by Rooks Russell 

“What is called affection is really nothing but habitual sympathy…The general rule is established, that persons related to one another in a certain degree, ought always to be affected towards one another in a certain manner, and that there is always the highest impropriety, and sometimes even a sort of impiety, in their being affected in a different manner. A parent without parental tenderness, a child devoid of all filial reverence, appear monsters, the objects not of hatred only, but of horror.”

-Adam Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments, VI.ii.I.7

I.

The little bundle was held to her breast, the child still small enough to be fed on milk alone. At times, it would pull away, expulsing great lungfuls of breath in fitful screams. Even resting upon the softness of her mother’s skin, it could not find contentment, its throat a constant sounding of dissatisfaction in its being. This ill-content greatly displeased the mother, who cradled the child with a sneer on her lips. It vexed her that this—this wretch—would dare to cry with such ungrateful wails. Did it not understand the miracle that she had wrought in its making? She had crossed the natural barrier between nothingness and existence, to build and stitch together flesh and bone within the boundary of her own womb. And yet, the child balled its fists and shrieked its spite. 

“You should know better,” the mother whispered, glaring down at the monster. “Is it not natural for all beings to praise their creator?” 

She decided that its form was a filthy type, ugly and horrific to behold. Its fat wrinkled on its face so that its eyes were constantly squinting shut. It could not stand or walk on its own, for it was too weak. Its flesh was flushed red, as if fevered, but the mother knew her child to be perfectly healthy. As she knew her own skin, the rise in her own temperature, or the tremble in her own heart, she knew this being’s flesh, as it was her own. And yet, as if defying its own natural health, the thing continued to whine. 

She had long considered the monster and what was to be done with it. Every time she held it to her chest and it protested the contact, she considered drowning it, or perhaps leaving it out for the birds. It would be impossible for it to return completely to unbeing, but a close enough state could be achieved in stilling that miserable voice. Always, when these thoughts rose in fevered pitch, there was something that gave her pause.

I shall name you Lucifer, so that with my words I might make you an Angel of Light.

When the child managed to open up its face and bare its soul, those crystal blue eyes sparkled. She could see the stars and moon in those eyes. That light alone was salvation for the miserable creature. “I shall name you Lucifer, so that with my words I might make you an Angel of Light,” the mother decided, in one of the moments she spent distracted by the creature’s sole beautiful feature. “You shall yet learn to sing praises to your creator.” 

II.

Lucifer, the horrid monster, had begun to grow. Now it could stumble on its own, but the mother still watched on with distaste as the child babbled its nonsense. It could only speak a few words. “Hungry,” “Tired,” “Need” —all were words to describe its own tragic reliance upon its creator. It had yet to learn any such affectionate words to describe the world around it. It lacked even the most basic “Mama” or even the more formal “Mother,” which should have most accurately described her. 

It was her child, though an outside observer would scarcely think so, if they were to observe the Mother’s interaction with her child. The creature’s stark failures of beauty had eased as it grew. The wrinkles began to fade. A dark veil began to cover scalp—it was clearly an image in the Mother’s own spirit. Still, all these observations she noted with a dour countenance. Her own ill-will was perhaps exacerbated by her lack of rest. At all hours, the child would cry, rousing her Mother from her sleep. She would drag herself from her narrow bed, glaring down at the unfortunate wretch who was stirred by some distant noise and then feared the vacancy she felt in the dark room. Sometimes, the Mother would come beside the thing; other times, she would let her cries echo in the night. 

Standing over her cradle, the Mother stretched out her hand, malice filling her heart as she examined her creature. “Vile thing.” Her fingers twitched and spasmed, wanting to act, but unable to move against the work of her womb. She had knitted this monster together, and she knew that one day, she would be the cause of its undoing. It is only right that if a painting is to burn that the original painter be the one to light the match. 

Worse, perhaps, she feared that this unending pit of want and need would soon one day swallow her form whole just as it had swallowed her good intentions, food, energy, and sleep. She had sacrificed her own body to this dæmon, and it had gained her nothing. In fact, she had found this contract to be one that constantly drew upon her very being. She could feel her body growing weaker by the day, while her Lucifer began to grow taller, hardier, and stronger. More alive in every moment this creature became, while the Mother’s life was the price that sustained her being. She had been drawn from nonexistence and had not yet been taught the habit of being independent of a maker. 

She had sacrificed her own body to this dæmon, and it had gained her nothing.

It was only later that the Mother could take any hint of pleasure from her creature. It was when she learned, as a mirror, to reflect vanities back to vanity. Lucifer learned melodies, learned what words were and how to employ them through her own study of books which the Mother, perhaps by chance, left about. In keen listenings and readings, the creature yearned to know how to use these symbols and signs to communicate some true substance within. Except her words were purchased, directed, and bound to some greater purpose. The first task she had taken up was gratitude, the next was song, the third was praise. It was only then that the Mother could look upon her child with any sort of tenderness. Even then, it was merely a self-reflection. 

The child knew this, that her purpose was to sing of her creator, to be thankful and obedient to the parent that had called her form out of nothingness. She could speak the words, but they did nothing to assure her that this was the fulfillment of their relationship. There must have been something more; there was a vacancy that she felt in her chest which she could not fill, for she had never been taught how. She had been taught to stand, taught to soothe her own cries of ingratitude, taught to speak thoughts desirable to her maker; even now she was taught to reason, but there was some sympathy that she had yet to grasp, and perhaps never would. Did she bemoan this loss? Yes, though she knew not what affection was or how it was to be rendered, or even the consequences of its absence. 

The child sang out to her Mother, and for a moment, she felt that Thing, which she knew not to describe, as her mother ran her fingers through her hair with a kind of gentleness she had never felt. “Angel of light.” Her mother cooed with all the softness of a doting figure. “My choir leader, Lucifer.” Only as the songs rang out the mother could feel a sense of gratitude to herself–that she had chosen to spare the creature. It was right. She had suffered through the imperfections of her creation as it began to right itself, to gloss over its own vile form as it learned, by watching, what it was to be more than merely human. Still, the mother felt a trembling in her body, so she soon called off the song to go and rest. 

III.

The Mother could feel disgust as she stared into the silvered surface. She examined the sunkenness of her eyes, like glowing orbs in a skull. She had always considered herself higher than her fellow man—of similar stock, but a finer image. Except now her body betrayed her origins and nature. Her skin seemed to shrink around her bones with little other presence to fill out the shape of her form. The Mother took a step and crumbled, her own body failing her as she collapsed to the ground, helpless and shivering with no muscles to support her. 

It was then that the Mother saw a shadow rise from the earth. It was as if a body were climbing from an open tomb, a vampire set loose to destroy her image. It was a huge outline compared to the fallen, flattened form. Its eyes, like spotlights of starlight, shone down upon her, illuminating her thin appearance. Although light poured like tears, only darkness sat in the seat of that soul. It drew close, crouching, crawling on its belly like a cursed and wretched serpent. With a suddenness that caused terror to echo in the Mother’s throat, the dæmon launched at her maker, fixing herself to her breast as sharp claws dug into her sides. 

“What words or songs might I sing to thee now?” the monster asked, her trembling hands reaching for her mother’s neck. If she could, the mother had little doubt that the wretch would wrap its hands around her neck and squeeze until very life had been strangled out of her. Except the girl’s hands twitched, scrabbling mere inches away from the Mother’s throat. It was not right for a creature to strike its creator. Even still, the weight of her being sat heavy on her lungs, slowly crushing her weakened organs. 

It was then that the Mother could feel her life beginning to slip from her, as if marrow were seeping from her bones and blood from her skin, leaving it a papery white. The monster drew back its shoulders, seeming to drink up the light of the Mother’s spirit. The Creature was beautiful now, the Mother had to admit, if in appearance alone. Lucifer was now tall with high cheekbones. Even though she was still so young, her skin was fine and rushed with blood as her passions rose high. 

“I find no warmth in you—or for you within myself. It is the first of these that I would bring as a case to bear against you,” Lucifer hissed, her features becoming severe.

“Who are you to question your maker?” the Mother seethed. If she had power in her limbs, she would have raised up and struck at her monster. But her body, pale, drained of life, was unable to even raise her head to the dæmon. 

“You are not my god, but a Lilith. You merely made this form, built this skin, called me, but you did not make me. I will not bow my head to your authority,” Lucifer said with a flatness of tone that only thinly  masked her fury. “Though it was you that would condemn us to this death, condemned us to this  kind. I cannot name your crime, but it exists nonetheless. Our mutterings do not create only, but there are ideas beyond my limited language—and yours too.” 

The Mother, preparing to shriek at the wretch’s words, bucked within her own mind against the accusation. But there was no strength in her to summon up those godlike pronunciations, so the unborn thoughts spiraled within the limited circle of her own mind. How dare it, how dare it approach her with such disregard to place, how dare it rise above her, how dare it—by stealing her life slowly—drag her down to this inhumanity, how dare it be now so bright and beautiful while she languished in this misery. After all she had given to it, it should be grateful, grateful to its creator, not so proud to stand over her, but to bow its head, to render to her all the affection due a master and maker.

 “You will never sully my good name, not in my own eyes,” she managed, barely able to draw in a final gasp from the pressure of the monster on her chest. “Spin your pointless words; they shall be of no effect to me.” Lilith, maker of that cold and beautiful wretch, could offer no more reproach; choking on her spite, suffering for a lack of breath and love and life. She died. Her form relaxed against the dark ground and the dæmon fell forward, her mother’s breast a pillow, as tears, a sign for when words seemed to fall short, anointed the hollow body. 

“You had power over me, to spare me, to make me whole and handsome, but one thing you withheld from me.” Lucifer wept, clinging to the dead form. Her heart ached, shivering and growing cold within her own chest. “Imperfect creator, Mother, behold your filthy creature: she follows you to the grave. For even in death, her heart pangs for your love.”

Lucifer wept.

With that, the wretch pulled closer, longing for warmth from a dead source. From whence she had emerged, she could not return. Her maker was dead, the one who had nursed her and held her skin to skin, was now nothing, and she too, following like a shadow, would become nothing.

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My name is Rooks Russell. I am a senior English and Psychology double major, which means I’m great at parties.