Thursday, 3 November 2016

The Devil Needed a Favor - pt. 1

I was 10 years old when my cat, Mr. Shooples got sick. I had it since it was a kitten. It was a gift from my late Grandpa. I adored Mr. Shooples. Every time I came home from school, the first thing I would do is find Mr. Shooples. He loved hiding in the most obscure corners and I enjoyed pulling him out either from behind the shelf in the pantry or from inside a tiny box pushed away at the back corner of the storage.

We had a good relationship going. Then I turned 10 and Mr. Shooples fell sick.

To my 10 year old mind, the reality of living without my cat must have been absolutely, paws-itively deplorable, because to save Mr. Shooples, I sold my soul to the devil.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. I made a deal with the devil and bartered my soul, just to save a cat.

It has been 17 years since that dark, dark night. I am still not happy with my stupid, 10 year old self. What was I thinking? Was I really so dumb?

Wait, I don’t even want to know that answer.

As I slowly walked back home, a shadow appeared to pass by me. It startled me. The night was already chilly, but this random occurrence made me shiver and gather my coat around me tighter.

I had a bad feeling about this.

As I turned the key to the lock on my door, I couldn’t shake the feeling off that something bad was going to happen. I entered the dark hallway and switched on the light.

And promptly let out a heart chilling, toe curling, hair raising scream.

Mr. Devil was patiently standing in my house.

It took several hours of breathing exercise (he conducted it) and three pitchers of water (he kept refilling it) to calm me down.

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I finally managed to ask.

Mr. Devil stood there somberly. He looked the same as he did when I was 10, and had seen him for the first night. Everything about him was black. Skin, hair, suit, tie, shirt. Even the part of the eyes that should be white was black. The only way to differentiate between everything was the subtle lighter and darker shades of the color on each of the parts. His expression was just as grim as it had been 17 years ago, and his eyes, as expressionless as a black IKEA Lack coffee table.

He kept his hands clutched in front of him in a praying motion.

I still felt distraught. After getting over the initial shock of finding him there, I got a sinking suspicion as to why he could be here.

“So, is this time for me to, you know,” I gulped, “go?”

Mr. Devil shook his head. “No.”

That same raspy voice, like nails screeching on a dry chalkboard. I winced involuntarily.

Mr. Devil gave a nervous cough. “Actually,” he stepped forward as he held a golden orb in his hand. “I am returning your soul back. In return, I need a favor.”

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