Porphyry

He helps me up. “I'm carrying you, Jean. Don't struggle.”

“No! That's humiliating!” I yell, a loud maudlin. He does so anyways, lifting me up gently. His robes snake around me to stabilize me, and he folds his sooty owl wings to shepherd me away from the public’s eyes. I flail about, too disoriented to put up a united front, and end up with a mouthful of owl feathers.

“What did you think would happen, pounding back all those drinks?” Samael says, his voice dry. He carries me out of the bar and further into the dusky hubbub of the streets. “You don't have a demon's temperament for alcohol, and you've never been able to hold your liquor.”

“It's called drowning your sorrows, asshat. Alcohol is my crutch. The problem is you. Let me go.”

“If I do, you'll fall again.”

“I'd rather fall than be carried by you.”

Despite my protests, he keeps me aloft, gliding like an omen through the streets. His robes are cold against my cheek, so eternally cold like his skin, just like the grave of his flesh.