Chapter 1: The Leaf That Falls Last

Devonte hung suspended from the ceiling, meat hooks stretching the skin on his shoulders. Blood pooled around his feet, his toes just barely able to reach the floor. He swung slightly and the chains attached to the hooks rattled out their mournful dirge.

His left eye was swollen shut, his right eye blurry from tears. His cheek bones were broken on both sides, his nose was smashed nearly flat against his face. Lip split, teeth missing, jaw shattered. 

It was a miracle that he could even still breathe. Not all miracles are holy, it turns out. 

His left arm had been submerged in fire, his flesh melted away to the bone, smoke still gathered against the ceiling. 

His right arm was gone, sawed off with dull knives over several days of agonizing work. Each of his ribs were broken, his lungs were punctured, his kidneys bruised. A deep gash along his torso exposed his intestines, bulging out of his body. 

A thousand small cuts along his legs, blood seeping out slowly. A sharp, ragged end of his femur sticking out past the skin. He should be dead a hundred times over, but his tormentor would not allow him to die.

The Demon walked over slowly, grinning, and poured boiling water over Devonte’s body. He grunted, but could not scream.

The Demon put its mouth next to Devonte’s ear, its fangs clicking together as it talked. 

“Our time here is nearing an end, Devonte,” the Demon whispered, “But fret not, I will return to you once more. 

“Just when you think you are safe.

“I will return to complete your torment.”

Devonte moaned pitifully, his broken jaw allowing no other response.

“I will speak to you,” the Demon said, “You will know that I have returned when you hear these words:

“The leaf that falls last suffers most.”

Devonte woke up in his bed. 

His pain was gone. His arm was restored. The broken bones, the burns, the cuts, the bruises. All gone. Devonte ran his hands frantically over his body, searching for evidence of the years of torture he had endured and found none. 

He curled up into a ball and wept.

When his tears had run dry, Devonte stood up and stared out his bedroom window, his expression vacant. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

He pulled it out without thinking, then squinted in confusion at the screen. The date on the phone read October 11, 2017. The day the Demon had found him.

The text was from his mother, it read simply, “Breakfast is ready.”

Devonte wandered downstairs, his mind blank. A stack of fresh pancakes awaited him on the dining room table. He sat down wordlessly, poured himself some maple syrup, and took a bite. 

He dropped his fork onto the floor as the taste hit him. The fluffiness of the pancakes, the sweetness of the syrup. It was the first good sensation since before the Demon had taken him to hell, and it broke him.

“What’s wrong, baby?” his mother asked in a worried voice, rushing over to cup his face in her hands and wipe away the tears from his cheeks. 

Devonte didn’t respond for a moment, unsure of how to explain, unsure whether he should even try. In the end he said only, “These pancakes are really good.”

His mother held him as he wept, her own tears, born of confusion and fear for her son, mingled with his. When he finally composed himself, Devonte stood up and attempted to smile. 

“I’m ok now, I think,” he said.

His mother still looked concerned. “Ok, baby, get dressed, it’s time to go to school.”

School. Devonte was back in high school. Unthinkable, after what he had endured. But he could see no choice, so he threw on a pair of jeans and his favorite black sweater and came back downstairs.

“Look,” his mother said as he was tying his shoes, “Autumn is here already. Before you know it, the last leaf will fall.”

Devonte froze. 

“Why would you say that?” he demanded, “Don’t say that to me! Don’t EVER say that to me!”

He backed into a corner and curled up into as tight a ball as he could, mumbling incoherently as his mother stood watching in shock.

“Those weren’t the words, those weren’t the words,” Devonte repeated to himself like a mantra, “She’s not the Demon, those weren’t the words.”

His mother’s hands were shaking. She took a step forward, but stopped, at a loss for how to help her son. She gripped her mouth tightly to keep from sobbing but nothing could slow the leak of tears from her eyes.

In the end, his mother sent him back to bed and called the hospital. The next day, Devonte had an appointment with a psychiatrist. A stern woman who told him that the Demon wasn’t real. That he had suffered a psychotic break, and his years of torture were a hallucination.

She prescribed a rather strong dose of Thorazine, warning him not to drink alcohol while taking it. Thorazine would help with the hallucinations, she said. It would make him better. He did not believe her.

The drugs made him dizzy, made it difficult to stand up or sit down quickly. He did not like them, did not believe that the Demon was a hallucination. But his mother was rigid in her efforts to make sure that Devonte was taking his medication on time.

He went back to school, eventually. The rumors about his absence were flying through the halls at breakneck speeds. The other kids called him crazy, nicknamed him Psycho De. 

A particularly nasty rumor erupted, which claimed that Devonte had murdered three people while in a state of psychosis. The teachers quashed this rumor whenever they heard it repeated, but they all watched him more closely now just the same.

When Devonte finally graduated high school, he applied for every school he could on the opposite coast, trying to outrun the rumors and the side-eyes and the guarded tones. He was accepted at a small junior college in San Diego, packed up his things, and never looked back.

He decided to major in Graphic Design, fast tracked his schedule so he could get his associate’s degree in three semesters. Worked part-time at the school library to keep himself afloat. 

The Thorazine still made him dizzy, but he kept taking it. He stopped flinching when people mentioned the falling leaves in autumn. Maybe it had been a hallucination after all. 

While working at the library he met Alondra, an Architectural Design student who took her lunches on the bench in the courtyard when the weather was nice. They kissed for the first time in the rain when he offered to walk her back to her apartment. 

His new psychiatrist, much younger and more jovial than the last, said that Alondra was good for him. Said she helped ground him in reality. Devonte smiled shyly as he said this, and agreed.

Devonte graduated and walked across the stage to receive his diploma. His mother flew in all the way from Virginia to attend the ceremony. The tears she cried that day were quite different from the last tears Devonte had seen on her face. 

Alondra graduated after the next semester, and they moved to Phoenix, where Devonte started working with a web development company, and Alondra landed a job with an architectural firm as an apprentice. 

After much good-natured harassment from his mother, Devonte proposed to Alondra. He took her out into the desert, where they watched the sunset from a low plateau, and then Devonte knelt down beside a stately old cactus and asked her to marry him. 

She said yes, with a squeal of delight, and kissed him so emphatically that she accidentally pushed him into the cactus, and they had to spend the night in a hospital having spines removed from Devonte’s backside. The story was told several times at their wedding. 

At his mother’s request, Devonte and Alondra held their ceremony in the Virginian countryside, at a quaint little barn, with ponies and cows in attendance. Devonte, in his vows, said that Alondra was the rock that kept him sane. Alondra, in hers, said that Devonte made her just crazy enough. 

In the years that followed, Devonte became the Head of Design at his company, and Alondra rose to Senior Architect at her firm. They bought a house, a modest brick-walled dwelling in the suburbs of Phoenix. Alondra decorated the interior with potted plants and local art, while Devonte planted basil and oregano in the backyard, without much hope of them surviving the summer heat. 

When Devonte’s mother died a year later, the two of them went back to Virginia for the funeral. Devonte, in front of a full church of black-clad mourners, told the story of his psychotic break, and how his mother looked after him, never abandoned him, got him the help he needed. Alondra wept harder than anyone else in attendance. 

They visited her grave on December 2nd, every year. Her birthday. Devonta left a bundle of fragrant basil on her tombstone. The herbs proved more resilient than he had anticipated. Alondra wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and kissed the headstone tenderly. 

Devonte’s psychiatrist told him that he was very impressed with his progress, and suggested that the dosage of Thorazine could now be lowered. Devonte said he was scared that the Demon would come back. Alondra held his hand, and in the end he agreed to the lower dose. 

After six months with no incidents, the psychiatrist said that the time had come to stop taking Thorazine altogether. Devonte was nervous, but Alondra kissed him softly on the forehead and they agreed. 

Years passed. Devonte started a community garden in downtown Phoenix, where he taught the residents of the city to grow their own herbs and vegetables. Alondra told him every day how proud she was of him. Every time, Devonte smiled and kissed her hand. 

Alondra became pregnant, at the age of 36. The doctor was worried because of her age and the increased risk of complications in pregnancy. The labor was hard, and lasted well into the night, but Alondra gave birth to a healthy baby girl. Devonte gripped her hand and whispered softly to her the whole way through. 

“What should we name her?” Devonte asked, kneeling next to Alondra’s hospital bed. 

Alondra had the baby sleeping on her chest. She turned to look at Devonte.

“The leaf that falls last suffers most,” she said.

Devonte couldn’t move. A solitary tear leaked out of the corner of his right eye.

“No…” he whispered.

Alondra smiled.