Page 62 of The Devil Takes

The sun had sunk below the horizon ages ago.

But stubbornly, I’d still come.

A man arriving at the gallows, ready to be delivered to the Devil he craved.

A hand met the back of my neck.

Nails bit into my flesh, the hot huff of breath on the shell of my ear my only warning as I was shoved face first into the dirt and a massive body climbed on top of mine. I couldn’t breathe. Crushed beneath his weight, Dad was strong despite his age, and I struggled, scrambling for something—anything I could latch onto.

The moon steadily rose, its silvery caress painting the smattering of rocks in front of me. Some big, some small. Moss covered. Dirty. I’d gotten close enough. Oh god.

Pain, pain, pain.

I cried out, a broken sound that echoed through the quiet. Crickets stopped chirping. The wind no longer whistled. There was a rock in my hand. It scraped its gritty edges against my skin as I was flipped over and finally caught the glint of hatred that boiled blood-red behind my dad’s eyes.

I stared but I didn’t recognize him.

His skin was sallow, his lips drawn thin. There was a sickness in his eyes that stole away the last bits of the man I had forced myself to love.

When you get married, you get to choose to love someone for life. They do this whole stupid thing where you recite vows you didn’t write for yourself, and you nod along, making promises you know you don’t have to keep.

My love for my dad had never been like that.

It wasn’t a paper I could sign.

It wasn’t something I could divorce myself from.

But this…this person above me—as he wrapped his hands around my neck and my mind stuttered as it sputtered for oxygen—this was not my father.

And at that moment, I realized I hated him.

I hated him so fucking much.

Hated him for what he’d done to me.

Hated him for what he’d done to my mom.

For the endless cycle of pain that wouldn’t end even if he killed me.

Hated him for the life he’d stolen from me, the life he was intent on stealing.

But most of all, I hated him, because he had forced me into a corner. Forced me to make a decision I never thought I’d have to make.

I hated him because he had given me no choice.

So I smashed the rock into his temple.

Three hits.

The sick crunch of bone.

The sharp scent of copper.

My pills rattled in my pocket as I brought my fist down, over and over.

Three hits was all it took to slay my demon.

Finally, it was over. His body slumped, and I gasped for air the moment his grip on my neck grew slack. The throbbing in my head eased momentarily as I clawed at his limp body, trying to get him off of me. He was heavy. And I was weak. The scent of stale beer and sickness wafted from his flesh as I shoved, and shoved, and shoved.

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