What the Devil … ?

My phone’s alarm shrieks at me, pulling me from my peaceful slumber. I reach out and palm at the screen, trying to cancel it. Instead I knock it—still screaming—to the floor. I swear and stretch over the side of the bed, silencing the sound at last. To be honest, I don’t even know why I bother setting it for 8 am, perhaps to give me some false sense of productivity. Both the alarm and I know that I’m going to roll over and go back to sleep until I am roused, like Pavlov’s dog, at ten-to-eleven, just in time to drag myself into the kitchen so I can make the coffee that will get me through the 11 am presser with Gladys Berejiklian. It’s literally what I’ve done every day for the last eight weeks or so. Maybe it’s eight weeks. Time is meaningless these days, and every day is the same. Is it Monday? Is it August? Is it even 2021? Who the hell knows anymore? It’s Groundhog Day, and the only thing I hate more than that stupid movie is the fact that I seem to be living it at the moment.

At ten-to-eleven, I roll out of bed, changing from my night-time pyjamas to my day-time pyjamas. I shuffle to the loo, wash my face, and trudge to the kitchen, switching on the living room television on the way. I fill the kettle with water, just like I did yesterday, and will probably do tomorrow and every day after that until I’m dead. I throw some almost-stale bread in the toaster and pull the fridge door open to retrieve the milk. In the fridge, staring back at me, instead of the cling-wrapped leftovers which I’d put there the night before, there is a small, horned man. His skin has a reddish, almost sunburned hue, and he is holding a bag of shredded cheese and shoveling fistfuls of the stuff into his mouth, which is too big for his face. I blink a few times. All right, so I hadn’t actually woken up after all; I’m just having this weird dream because last night I ate too much shredded cheese, and this is how it is manifesting. Okay. No worries. But then the grotesque little creature looks me dead in the eye.

“What's up?" he says after he's swallowed his mouthful of cheese.

I narrow my eyes.

"What's up?" I hear myself say, "I wake up in the middle of a global pandemic to discover there's a monster in my refrigerator, and he asks me what's up?"

"I'm not a monster," the creature replies, cocking its head, "Monsters are the stuff of fantasy. I'm a demon."

"Oh right," I reply dryly, "Of course. My apologies. Well, would you mind telling me what you're doing in my house? In my fridge? Eating my cheese?"

"I was hungry."

"You were hungry?"

"Of course, I was hungry," he says, "What with all the evil-doing."

"And demons eat cheese?"

"Why wouldn't we?"

 I squint at the nasty little creature. I can't believe I'm having this conversation—this very normal, not-at-all bizarre conversation—with a demon in my refrigerator. Clearly, I have been in self-isolation for far too long.

"So, are you responsible for all this?" I ask, drawing a circle in the air with my index finger, gesturing vaguely at the world.

"For all what?"

I raise my eyebrows and my voice to match, "Uh, the global pandemic that is currently ravaging the globe. It has killed millions of people. That's your thing, isn't it?"

The demon has the nerve to scoff at me, "Nah, that wasn't me. I don't have the power for that sort of thing. Who do you think I am? God?"

"Are you saying God did this?"

"Seems like something he'd do."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. This is too much for 11 am.

"So, there is a God?"

"Sure."

"And he created the pandemic?"

"Wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Nah, that’s his son.”

I glare at the little beast. He closes the cheese bag and shoves it in the fridge door, hopping off the shelf and landing at my feet. He only comes up to my knee.

“All right,” he said, “Best be off. Evil ain’t gonna do itself.”

And then he disappears in a puff of black smoke, leaving only a pile of soot where he had been standing.

“Well, that was different,” I say to no one.

On the living room television, Gladys appears once more.

Navy blazer, black skirt, 371 new cases, I reckon.

“Good morning, everyone. I'd like to thank...”