Jackson joked about his wonderful life. A "good boy" his friends would call him, good life, good friends, great grades. "Devil couldn't catch me now, that fucker," he'd mock, for he felt untouchable. Money, friends, almost like a force field around his being.
And it had been a long night for Jackson, his studies finished, the clock reading 12:00 a.m, red letters flickering in the dark apartment. He decided it was time to pack up, get some sleep.
Closing all of his books, the only light a fading lamp shade that has needed new batteries for two months, changing, locking all doors, and crawling into bed, he slept. And he dreamed.
It was dark. Under his feet, water, not deep at all. Almost like a puddle. A heavy breathing was the only sound to be heard in this pit of a room, with no light. Nothing but heavy, heavy breathing.
God he wished he could see, just a glimpse of what the hell was making that god awful sound. The sound, (at first), had been distant like. Somewhere off to where he could not reach, oh but he could hear it all right, and his spine was tingling, sweat on the back of his neck. Is that puddle getting deeper?
It was. His feet were underwater now. And suddenly: he felt air on his neck. No, not air. This air smelt like death, straight up burning flesh, and he wanted to puke.
"There's someone in your apartment, wake up, Jackson."
Jackson bolted up in bed, his chest heaving up and down.
Oh my god, he thought, what the hell is that smell?
He recognized it all too well. Rotten, burning flesh.
He swung his legs onto the floor. And what was that? The undersides of his feet were wet. That's when his heart began thumping, thump. Thump. Thump.
That wasn't his heart. It was coming from the kitchen.
He got up, the moonlight barely providing enough light, just enough to outline shadows across the walls, and the floor was soaked... soaked with a sticky, unrecognizable fluid.
And that's when he heard the heavy breathing. Should he go into the kitchen... was that a good idea at all?
His curiosity got the best of him. He was Jackson Parker, football player, straight A student. This was just his friend playing a prank on him.
The wind. The wind on his neck, the–
"You know, Jackson," that voice, right against his ear crawled down his body like a snake, the stench lathering his taste buds, his body frozen. "Even 'fuckers' like me can catch people like you," long nails traced down his back, then his arm, wrapping around his hand, a knife entering his stomach.
Suicide they called it. All doors were locked, all windows shut, blood lathering the floor like carpet, a knife taken into his own stomach. Unexpected of course, but we're all human here.
Ask for the Devil, and you will receive.
and sometimes... only sometimes... sometimes the Devil lives beneath your own skin.
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Did someone kill him? Did he kill himself? Was He the Devil, all along?
Here's an update :) been a while!
So close to Christmas too???
