More Really Really Old Dream Diary Entries

High school USBs are the gift that keeps on giving.  More poorly written entries from my teenage blog about everyone’s favorite cadaver.

Just some of my nightmares about Bonebutt.

When I was a twelve, I didn’t trust him, and thought the whole idea of angels and demons stupid.  Then I had a dream I was in an Underworld throne-room that was dimly lit, and all I could see was a mountain of steps leading to his throne, where he sat, bored out of his wits, drinking red wine and watching me.  The room was huge, everything draped in shadow, and heavy with the smoke of incense and roses.

There was no where to hide, so I approached.  For some reason I had my back pack with library books, which were all, of course, in mythology.  He took it from me and hung it up on his throne, smiling a smile that was obviously painful to him.  He was wearing dark red robes, black gloves and boots, and a golden circlet, which surprised me, as he looked like a king and was a lot older than I’d imagined him in my story.  I held up a book, ready to whack him.

Me: “Who are you?”

“You know me.”


“That I am.  Want to sit down?  I can stand.”

“That’s okay.”  I said, happy to stay far away from him.

“Don’t be afraid.  I’m your friend.”

“I’ve been writing too much.  I can’t trust you.”

“Why’s that, sunshine?”

“Wikipedia says you’re the Devil.  I think the Devil is stupid, but Christianity isn’t my thing.  You’re evil, right?  Torture souls?That’s not very nice, y’know.”

He flipped through one of my books, smirking.

“If everyone was nice nothing would get done.  Don’t believe everything you read.  It’s all a bunch of gossip.  I’m actually a gentleman.”

“If you’re not the Devil, then I don’t know who you are.  You’re not in my mythology books.  And you don’t look like an angel. You have fangs.”

He laughed and handed me the books.  ”I won’t bite.”

“Ok, then I trust you.  I don’t like God anyways.  He’s sexist.”

He got down and sat on the ground next to me.  ”So what are the stories about?  Gods.  You like mythology.”

“Athena’s my favorite.  Why isn’t she here instead of you?”

“Free will, or lack thereof.  Curiosity, perhaps, on my part.  Now do you want to hear my story?  The real version?”

“As long as you promise this isn’t some trap.”

“I swear!  Now just listen.” His eyes gleamed and he told his story.  ”I am ancient.  Older than the Bible and time.  I rule the between places and ferry the dead.  Do you know what a psychopomp is?”


“I am one.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I’m the Angel of Death.  See?  Scythe?”  It appeared in his hands.  I screamed and ran away.

“Get that thing away from me!  No weapons!”

“It’s an instrument of my office, symbolic!  Oh, for the love of souls, get out from behind my throne.  It wasn’t meant to have brats climbing on top of it-”

“Shut up!  I hate you.”  I scrambled on top of the throne, small enough to stand on its back.  I crossed my arms and scowled, refusing to come down.

“If I put it away, will you listen?”

“…yes.  And take off your gloves.”

He frowned but did so anyways.  I must have been expecting skeleton hands, but they were normal.  I took his hand cautiously and he helped me down.

“Now, where to begin?…” he purred.  ”Mmm, yes.  Creation.  Alright, imagine the universe, a tiny small seed.  It had everything that is and shall be in it.  You, me, dinosaurs-”

“Dinosaurs rock.”

“Right.  Dinosaurs rock.  Okay.  So everything came from nothing, and nothing was all around it, like a box around an egg.  Except the egg is floating in the center, infinitely small, and the box is the abyss.  Now if anyone ever tells you someone is wrong, because they are of a different culture, a different race, a different creed- it is bullshit.  We all come from the same place, and to it, we all return.  I know, because I’m Death.  Angels and demons, gods and man, we’re the same.  The only thing that matters is that we love. “

“You seem pretty full of yourself.  I don’t believe in omnipotence.  You can’t possibly know everything.”

His chess puffed out and his pupils turned to slits.  ”I’m trying to teach you a lesson.”

“I don’t need lessons.  I go to school for that.”

“Look at me and you.  What do you see?”

“But this is a dream-”

“Just tell me.”

“Well, I see a man, which is you…” I held out my own hands.  ”And a hand.  Because there are no mirrors, and I can’t see myself.”

“If we were blind, none of this would matter.  Skin, pointy teeth, antenna.  We couldn’t tell the other was different.  Sometimes, you have to unlearn things.  To learn to see.  Because at our core, we are all brothers and sisters.  But sometimes we forget.  That is why there is suffering and war.  School may give you knowledge, but I can teach you truth.”

“Can you see yourself, Samael?”

“When you’re my age, there is no need to.  My sight is… different than others.  I see souls, things’ truth.  Your’s is pleasant.”

“Well I can’t see anything.  My sight stinks.  And you need electricity in here.”

His face grew hard.  ”The darkness hides things you do not want.”

I scooted closer to him, afraid.  ”That doesn’t sound nice.”

“Some things forget how to love.  That is what being away from God is.”

“But you’re a fallen angel.  How can you love God?”

He laughed.  ”I’m also an archangel.  Remember what I said.  Nothing truly falls.  All that is is one.  We are all necessary parts of God.”

“Tomato tomatoh?”


“Never mind.”

I fell asleep as he read me stories.  I played with snakes in my dreams.

He was Prometheus chained to a rock, I saved him.

He went mad, I was his chew toy.  A crown of bone on his head, two daggers wept from his eye.  When he wears the mask of the Judge, they look like fangs.  His eyes triquetra, like some dark Trinity, burned as he plead for my love.

In his chest is the rot of the world, all the sins he has cleansed from the Damned.  Chaos is supposed to be bound into him with tefillin, for he is the Leviathan, and wants to consume the all.  He is starved for companionship.  Weeping stigmata and forgotten.

I shriek at night and scream, as if I am being murdered.  Sometimes I murmur softly or wake, but he pulls me back into the dream, annoyed:

Where do you think you’re going?” he growls, as my eyes are forced shut and the room fades.

I woke at dawn with a rose in my hands.  It faded into mist, and he laughed.  In his library, I found the journal of a woman who scorned him.  In the beginning, she is sane, with beautiful curling prose and a voice that could come from an angel.

She scorned him, he drove her mad.  The writing degrades to insanity.  She had my hair and eyes.  He left roses at her door,  in her bag, in the shower when she is alone.  She opens cupboards and petals fall on her head.  She pricks her feet on thorns.

They drive her to the graveyard, mad.  She climbs the desolate hill at midnight, begging for him.

“You have made me dead,” she says, knee-down in the dirt. “My friends and life are gone.  You stole my sanity.  What else can you take from me?”

The Reaper forms out of the mist.  He smiles with twisted shyness.  ”Your heart,” he says with longing.  He leaves the rose at her feet.  ”I do not have one, you see.”

He does not like to lose.  She had nowhere to go but with him.

I do not want to be her.

He is lonely.  Arrogant.  Broken.

I have no faith in him.

He exists because I am bored,

and that is all I can tell you.




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