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The boy sat curled up in the centre of the dark attic, surrounded by shreds of cloth and locks of dark hair. He'd been rather proud of himself when he'd cut his hair himself and shredded his skirt to bind his chest, but his father had been less than pleased. Speaking of his father, his blood ran cold at the sound of footsteps on the ladder and a gruff voice echoing through the trap door.
"Wait 'til you see her, Evelyn, you won't believe what the little freak's done to her hair. And don't get me started on her dress! Cost me a fortune that did, the ungrateful brat." The door burst open and his parents entered the small room. His mother audibly gasped at the sight of him.
"My God, look at the re-" He flinched at the slur but didn't cry. He had long since stopped giving them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. "Abigail, what have you done?"
"My name's not Abigail." he said quietly. His parents exchanged a look and his father stepped closer, looming over him threateningly.
"Then what is it?" he growled.
"I'm-" He didn't know. He didn't know what his name was. "I'm a boy. I'm a man." His mother gasped again and covered her mouth, but his father gave a big, booming laugh, grabbed the back of the boy's torn dress and hauled him to his feet. He glared down at his son disdainfully, a silhouette against the light streaming through the window behind him.
"Oh, you think you're a man, do you?" He raised his hand and smacked the boy hard across the face. "You want to be a man, do you?" He smacked him again and the boy tasted blood. "If you're so manly, fight back!" Another smack almost floored him but he stood his ground. "Come on, Abigail, show us how much of a man you are!"
The boy raised his arms, pressed his hands against his father's chest and, with all the strength he could muster, pushed. His father stumbled back and tripped against a loose floorboards. He crashed backwards through the window behind him and, with a cry, fell into the street below. There was a crunch, screaming, the panicked nickering of a horse, more crunching and then the screaming stopped.
"What have you done?" his mother whispered with her hand against her heart. She crossed the room to look out of the shattered window and gave a cry at the sight of her husband's corpse. "What have you done?!" she shrieked. "You wicked, wicked girl, we ought to have killed you the day we first caught you defying our lord's will of death!" Her hand tangled in what was left of the boy's hair, jerking his head towards the window. "Look!" she screamed at him. "Look at what you did, you witch!"
The boy looked out of the window at his father's mangled body lying in the street. It truly had been an accident but, staring down at the man who had tortured him all his life opened up red on the cobblestones, he couldn't help but laugh. His mother turned to him, looking horrified.
"Monster!" she cried, "Daughter of the devil!" but not even the sharp slap that followed could wipe the wicked grin off his face.
The devil. It was perfect. He tried the name out on his tongue. He like the way it tasted, but maybe that was just the mouthful of blood. He spat it out of the window onto the corpse in the street as his mother dragged him roughly away by the arm.
Lucifer's fall from Heaven and the subsequent creation of Hell — much like his father's fall from the window and the death of the boy's innocence.
The book of Enoch.