His eyelids opened little by little.
Something felt different, yet... the sunlight lit up the same room as always.
"Eh? I could've sworn something was different."
The boy turned, and something started to move beside him.
"What is it? Is that what's catching my attention?"
But again, he was wrong; the woman beside him sat up and gave him a gentle smile. A curtain of golden hair revealed two eyes shining like sapphires.
"Good morning, darling. Did you have sweet dreams?" asked the woman's melodious voice.
"Ahhh right, she's my wife."
That was true—she wasn't the singular thing in the room either, so then what?
"Yeah, though never as sweet as you," the boy replied, leaning in to kiss her lips.
"What... Why the hell did I just say that?"
That was when he realized... His blood froze, his guts twisted, his breath began to fade...
What had changed was him—but that wasn't the worst part...
"Awwww, you're gonna make my heart melt," said the woman, answering his kiss with another.
"Shit... Shit, shit! This can't be happening... fuck..."
"You always make my heart explode," and as he said that, the boy looked into her eyes, losing himself in them.
"How... how the hell is this happening? Why am I saying this?"
Despair consumed him; he was trapped—trapped inside a body that wouldn't respond, condemned to recite a dialogue he didn't know.
Though maybe his greatest source of confusion was the fact that for the first time... he was aware of himself.
Day 2
"I still don't get it. What kind of divine joke is this?"
The boy was painting; that was his job—he was a painter, an artist.
"My body moves on its own... It's like a fucking prison."
His brush moved while he thought that. He was painting colorful birds—a cruel irony, painting birds while he himself was trapped inside his own body.
"Why won't it obey me? Is this body even mine?"
The boy had been struck by a strong feeling of claustrophobia many times, but eventually got used to it—or rather, accepted it.
Still, he didn't know how long that would last.
Day 4
"The first day this was fun... but now I feel like puking... DAMN BITCH! I seriously hate her..."
The boy was covered in sweat, his body pressed against his wife's naked one, both breathing heavily.
"Why is she always so stupid? Is she trying to mock me? Always saying that cheesy crap, I'm so fucking sick of it... Though this guy's reaction is even worse, he's just as dumb as she is."
The boy had made up his mind: he and that body were two different entities. It was the only logical explanation for why the body behaved externally to him.
Day 6
"Salokin? Salazar? Nah, don't like it... Mmmm, Lloyd? Nah, missing something... Lucifer! That's the one."
A name—the main element that allows an individual to distinguish themselves from another.
Lucifer had named himself. He needed a name, something that would let him tell himself apart and not forget who he was.
Day 8
"This is delicious, honey! Though not as delicious as you~"
"Eww, stop lying, bastard. She always serve the same shitty salad for lunch... shit, is it ever gonna change? This is so boring."
Lucifer had noticed it—every day was the same. Not just the routine or the food, even what people said was exactly the same every day.
"Awwww~ then do you wanna have a taste of me?" replied the woman.
"Ah shit, here we go again!"
"I guess I'll skip straight to dessert."
Day 9
"Huh? What's this?"
Darkness. In every direction you looked, there was only darkness.
"Well, well... looks like we can finally talk."
A whisper was heard, each word slow, dragging with a hiss.
"This is new... could this finally be a change?"
"Oh, of course there will be... but only if you wish for it."
"...What?"
Lucifer froze. That voice had spoken to him—for the first time, someone had acknowledged his existence.