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I’m sorry, Lila.
The last thing I remember is the guardrail screaming. One second I’m swerving through rain so thick it feels like the sky’s collapsing, the next—metal grinding, the world flipping, cold black water pouring through the cracks. I fought. *God*, I fought. Pounded the windows, clawed at the seatbelt, but the river dragged me down like hands. My lungs burned as I sank into the darkness. Then… nothing.
Nothing until I woke up kneeling on a floor darker than space, staring at polished leather shoes.
“Poor Ethan,” the voice oozed. I looked up.
Up until that point I had spent my entire life vehemently believing God wasn’t real… oops.
The Devil wasn’t what I expected. No horns, no pitchfork—just a man in a suit that drank the light, his face shifting like smoke over a fire. His eyes did it, though. Black pearls with red pupils.
“A wife. A daughter. Such a shame to leave them,” he said, circling me. “But we can fix that.”
My voice came out broken. “Wh-what do you want?”
He stopped, smile slicing his face. “A trade. You go back. But every week, you bring me someone. Anyone. Their life… for yours.”
I should’ve said no. But I saw Claire crying at our kitchen table, Lila asking where Daddy went. *“Deal,”* I choked.
---
The river spat me back onto the rocks. I vomited water and guilt. For days, I played normal—kissed Claire, pushed Lila on the swings, lied about where I’d been. But when the first week ended, my skin started *itching*, like beetles under my bones.
I found my victim under the bridge where I died. A kid, maybe 19, smoking under a flickering streetlamp.
“Spare some change?” he asked.
The knife was heavier than I thought. He didn’t scream. Just stared, wet and confused, as I sank the blade in. “Why?” he gurgled.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
---
It got easier. The second was a woman walking her dog. The third, a gas station clerk. I told myself they were strangers, that Claire and Lila mattered more. But every kill left a stain. My reflection started… *shimmering*, like something hungry lived behind my eyes.
Then, last night, the Devil visited.
I was scrubbing blood out of my shirt when the air turned sour. He stood in the corner of the bathroom, fingering Lila’s hairbrush on the sink.
“Week four approaches,” he said.
“I know,” I snapped. “I’ll find someone.”
“Ah, but the terms are changing.” His grin widened. “No more strangers. Next week… *Lila*.”
Ice shot through me. “No. *No*. We had a deal—”
“And deals can be… amended.” He leaned close, his breath smelling of burnt hair. “Kill her, or I take you *both*. Slowly.”
---
I’m writing this in my car outside her school. Lila’s laughing on the playground, chasing a butterfly. The gun in my lap feels like a living thing.
I won’t do it. I’ll put the barrel in my mouth first. It was as I raised it to my face and my finger curled around the trigger that I realised.
The Devil never wanted me to choose.
He wanted her to watch.
#entertainment
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The last thing I remember is the guardrail screaming. One second I’m swerving through rain so thick it feels like the sky’s collapsing, the next—metal grinding, the world flipping, cold black water pouring through the cracks. I fought. *God*, I fought. Pounded the windows, clawed at the seatbelt, but the river dragged me down like hands. My lungs burned as I sank into the darkness. Then… nothing.
Nothing until I woke up kneeling on a floor darker than space, staring at polished leather shoes.
“Poor Ethan,” the voice oozed. I looked up.
Up until that point I had spent my entire life vehemently believing God wasn’t real… oops.
The Devil wasn’t what I expected. No horns, no pitchfork—just a man in a suit that drank the light, his face shifting like smoke over a fire. His eyes did it, though. Black pearls with red pupils.
“A wife. A daughter. Such a shame to leave them,” he said, circling me. “But we can fix that.”
My voice came out broken. “Wh-what do you want?”
He stopped, smile slicing his face. “A trade. You go back. But every week, you bring me someone. Anyone. Their life… for yours.”
I should’ve said no. But I saw Claire crying at our kitchen table, Lila asking where Daddy went. *“Deal,”* I choked.
---
The river spat me back onto the rocks. I vomited water and guilt. For days, I played normal—kissed Claire, pushed Lila on the swings, lied about where I’d been. But when the first week ended, my skin started *itching*, like beetles under my bones.
I found my victim under the bridge where I died. A kid, maybe 19, smoking under a flickering streetlamp.
“Spare some change?” he asked.
The knife was heavier than I thought. He didn’t scream. Just stared, wet and confused, as I sank the blade in. “Why?” he gurgled.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
---
It got easier. The second was a woman walking her dog. The third, a gas station clerk. I told myself they were strangers, that Claire and Lila mattered more. But every kill left a stain. My reflection started… *shimmering*, like something hungry lived behind my eyes.
Then, last night, the Devil visited.
I was scrubbing blood out of my shirt when the air turned sour. He stood in the corner of the bathroom, fingering Lila’s hairbrush on the sink.
“Week four approaches,” he said.
“I know,” I snapped. “I’ll find someone.”
“Ah, but the terms are changing.” His grin widened. “No more strangers. Next week… *Lila*.”
Ice shot through me. “No. *No*. We had a deal—”
“And deals can be… amended.” He leaned close, his breath smelling of burnt hair. “Kill her, or I take you *both*. Slowly.”
---
I’m writing this in my car outside her school. Lila’s laughing on the playground, chasing a butterfly. The gun in my lap feels like a living thing.
I won’t do it. I’ll put the barrel in my mouth first. It was as I raised it to my face and my finger curled around the trigger that I realised.
The Devil never wanted me to choose.
He wanted her to watch.
#entertainment
source
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