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A paradise, he had never known of such a thing… Never made he a setting pleasant, nor comfortable. Inside his belly an inferno, hot and dispassionate, faux. Envious flames burn to caustic ashes, now a sandbag in place of his stomach. Let us called him “Boy,” lest anyone grow doting. Boy currently stands upon the cool tile of a bathroom. His hands clutch a porcelain sink, his arms support him as he angles his torso forward forward and is able to see his very own countenance reflected upon the glass contrary to his physical self.
Boy observes and ponders his features, as one does from time to time. Boy’s thoughts are clear in his mind. So clear that they become overwhelming, and he wishes to stop pondering. One of the hands that grips the sink’s edge becomes loose and is willed upward and forward, open palm, smothering Boy’s reflection. He casts his head down and slumps his shoulders, unruly hair shading his eyes.
Now, a change in the air, a buzz of energy resonating against walls and inside bones. Alone had he been for some time, the feeling inscribed upon his being, a feeling now not felt. Boy drops both arms and turns, the small of his back resting upon the sink’s cool edge. He raises his head and the disruption is discerned by mortal eye. A darkness, swirling in a corner of the room; let us call it “Demon,” lest anyone grow piteous. From the billow emerged two hands, gloved and velvet. Upon it’s fingers were rings, stacked in alternating metals and jewels. Then there is a head, a face with keen features and dark braided hair. Demon does not acknowledge boy.
Boy feels no fear, for he is familiar with Demon, as we all are. From a fold in it’s elegant cloak Demon removes a tin, engraved upon the tin is a detailed lotus. It removes the rusting top to reveal thin white segments stacked atop one another. Boy observes vehemently, concluding the segments to be petals. Dead, dry petals of the glorious white lotus. Boy is familiar with the language of the flowers, and the lotus speaks of inner beauty and innocent souls. Demon is now rolling the petals into parchment, a cigarette. The tin is put away and the stick is set smouldering as Demon presses a finger to its end.
Oh, sacrilege! To set ablaze such righteous substance, surely blasphemy. The ember brightens as Demon drinks its pure smoke, exhaling dark sheer fabric that encircled its being. It churns Boy’s stomach to witness this, alas, mortal to confront divine? Surely not him.
Yet, “Omnipotent Demon!” he cries, disturbing the hideous silence. “I beg of you… permit me your distinguished truths, and rest my dubiety.”
From Demon’s nostrils, smoke exudes. What error! An existence so divine is not spent answering the wretched. Yet, from Demon’s lips comes sound, an otherworldly voice pronouncing a single word with damning semblance,

“Speak.”

Boy’s earthly mind is spinning, but the fire in his belly and pressure upon his chest make it clear to him, he knows what he shall ask. “Divine One… Grant me your ken…” Boy is silent, hesitant, but he must continue now. “Am I pretty?” How ludicrous he sounds, how laughable. However, Demon does not laugh, it does not delay in its answer. Its words pour smoothly from its mouth

“Boys cannot be pretty.”

Demon’s words are spoken and Boy is left in their eloquent haze. Rendered weak by devastation, Boy turns to grip the sink’s edge as he had before. His head falls back and his eyes flutter closed. Boy’s hand is raised and his fingers curl against his palm into a fist. The fist is drawn back until with sudden exertion it is plunged forward. Boy’s knuckles make contact with the surface of the mirror and it shatters that same instant. Reflective shards now lay glinting in the basin of the sink.
Boy raises his head and opens his eyes, his face reflected and multiplied in the jagged fragments. Boy sees this, but he does not ponder his reflection this time. “No?” His hand reaches down and picks a broken piece, then raises it to his lips. In one unremarkable movement, Boy swallows the shard, reflecting red as it slides down his throat. His other hand relinquishes its grip on the sink as Boy stumbles back. For a moment his body is rigid, but then it is flung to the floor, bent at his middle.
Retching in sound and in movement consumes him. The floor is spattered with red which now seeps from Boy’s lips. Then the hue is spewed and heaved from him for several revolting moments until his body becomes calm. The body falls to the side, reposed in its own gore. Demon waits until the form does not twitch for some time. It is then beside the crumpled figure, casually kneeling, Demon plucks a white lotus flower from atop the pool of crimson. Upright once more, Demon pulls a lustrous book from the folds of its cloak. It opens the book and sets the flower atop its pages, closing it to flatten the lotus between them.

As it is pressed, it reddens the words:

    “Do not let your adorning be external-- the braiding of hair and the putting on of gold jewelry, or the the clothes you wear-- but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God’s sight is very precious.”