I would like to give a most generous thank you to Duke0467 for his editing assistance on this story. Much thanks for both his patience and guiding hand.
*****
Both Gwen's husband and 18 year old son were on life support while she miraculously escaped the car accident with nary a scratch physically. Emotionally she is a wreck as any good mother and wife would be while facing the impending loss of both her son and husband.
It's Michael, her son that she is particularly worried about as she finds him utterly adorable. Given the choice of if only one could live her husband, Tom, would come out on the losing end every time.
Now in the quiet, nearly deserted, waiting room, Gwen glances at her watch, noticing it's nearly 1 am. Michael should be out of surgery by now. She gets up stretches, preparing to head to the nurse's station to inquire if there is any news, when the doctor, a middle aged bespectacled woman, that looks to be of Indian descent, hustles into the room.
"Mrs. Turner, sit down please. I have news."
"W-hat is it. Is my son alright." Her voice is quavering and on the point of breaking.
"Sit down please and let me explain where we are at."
Gwen sits down on the old waiting room coach while the doctor settles down next to her.
"The surgery was . . . semi successful. We got the internal bleeding to stop. He is in stable condition in regards to that."
"Oh thank God. Thank you doctor."
"Don't . . . not yet Mrs. Turner. His condition is still precarious. "
"Tell me." Gwen says digging into her purse to pull out yet another Kleenex.
"He has suffered a major head trauma that has left him in a coma."
"He will wake up though right. I mean he is not going to die."
"His brain activity is limited but stable. As of now there is no danger of him passing that is the good news."
"And the bad news, Dr. Mutafia, is what?"
"Ahh . . ." The doctor sighs heavily as Gwen braces herself. "We simply don't know when your son might regain consciousness. It could be tonight, a month from now, maybe a year. We simply don't know. It's in God's hands now. I am afraid there is precious little more to do at this point but wait . . . and pray."
"But you can keep him alive right? While we wait."
"He is stable, with the help of a breathing apparatus. He can be fed intravenously, so no he is in no immediate danger. Just so you understand Mrs. Turner," the small woman grips her hands, "your son may never wake up."
"But also, he may wake up at any given time though correct?"
"Yes, he may that is true also."
"I shall think positive and pray." Of course she will pray. Gwen is and has always been a strict Catholic of unshakable faith. Or so she thought.
"That is always good, maybe between that and some heartfelt prayers God will see fit to bring your son back to you."
"Maybe."
"Now as for your husband, I was told by Doctor Lampley, he could not speak with you personally as he got called away for another urgent emergency, that your husband . . ." the doctor shakes her head sadly.
"He didn't make it?" Gwen responds trying to hide the apathy in her voice.
"I am afraid not. He passed on the operating table."
One hour later, Gwen is in her son's room looking at him sadly. She had just stopped by the hospital's chapel and prayed to God that her son, please, please wake up and come back to her. His once cute and boyish 18 year old face is covered almost entirely in bandages. His breathing, with the help of the machine, appears to be slow and steady.
She pulls a chair, it's large and surprisingly comfortable, from the corner of the private room close to the bed so she can sit and hold his hand. She strokes over and over again the several small tufts of his brown hair that have managed to escape from under the bandages.
She cries off and on for a good hour straight before finally, around 3:00am, a nurse comes in and gives her a pillow suggesting she put her head down and try to get a bit of sleep.
This sad routine goes on for months. Gwen spends day and night at the hospital sitting with her son. There is no noticeable change in his condition sending Gwen into a great state of despair. Her prayers to an unresponsive, or maybe it's an uncaring God, continue to go unanswered.
Then one night, after having dozed off while curled up next to his bed in the large chair, she has a most extraordinary dream. The dream was so very vivid that upon jerking awake around 6:00 am she is in a state of confusion.
Was that real? she mutters to herself before spotting the neatly clipped black rose laid across her son's bed. At the sight of the single half stemmed black rose the memory of the dream comes flooding back to her.
In her dream, she is being led down a long corridor by Dr. Mutafia, who keeps turning around advising her to go back to the chapel, and pray some more. But Gwen is insistent, "Take me to him. I must bargain for my son's life. I fear it's the only way."
The doctor stops in mid-stride as Gwen, following close behind, nearly collides with her. She turns and looks at her seriously saying in a calm voice, "Praying to the Lord in Heaven is the only way, not this Gwen."
"Prayer and your God have never been kind to me Doctor. Time to try another way. Show me his office."
"NO!! I go no further than this. I refuse to venture any closer to His Domain. His office is the last one on the left. You will recognize it as it has the mark of the beast scratched on the door. Venture fourth at your own peril."
And with that the small brown woman, impeccably dressed in her white doctor's overcoat, turns on her heel and strides purposefully back down the long corridor, her heels clicking hollowly, leaving Gwen all alone.
Gwen continues down the corridor—it seems to go on forever- passing row after row of nondescript plain brown doors shut tightly until finally she reaches the end of the hallway.
There is a single door to her left. The wood comprising this door is not of the cheap panel materiel like the others, but instead is a rich dark mahogany. It is adorned with a large golden door knob, and just as Dr. Mutafia had said, the mark of the beast is indeed scratched into the dark wood in vivid 4 inch high numbers.
666 Gwen stares at the number. A cold chill is crawling up her spine as suddenly she becomes doubtful if this is the way. She can't remember how this idea, to see Him, even came to her in the first place. She has no time to ponder such thoughts as a deep, majestic voice floats to her from the other side of the closed door.
"Do come in my dear. The door is open. My door is always open to those who seek my wisdom or require my guidance."
Gwen takes a deep breath, bracing herself to be stoic and unemotional so she can bargain with a clear head. She turns the knob and walks into the Devil's office.
She had no idea what to expect, other than the devil, of course, would be a male. This natural belief was reinforced by the deep, manly voice that invited her into the office in the first place so when instead she finds herself staring at an extremely attractive dark haired woman she is a bit nonplussed.
No one else is in the small dark office that is dominated by the large desk leaving it obvious the masculine voice must have come from her.
The only light comes from a single small table lamp, just enough to make out the Devil's basic appearance of being of a singularly attractive lady. "But you are a woman. The voice. .?"
"Ahh you were expecting a man of course. They always do." The Devil's voice now is delicate, soothing and very feminine. "As for the voice . . . ahh nothing but a little parlor trick I play on occasion to fool people. That is what, after all, they have been lead to believe by their stupid Christians beliefs . . . The Devil is always out to fool them."
"I am lacking in my belief . . . for the moment at any rate." Gwen manages to stammer before adding, "Are you real or this another trick or maybe I'm dreaming."
The Devil extends her hand out to Gwen. "Give me your hand, Gwen." She reaches out and takes the Devil's hand into her own. Her hand is velvet soft besides being warm and pleasant to the touch. Gwen glances down and sees the fingernails are long, blood red, and perfectly manicured coming to what appears to be a razor sharp point.
"Does my hand feel real hon?"
Gwen nods her head yes.
"I am real, and yet a dream. Life can be lived on different astral planes. It's easy for someone of my power to manage so don't worry about the science behind all this or if you prefer its dark magic. I am equally adept at both."
"Of course you are. I am not worried as long as you are real. Dreaming is a waste of time."
"You most assuredly are not wasting your time my dear. Give me your other hand. Let me show you more evidence of just how real I am." Her voice manages to be gentle, yet commanding, all at once. Gwen extends her other hand out across the desk as her heart skips a beat.
She feels the Devil now holding both of her hands, squeezing them softly, before casting a wry smile at her, and bringing them up to her lips. Her blood red lips are full and sensual.
The Devil very gently, very deliberately snakes her tongue out and licks the back of Gwen's hands, and then around into her palm, sending a whole series of small, but not unpleasant, shivers up and down her spine.
"Does that feel real, Gwen?"
