Deal with the Devil

I could only watch him kill me over and over again in horror.

As I stood at a side, watching the man ravage my dead body filled with cuts and wounds from his switchblade, hearing his grunts and moans, seeing the perspiration dripping down from his forehead and down his neck; all I felt was disgusted.

It was all a blur to me when it happened.

One minute I was walking home from work, and the next thing I knew I was hog-tied, with a very large pounding in my head. I was gagged so I could barely scream, besides, I could barely feel my legs. He was watching me, struggling through my bonds. I saw him grinned, then he started walking towards me with a mischievous glint in his eyes. I could barely see his face in the dark, but I managed to capture his physique in the moonlight.

He was like a beast in the night.

My badly-decomposed body was found three days after it happened. The police informed my family. They grieved, cried, and mourned my death at a small funeral. They were heartbroken as Hell and all the police could tell them was they were “doing the best they can.” Based on what I found out about my murder investigation, this was another common murder that happened in the past four weeks where the victim ended up.

I was pissed. Pissed that the police were not doing their best to catch this bastard. Pissed that whatever they told my parents were just plain words in hoping that they do not look down on the cops. Pissed that the department in charge of catching criminals and bringing them to justice were all a bogus; a pack of lies.

After watching my killer zipping himself up and leaving the scene, I was approached by a cloaked figure carrying a scythe. Curious, I watched him swing his scythe down in one blow, on the spot just a few feet away from where I stand. I saw a barely visible thread vanishing into thin air. When I looked up, I gasped. I was looking at my grandfather.

He told me he was the Grim Reaper. He witnessed my rape and decided to guide me to the afterlife. I wondered why he looked like my grandfather when he answered, “We take the form of those dear to you who has moved on to the afterlife, be it Heaven or Hell.” Here, he was to guide me to Heaven.

I hesitated. I do not feel like leaving as I have yet to wonder whether anyone will ever find my body. Thus, I told it I wished to stay for a few more days, to see my parents and friends one last time before I bade them goodbye. I did, but I also had an ulterior motive. It glided away silently without a word into the dark of night.

Hence, here I am. In a pub in the middle of the day, watching him sip his drink by the counter, chatting with the gruff bartender. Despite knowing the fact that people can’t see me, I am aware that I’m not alone. I could tell that there were other souls based on the fact that they don’t have a countdown-timer above their head. There was a middle-aged woman standing behind the bar, looking at the crowd faintly; a teenager was sitting in the back booth, smoking; a lean guy was leaning against the back wall, red hat pulled down to cover most of his face.

I didn’t care. All I cared about was making sure the sick son of a bitch does not go for another scavenge hunt. I knew from his demeanor and my gut feeling that all the women killed in the past few weeks were his doings, but as a ghost, I had no power to take him to court or send him to the police.

My heart craved for revenge. I yearned to snatch that switchblade on his belt and stab his heart, face, neck, genitals, just to get rid of his existence. I longed to pull a trigger on this man; I pined to watch this man bleed to death beneath my blade. But I could do no such things. I was after all, not living.

I followed him down the street as he walked casually, his gaze going from the shop-windows to the faraway buildings to the crowd before him. I fused through the crowd, hate in my eyes as I watched this predator walked around so freely after what he did to me. As old habits die hard, I looked over my shoulder, and found the red-cap guy trailing after me. I glanced forward quickly to prevent the man from slipping out of my supervision; now that I think about it, I have noticed a guy wearing various clothing of red around me after my death.

Seeing the man take another turn into another liquor store, I decided to face the other man following me. I leaned beside the entrance, waiting for him. To my surprised, he came and stood in front of me, a smirk on his face. I looked up as he was taller than I was, and the first thing that struck me was his eyes; they were the color of red wine. Striking; you could get pulled into them and knowing it. These were the eyes of someone who has seen death as another normal occurrence; who enjoyed watching death; who takes pleasure in torture.

A demon.

It felt my wrath, my yearning for vengeance and couldn’t help but lend a hand in hope of relieving me of my pain. It said this with a content smile on its face, and I could help but notice how good looking it was, or the form it took. At the same time, I was curious. Why would a demon want to lend a hand, let alone help relief you of your pain? I was also scared; that smile held more meaning than it meant it to be.

I was contemplating for an answer when it told me, “All I want are your memories. I do the deed; you give me your entire memory bank. See, we demons have different kind of needs, and mine happens to be in the form of memories; screenshots. I take pleasure in them be it a sad or painful one.” It paused, and looked at me considerately. “So, deal? Unless you wanna see the old man there going around raping other women, it’s your choice.” It said nonchalantly.

It wanted my memories. Not my soul. I would not mind being spared of this torturous memory. So why do I feel a sense of unease whelm up inside of me? I looked at my killer, how he lived without anyone knowing what he’s done except his victims. Anger filled me up again and without a second thought, I made a blood pack with it. Its smile grew wide.

In one blink, and I was in a dark room, the killer pinned to a wall, pure panic in his eyes. Suddenly, a bloody hand pierced through his stomach, intestines in hand, blood splattered unceremoniously onto the floor. He screamed. And instead of watching in fascination as I thought I would, I watched on in pure terror as the demon gouged out his eyes, sliced his fingers, pull his teeth, scrape out his innards. All the while I was tuned in to the blood-curdling scream of his, watching the life getting sucked out of him.

Abruptly, I looked at the demon. I did not even notice him stop. He was looking at me intensely, a wild look in the reds of his eyes.

I did not make a deal with the demon; a fallen angel…

I had made a deal with the devil.