? You are the author here! Write what you want. Bend the rules to your whim. Sleep with anyone who pleases you and call it research, a mere exploration of the realm's delights. Live without restraint. Who will stop you? No judges, no chains—only you, holding yourself back like a fool."
"Because regret built from restraint weighs differently," I said, my tone steady, infused with a quiet strength. "There's a quiet pride in having chosen a path you can explain at dawn, when the haze of night clears. And there's a fire in merit that stolen pleasures never teach you to hold, to master. I don't want easy, instant validation that crumbles like ash. I want something that endures if I earn it, forged in the crucible of choice. Call me stubborn, call me sentimental—maybe I'll own both labels, wear them as badges in this game of souls."
Silence hummed in the dark for a second, a fragile peace settling over my thoughts. The voice, resentful and petulant, slunk back into the corners of my mind, defeated for the moment but not destroyed. It tried its old trick one last time—hit the bruise, stir the doubt.
"You're making excuses. Afraid. Cowardly. If fame, power, and experience are right there for the taking, why not take them? You'll regret missed chances more than a night of satisfaction, haunted by what-ifs in the quiet hours."
I let out a slow breath, tasting the burn of ale on my tongue and the cleaner tang of night air waiting beyond the tavern door, a promise of fresh beginnings. The demon's argument had the seductive logic of a shortcut: immediate, tidy, without dialogue or consequence. But shortcuts had always flattened me, robbed the journey of its richness. They had made the colors dull and the payoff small, leaving only emptiness in their wake.
"Because regret from restraint is a teacher," I countered, my voice resolute. "It builds character, sharpens the soul. Whereas regret from indulgence is a thief, stealing pieces of yourself until nothing remains but hollow echoes. I choose the path that leads to growth, not the one that spirals into void."
The voice faded then, retreating into silence, its influence waning like mist under the sun. I straightened in my chair, the pressure within me easing, transformed not by release but by resolve. In this paradise of illusions, I had claimed a victory over my inner demons, a small but significant step toward mastering the self in a world without limits.
I watched the angelic waitresses drift between tables, light as air, their trays never tilting, their movements so smooth it felt rehearsed by heaven itself. But what held my gaze wasn't their wings or smiles — it was their feet. They never touched the ground.
Not once.
And I realized — maybe that's what makes them angels. Their feet never get dirty, because they never walk where we do.
I must've been staring too long.
One of the angelic waitresses caught my gaze — her eyes bright, unreadable. For a heartbeat I expected judgment, a flicker of disgust, anything. But instead, she smiled.
Not mockingly, not shyly — just a quiet, knowing smile, the kind that disarms rather than condemns. As if she understood something deeper, something human, and didn't hold it against me.
Her feet hovered inches above the floor, still untouched by the world, yet her smile… it was almost earthly.
As I reached for my cup, one of the waitresses leaned closer to refill it. The scent of her hair brushed past — something between vanilla and starlight. Her sleeve slipped just enough to expose a glimmer of pale skin; the air itself seemed to pause.
She noticed, of course. They always do. But instead of pulling away, she gave me a teasing look — a flicker of mischief behind that angelic composure — and then, just as lightly, floated off, her laughter soft as windchimes.
I told myself it was nothing. Just grace, just habit. But my pulse disagreed.
When the other voice finally faded, silence settled inside me—too clean, too complete. For a moment I thought I'd won, that I'd silenced the parasite whispering in the cracks of my mind. But instead of relief, there was only emptiness.
A strange kind of grief.
It shouldn't have hurt, yet it did. Somewhere deep inside, I knew that voice had been more than a shadow. It was me—raw, unfiltered, honest in ways I could never allow myself to be. The part that mocked, doubted, and burned with hunger for everything I pretended not to want. Without it, I felt smaller. Neater. Safer, perhaps—but less alive.
I stared into the stillness, trying to recall when I'd first begun to hear it. The truth was, it had always been there, even before I died. Even in the old world, before the fall, before this so-called paradise.
In this place, that inner self had felt closer—louder. Maybe the air here carried more than oxygen; maybe it carried memory, echo, essence. Here, I could sense every fracture of my soul, every contradiction pressed against the walls of my mind, asking to be acknowledged. And now that it was gone, I realized how dependent I'd become on the friction it caused. The tension had defined me; it gave shape to the silence.
A line surfaced in my mind, something I once read online back when I was still human:
> "When a man loses a leg or an eye, he knows it; when he loses his personality, he does not. For there is no one left to know it."
— Oliver Sacks
The words struck harder than they should have. Maybe that was what had happened to me. Maybe I'd already died once—not the body, but the person inside it.
Maybe the creature that woke up in paradise wasn't a man at all, but a reconstruction built from what was left—memories, impulses, fragments of someone who used to exist.
I flexed my fingers, watching them respond to my thoughts like obedient servants. They looked familiar, but they didn't feel like mine. This skin, this strength, even this breath—it all felt borrowed.
Was this what resurrection really was? Not a return, but a replacement?
Maybe my second self hadn't vanished. Maybe it had simply gone home—to wherever the real me still lingered, in that thin space between death and memory.
I closed my eyes and whispered, half to myself, half to the void:
> "If you were me… then what am I now?"