Desperation… That’s why I’m here now.
That’s what you’ve been thinking from the very moment he entered into your life. More specifically, the second you saw a head of frizzy hair, a pair of eyes that remind you of onyx gems, a smile that can sway God to bend to his will pulling at his lips as he stands among the crowd of men in tuxedos and polished shoes, women in lavish dresses, shawls, and heels.
Desperate times equal desperate measures.
And you had indeed been desperate—desperate enough to seek aid from a source of dubious nature. You didn’t care to know the names of the people who agreed to pull you from the edge of debt or, worse, having to declare bankruptcy altogether. As far as you were concerned, it was a one-time thing. A simple meet and greet that involved smiles that seemed too polite, handshakes that seemed too friendly, suits, ties, vests, dresses, shoes, and heels that seemed too neat and too proper, and eyes that shone with something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
You didn’t care enough to even bother to remember their names or their faces, either. As far as you were concerned, their names may as well have disappeared into the foggy recesses of your mind; their faces were scratched out in black ink, sans for their smiles that still grinned and bared perfect white teeth.
You pride yourself on being able to read others like an open book, quietly catching them as they spun clever, sugarcoated lies to try and deceive you. Try. They never succeeded, though not without a clear attempt of trying to trick you. No one has ever succeeded in catching you unaware, catching you in a moment of when you allow yourself to look even a little bit vulnerable.
Try as you might and you did honestly, truly try, by the graces of God you swore that you did attempt to read him, you quickly discovered that he is the only one that you can’t read.
And that simple fact frustrates you more than you’d like to admit.
Out of all of the people that you’ve encountered in your life, the one that you can’t figure out is him.
Even now you revisit that moment in time when, mere minutes ago, his voice whispered three simple words in your ear.
You remember thinking how quick his… aid arrived, assisting you, nudging you to meet the right people and go to the correct places from his place in the shadows. So transparent and yet, at the same time, not.
Your saviour, clad in dark armour and hands covered in black velvet, appears only when necessary.
You relive the way you sucked in a breath, eyes wide and pupils dilating in surprise, spluttering out a response hastily.
You remember the way he chuckled, reaching up and allowing his fingers—the feeling of cool leather ghosting over your cheeks, burning pink in shame and embarrassment—comes to bless your skin with a phantom touch that is compatible with the whisper of the cool evening air. It is soft, so gentle and light, it is like a feather brushing over the hot, shivering flesh of your face.
In front of you stands the Devil, twirling a pen in his hand as hellfire dances in his eyes, and sugary sweet promises leaves his perfect, tooth-filled smile. He breathes a chuckle that is like the tingling of bells, but is wrought in sin that will surely condemn you to burn forever in Hell.
“You came to me, seeking refuge from the storm that is your day-to-day life… And I ever so kindly let you into my home. You sobbed. You pleaded. You begged. I offered you my ears just as you offered me your tears. “Whatever, oh, whatever will I do to lessen my burden, to satiate my sponsors’ and manager’s constant nagging! Please help me! I will do anything you ask me! Name your price!” And that moment will forever be engraved in your mind. Isn’t that right, my lovely little canary?”
The “you” in your head swallows thickly, eyes wide and blown open, pupils dilating as she can do nothing but quietly, begrudgingly admit that he has a point. The “you” in your mind sniffles as she blinks, feeling hot moisture rolling down her cheeks that are dusted with a rosy hue.
“A deal is a deal, my dear,” the frizzy-haired devil cooed, still smiling that charming little grin that bore the tiniest hint of teeth; still twirling the pen—you quietly took note of its hue, silver, catching the constant flicker of hellfire—between his digits. He snapped the velvet clad fingers of his free hand and a contract appeared, lightly pinched betwixt his pinky and middle fingers.
“Now… If you will please just sign on the dotted line, we will get down to business at last.”
The mental image your mind has conjured does little to soothe your worries, to placate the fear that quietly grows inside you, nursed by the anxiety you’re feeling. Silently, you swallow a gulp that feels like it’s the size of a baseball. You feel it slithering down your esophagus and down to your gut, where it quietly flip-flops in horror-stricken anxiety.
You remember his answer word for word.
You remember the manner in which words rolled off of his tongue like honeyed candy that had been dipped in a bubbling cauldron of poison, leaving his lips that were pulled back to reveal a hint of his pearly whites.
“And you say you were “desperate”? Why yes, you were indeed very desperate, my beautiful vireo. Desperate enough to seek me out, asking a criminal for help.”
Your mind provides you the sensation of an index finger—clad in leather that’s a shade of red that reminds you of blood, suspiciously enough—pressing to your lips, silencing you, though there is nothing actually hovering, nothing directly ghosting over your lips in the present.
“Please… Call me Akira… Now then… Shall we discuss your repayment?”
