A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL : CHAPTER 51 – 60
SELENE STOOD STILL.
I stood there, staring at the bodies of my aunt and cousin lying motionless on the floor. The pool of blood around them had already started to dry, seeping into the cracks between the floorboards.
My mind was blank—no thoughts, no screams, no panic. I couldn’t even feel myself anymore. Everything was numb, as though I was watching someone else in my place, frozen in horror but unable to react.
I didn’t shout, didn’t cry. I just stood there, a strange calm washing over me, one that didn’t feel like it belonged to me. The knife was still there, gleaming faintly in the low light. But I wasn’t even sure what I was looking at anymore. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.
After what felt like hours, I slowly tiptoed past their bodies, moving upstairs without a sound. I kept thinking I would wake up, that this was some twisted dream I’d stumble out of any moment.
But the blood on the floor—the blood that was still on my shoes—it was too real. Too present. My feet carried me to my room as if they were moving on their own, disconnected from my brain. I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t even feel the floor beneath me.
Once inside, I stripped off my clothes, the same ones I had worn just hours earlier when I was out with Lucifer.
The fabric clung to me, stiff with sweat, but I barely noticed. My hands were trembling, but I couldn’t understand why. It was as though my body had become someone else’s to control. I reached for the bathroom door, opening it quietly, almost robotically.
The sound of water filling the tub should have calmed me. It didn’t. I couldn’t feel the warmth of the water on my skin as I submerged myself, watching as the light pink stains slowly washed away, mixing with the bathwater. I couldn’t even feel my heart beating in my chest. Maybe it had stopped altogether.
I scrubbed my skin—harder and harder, until it stung—but I still couldn’t shake the numbness. It was like I wasn’t even inside my body anymore, just a hollow shell going through the motions. There was no escape from this. No waking up.
After what felt like an eternity, I stepped out of the bath, wrapping myself in a towel. I caught my reflection in the mirror for a moment—pale, wide-eyed, dripping with water—but I didn’t recognize the person looking back at me.
I walked downstairs, feeling like a ghost moving through the house. Everything was the same as it always was, except now, there were two bodies lying on the living room floor.
And that’s when something inside me broke—something fragile, something I hadn’t realized was even there. My chest tightened, but I didn’t cry. Not yet.
In the kitchen, I reached for the drawer, pulling out a small, sharp knife. It was cold and familiar in my hand. I didn’t think.
I just did. One shallow cut across the inside of my wrist, then another on my thigh, then another, like I was trying to make sure I could still feel something. Just small cuts, nothing deep enough to do damage—just enough to let the pain ground me.
I stared at the red lines, watching the blood bead on my skin before it dripped down, and yet, I still felt nothing. The knife clattered to the floor, and I let out a shaky breath.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me out of the fog. I fumbled with it, trying to get my fingers to work properly.
I dialed the police, my voice steady when they answered. “There’s been a murder,” I told them, my tone flat, detached. “My aunt and cousin… they’re dead.”
The operator’s questions faded into the background as I mechanically gave them the address, the details.
I told them the killer made me watch. It was the only way they wouldn’t think I had anything to do with it. I had to say something believable. Even in my shock, I knew I needed to protect myself.
Within the next few hours, cops flooded the street. Neighbors came out of their houses, whispering to each other, their faces a mix of shock and fear.
The flashing lights from the patrol cars reflected off the windows of our house, turning everything blue and red.
I stood outside, still wrapped in my towel, as officers took my statement, asked me the same questions over and over.
I repeated the story without missing a beat: how I came home, how the killer made me watch. The words left my lips like they belonged to someone else.
The whole time, I could feel eyes on me—neighbors, cops, strangers—staring, judging, trying to figure out if I was telling the truth. But the truth didn’t matter. I knew what they wanted to hear, and I gave it to them. I had to.
I didn’t feel the cold, didn’t notice the wind biting at my skin. I was still stuck in that same numbness that had washed over me when I first saw the bodies. A part of me wondered if I would ever feel anything again.
Then, through the crowd of neighbors and police officers, I saw Liam running toward me. His face was flushed, his eyes wide with worry, and before I knew it, his arms were around me, pulling me into a tight hug.
It was at that moment—when I felt his warmth, his breath against my ear—that everything broke. The dam inside me shattered, and the tears came flooding out. I couldn’t stop crying.
I buried my face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably, the shock finally giving way to the pain. The numbness was gone, replaced by the overwhelming flood of emotions I had been holding back.
“I’m here,” Liam whispered, holding me tighter. “I’m here, Selene.”
His words only made me cry harder. Everything hurt—my chest, my throat, my head. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The weight of it all crashed down on me at once. The sight of my aunt’s body, the blood, the cuts on my skin—they were too much.
“I hate her,” I choked out between sobs. “I hated her, Liam. But I didn’t… I didn’t want her to die. Not like this.”
Liam pulled back slightly, looking down at me with concern. “It’s not your fault,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “This isn’t your fault, Selene.”
But it felt like it was. I hated my aunt, hated how she treated me, but I never wanted this. Never wanted her dead. I couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, this was all connected to me—
The police were still everywhere, swarming the house, taping off the area with yellow crime scene tape. Neighbors were still watching, whispering.
But none of it mattered. The only thing I could think about was the blood on the floor, the life that had been taken.
And for the first time in hours, I felt something. It wasn’t relief. It was guilt.
A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL : CHAPTER 51 – 60
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