I, the Devil

The unbearable, frosty, yet silent gust entered through my door, as swift as darkness infiltrates light. I felt my lungs being sucked from the inside out, my very own fears choking me. The deafening silence, the lack of audible vibrato which I wanted most, at this moment, to warm my eardrums had forsaken me, leaving my ears a frigid, noiseless tundra. My mind was devoid of all thought but pain, a dagger resonating a sharp, high-pitched shriek which was the only sound I could know and not hear; the need of a gentle sound increased with every passing second. My shell of a body felt emptier than ever, and my blood began to freeze without the warm heart it needed to keep it pulsating. Staggering my feet, muscle by muscle and tendon by tendon, I suddenly felt gravity’s pull five times harder. Unfortunately, the noisy thud of my rigid body falling hadn’t satisfied my ears, my mind, or my heart. It only mocked me, turning up the tundra ten notches higher.

Staring into the ugly, fragmented reflection of myself with my blood-red eyes, I began to wonder if the burning crimson splotches I had came from my own being, or that which was lying beside me, cold, lifeless, and dead. My untainted sclera had joined the rest of my body’s bloodbath. Looking at my the image of my bruised, cut, vermilion hand which had been spliced by the cracks of the mirror, my face contorted into a dumbfounded expression of sheer realization, that of unearthing one’s own guilt. I was the monster that taken my own warmth, never to return. The gentle lullabies and little nothings that were always sweetly whispered, as smooth as silk, had been whisked away by the devil. The devil which went by my own name.