Cold mornings are the worst.

I think about blasphemies as I stare across the water. The procession has begun, a line of black on what I presume is the opposite shore. The water's got that funny rippling effect going on. You know the one, where it makes it look like the horizon and the sky are the same? Makes the paraders look like ghosts walking on water. Each one of them an unwitting Jesus. But they aren't here to cast demons out of swine, oh, no. Doing God's work, no doubt. Even if that work means setting God to his rest.

No place for people like me in that group. Steam rises out of my mouth into the cold air. Satan's breath. Still stuck in the ice.

That's the thing about the devil. Nobody sees him when he's right there. A few hundred yards away, but to them I'm a phantom in mind and in thought. Well, that might be unfair. I'm sure [i]someone[/i]'s thinking of me. In the way people think about the devil, that is. "He's far away, hiding in the shadows, counting his money or finding fresh souls to reap. Always the next innocent to corrupt, right?"

I doubt a single one of them ever read Milton.

It is said, among those who have, that the single worst thing in existence is to no longer know God. From that perspective, Satan is a tragic figure. Did you know he once loved God as much as the next angel? Oh, yes, he was an angel. Once. Then he made a mistake. He got cast out. He has to live every waking moment knowing that God doesn't exist in his heart. That, my friend, is the real agony of being the devil. Everything he does, every sin he commits, is just one more distraction from the agony that is a world without God. In a way, the pain of that loss drives his every deed.

And here I stand, a ghost or a demon, on what may as well be the other side of the world. As far as those Jesuses across the water are concerned, I'm still in Hell. They have no idea.

Hell isn't a place of fire and brimstone. Hell is on the shore of a lake, watching the apostles walk by in their lofty arrogance. Watching and remembering a time when God smiled upon me, loved me like a son, and cared for my endeavors. He did not condemn me for having a dream that didn't sit well with my peers. He only ever tried to guide me down the safest path. I loved Him for that, even when He cast me from Heaven. I never blamed Him for it. It was those water-walking apparitions over there, the ones who pressured Him. I swear, they are far more devilish than I'll ever be.

You can't tell them that. They're perfect. Perfect, with their Bibles and their Services and their Thou-Shalt-Nots. One does not dare to question their morality.

So here I stand. Here I watch. If I strain my pointed ears just right, I might even hear their words. I will not intrude on their moment. I'm a devil, but I'm not a jerk. When they've finished their lamentations and stories and praises for events long past, they will leave. Then I will pay God a visit. I pray He will remember me fondly.

Cold mornings are the worst. But for Him?

Only for Him.