I break my silence not with words, but with sounds and pictures. Only there is a catch. I provide the raw material, you must process it. Ready? Okay, let us begin.
* * *
You can feel it. A place just out of reach. Somewhere you long to be, yet suspect you will never see. Heaven is a place of dreams, but dreams can become nightmares oh so easily. Don't trip, you might Fall. It's very, very bad to Fall.
Speak not to me of things Heaven-sent. For they have sent me and have sent to me. Neither do I much care for. But that is not true. This is what I do. This is who I am. I enjoy my task as I am hating it.
My name is Quintus. From the Latin meaning "fifth." I am named such because I am the fifth to fill my position. If I have my way, there will never be a Sextus. Quartus was utterly useless, his tenure being the shortest of any of my antecedents.
What is my work, you might ask. It's simple enough. Demon-hunting. Upstairs thinks that a few too many of them are straying from their designated stomping grounds. Hell, that is. Being the non-confrontational folk they are, the angels prefer to have a mortal to do their dirty work. Or at least my patron does. There are other hunters, with different angels sponsoring them. Mine's alright. Sent down a half-decent trainer to me, taught me enough not to get myself killed. It's not a bad time. You get to meet new and interesting people, then kill them. Also, if you avoid being killed, you'll live forever. But you will get killed. That's the rub of it, eh?
My weapon is a pitchfork; black, sharp, sleek, and surprisingly concealable. The whole apparatus extends from a handle and folds out at my whim. I took it from the first demon I killed. I thought him carrying it a bit cliché, but for me, with my line of work, I find the irony quite to my liking.
I've been to Hell, on Heaven's behalf. Certain power-hungry demon got the idea that if he kept mucking about in Earth business without coming to Earth, he'd be safe. Wrong idea. I brought the fight to him, that's how I got these horns. Bihuanel, Lord of Biunallum. Well, former Lord. That title actually belongs to me now. He left these horns on me as a mark. A dying "gift." No matter what I do, I'll never be fully rid of his presence, though his soul is gone and beyond repair.
One would think after what I've been through, Heaven would welcome me home with open arms, right? Wrong.
The last strains of the doxology ring out as the doors begin to slowly swing closed. Huge doors. Each one is easily six times my height and three times my width. The Gates of Heaven are nothing compared to the Doors to Heaven.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
I almost turn and walk away, but I decide otherwise.
My hand snaps out and catches the door as it is about to close.
I say one word. Not loudly, not quietly. Just ordinary, as if I were talking to you right now. One word.