She tells them about Lucifer. She tells them humorous anecdotes, she waxes lyrical on the subject of his beauty and his brilliance and his coldness with the grace of a born storyteller and the passion of the truly obsessed. She can describe every individual pitch black feather on his wings. Sometimes she does.
She tells them the latest news about Hell. All the petty squabbles, all the power struggles, all the silly backstabbings and murders and (fatal) mistakes. She’s firmly convinced that her fellow demons are idiots. Oh, they’re powerful, and dangerous, but they’re not subtle. They wouldn’t appreciate chess if she beat them over the head with a chess board. And they’re petty, and they’re selfish, and they’re too wrapped up in themselves to ever truly have a chance at true greatness. She could outmanoeuvre them blindfolded.
Sometimes, when she’s especially bored, she’ll give weather reports. Or she’ll complain about how no one understands the stress of her position, but it’s always with a sharp edge of self-mockery. (She’s always had a good sense of humor.) She details her pursuit of new girls to join the ranks, and occasionally drops by to model a new outfit Sometimes she speaks of God, and then her rants develop a poisonously bitter tone that’s usually absent in the others. She tries not to talk about herself.
She wonders if they can hear her. She’s very fond of them, really. She envies them, that they are married to her King, after all, when she cannot be, but it is only fitting. They are pure and beautiful; she is clever trash.
She asks them about Lucifer. How he’s doing, what he’s thinking, his moods, whether or not he’s healthy. They never answer audibly, but sometimes she fancies that she hears faint whispers in response to her queries. She hopes he’s doing well. She knows they adore him as much as she does. They’ll take care of him, for now.
And she stares into the darkness, and she talks and talks and talks, and sometimes her eyes grow wild and she talks faster than she normally does and her voice rises because she’s perfectly fine but it’s a little upsetting, sometimes. And sometimes her throat thickens, and her eyes hurt, but she never cries. She’s tried before, thinking it might be a useful form of manipulation, but the tears won’t come.
And something gnaws away inside of her, and she almost wishes that she could cry. Instead she stares with dry, sore eyes at the rows and rows of blank pale faces and she plays chess games against imaginary opponents in her mind. And she talks.
She waits there, alone, in the dark and the silence.