The Devil
One night, the devil spoke. A voice deep as darkness. “Come morning,” he said into the brown of her room, “I’ll crawl into you.” The radio was supposed to keep her safe. She ran to her parents. Her dad wasn’t on the couch that night.
“Shhhh,” said her mom, rising heavy on her elbows. “Some men just have deep voices. Like your dad.” Her dad snickered, like she’d told a grown-up joke.
Back in her room, Dolly Parton sang “Jolene,” her voice sweet and sad. “See?” said her mom. “All better.” Even in the dark, she could see the day-end sag of her mom’s face. Nothing was better.
“There’s no devil!” her dad yelled across the hallway.
“I didn’t say there was!” her mom yelled back. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”
But there was a devil. She knew it in a place deeper than the radio voice, buried inside the dirt of her heart.
Jennifer Wortman is the author of the
story collection This. This. This. Is.
Love. Love. Love (Split Lip Press, 2019). Her work appears in TriQuarterly, Glimmer Train, Copper Nickel,
Brevity, Hobart, SmokeLong Quarterly,
and elsewhere. She is an associate fiction editor at Colorado Review and an instructor at Lighthouse Writers Workshop.
Find more at jenniferwortman.com.
One night, the devil spoke. A voice deep as darkness. “Come morning,” he said into the brown of her room, “I’ll crawl into you.” The radio was supposed to keep her safe. She ran to her parents. Her dad wasn’t on the couch that night.
“Shhhh,” said her mom, rising heavy on her elbows. “Some men just have deep voices. Like your dad.” Her dad snickered, like she’d told a grown-up joke.
Back in her room, Dolly Parton sang “Jolene,” her voice sweet and sad. “See?” said her mom. “All better.” Even in the dark, she could see the day-end sag of her mom’s face. Nothing was better.
“There’s no devil!” her dad yelled across the hallway.
“I didn’t say there was!” her mom yelled back. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”
But there was a devil. She knew it in a place deeper than the radio voice, buried inside the dirt of her heart.
