Momma and Me and the Devil Makes Three
Momma and Me and the Devil Makes Three stories
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People always tell stories about women who give birth to Satan’s baby. But do they ever ask what it’s like to be that kid? Yeah... that’s me. My dad is *literally* the devil. It’s cool, I guess. My mother was a virginal and devout Christian girl when she got pregnant with me. She knew Satan was the father, but she still refused to have an abortion.
By cold__cocoon https://www.reddit.com/r/...

Momma and Me and the Devil Makes Three

by cold__cocoon

People always tell stories about women who give birth to Satan’s baby. But do they ever ask what it’s like to be that kid? Yeah... that’s me. My dad is *literally* the devil. It’s cool, I guess.

My mother was a virginal and devout Christian girl when she got pregnant with me. She knew Satan was the father, but she still refused to have an abortion.

So after I was born, all she could do was try to hide my more demonic features. But that never worked. The others knew I was different in strange, unseen ways.

When I was six, I discovered that Dad would visit when I summoned him. I’d draw a pentacle on my bedroom floor with chalk and ashes.

I’d light red candles, and chant Bible verses in backwards Latin.

Then—there he’d be! Sometimes he’d bring me a souvenir from Hell, usually a tooth extracted from a sinner he’d tormented that week.

But best of all, he’d cradle me in his fiery-hot arms and patiently listen as I’d recite the names of the bullies who had taunted me.

Naturally, they’d always try to apologize once Dad got hold of them. But he had no mercy. None! He’d dangle them upside down, belching scorpions from his mouth into theirs.

The scorpions would sting their lungs and chomp away at their bones and soft organs until they were helpless, screaming bags of hollow skin.

His protective rage made me feel safe, loved, and empowered. So much so, that when I was thirteen, I summoned the courage to tell him about Momma.

His scowl deepened as I recounted how she had begun my forced transformation from ugly to perfect.

“She held me down and cut off my horns with a curved blade,” I said. “There was so much blood that it mixed with my tears.”

“Did she?” he bellowed, narrowing his eyes. “What else?”

“My tail,” I whimpered. “She tied a string around it so tightly that it withered off.”

“And your hooves?” he asked, holding my wrists in his fingers, tenderly stroking the raw, still-oozing stumps.

“She burnt them off,” I whispered. “But I look fully human now, don’t I?”

Dad’s roars of grief and fury shook the earth.

He promptly nailed Momma upside-down to a hot iron crucifix and placed a crown of jellyfish tentacles upon her head. And for three days, I watched her die.

Her blood mixed with her tears as she begged me for forgiveness.

“Her anguish is nothing compared to what you suffered at her hands,” he said, putting an arm around me. Then he hoisted me onto his massive shoulders, just like when I was little.

“Listen, kiddo,” he said. “You’re perfect, just the way you are. You always were. How about you come live with me, and finally become the Antichrist?”

“I’d like that,” I said.

With a stomp of his dreadful hooves, he opened a crack in the ground, and we descended to Hell together.

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