Page 2 of The Devil and I
I drag the razor down the length of my left forearm, watching the colour red bloom in a miserable path down my arm. Pain explodes across my flesh, leaving a trail of sharp burning in the wake of the thin silver blade. I gasp at the intensity of it, watching my frail skin split open before my eyes. Red continues to flood my vision as tendrils of thick blood begin to erupt from the wound I've made, winding down around my arm to gather underneath it and drip on to the cool Earth beneath me. The agony causes ugly sobs to bubble up from my chest, my breath quickening as fear, anger and pain collide within me and rage against each other.
It's so damn unfair that this is how my story ends. I want to toss my head back and scream my rage towards the sky until everything around me is shaking and trembling from the force of my suffering. If only I could shatter the entire world around me and let go of some of the bleak misery trapped in my head. I wish someone had listened to me and believed me; I wish someone out there could have given me justice. Nothing could undo the damage done to my mind, but watching that son of a bitch pay for all he has done to me would make for such a bittersweet end. Instead of screaming, I let the rage sink down into the black pit of my broken spirit.
Several long moments pass as I watch the blood pool on the dirt beside me. I blink rapidly through the tears, trying desperately to slow my breathing. It's then that I feel as though death himself has turned to look at me, his empty eyes suddenly recognizing his next acquisition. I even hear the crunch of leaves beneath his heavy feet as he starts to walk in my direction. This is it, the pinnacle of my tragedy. As I slowly bleed out from my arm, I nervously welcome death's relentless approach. A strange, mad smile slowly spreading across my face.
“Fuck you, Mark. You'll never touch me again.” I speak those words into the dark woods around me, my voice trembling brokenly as the sharp pain eases into a warm, throbbing agony. The cold from the ground I am sitting on begins to seep into me, embracing me more with each rivulet of blood that falls from my arm. It's a macabre exchange, as heat drains out of me into the ground below, and cold rises to claim the empty places inside of me. It feels as though all the pain trapped in me is beginning to empty around me, just as a great dark ocean begins rising from below. My eyes become blurry as my vision begins to darken around the edges, and yet the sound of my weakening pulse still feels strong in my ears. My head, suddenly feeling heavy, drops back against the tree just as my eyes start to drift closed. As I listen to the steady footfalls from death's imminent approach, a strange calm spreads over me and replaces the panic with an eerie acceptance.
“Time to go.” I whisper, feeling that warm, dark ocean rise higher to swallow me whole. If I had any power here at all anymore, I would gladly sink into it willingly. However, I had hit the point of no return. The darkness bloomed around me, sucking me in whether I wanted to fight it or not.
Chapter Two
Lucas
It takes a lot out of me to wear this mask. A mask I carefully constructed in order to hide in plain sight, disguised as someone noble and normal within society. You'd never guess that Officer Lucas Black of the Toronto Police Department harbored a dark side that would make the average person want to run screaming.
After long hours patrolling the streets of Toronto, it feels damn good to shed the uniform, put away my badge, and hit the trails to run. Running affords me the type of cathartic release I need to keep the darkness inside of me at bay. The day is spent exhausting myself mentally on the job, and once I clock out, it's time to exhaust myself physically. At the end of the day, the devil within me is too fucking tired to give in to my darker urges.
Hitting up Sunnybrook Park at the end of my shift is a great way to start off my two-week vacation. After changing out of my uniform and slipping into black sweats and a black long-sleeved shirt, pulling into the park for a run just feels right. I don't have to waste another minute pretending that I'm just another normal cop. I can leave thefaçadebehind and be who I really am. Most of the time I feel like a shapeshifter, slipping out of one skin and into another. The only difference is that the mask I've shed was never the real one. The morally gray man with a dark hunger and darker instincts? Yeah, that's what is real. It's men like me that I protect the world from in my professional life. I love the irony.
I have no desire to go easy on myself today, so when I hit the trail I hit it hard. I've been running for thirty minutes now, and my body is screaming from the exertion. All the thick muscle covering my six foot two frame feel as though it is on fire, but I love the burn. The harder I run, the stronger I become. The stronger I am; the better self-control I have. Self-control is everything for a man like me. If I don't exercise it daily, I turn into just another sloppy serial killer. That's the last thing I want to become. Prison won't suit me; I'm addicted to my freedom. Almost as much as I am addicted to control. Control is half the reason why I've killed six men and have never come even close to being caught by my colleagues.
The sky has darkened, and everyone that was occupying the park has already gone home. Anyone left is hanging out at the entrance, or scattered throughout the parking lot. Since my police cruiser tends to scare off anyone looking to partake in illegal activities after dark, that leaves the place mostly empty. This place is pitch black when after the sun goes down, and happens to be home to a lot of brave coyotes, which means Toronto residents prefer to be gone before dark. That leaves the trails empty for me, which is preferable to having to dodge pedestrians as I run.
The sound of my labored breathing and the heavy fall of my feet on the trail disrupts the natural peacefulness of the park, but nobody is around to listen to me exhaust myself. The dark trail winds deep through the rich emerald landscape, dotted with yellowing leaves that mark Autumn's arrival in Ontario. It's quiet except for the choir of crickets and the rustling leaves around me. As I start to make my way back towards the parking lot, my senses kick into overdrive. There is a sound somewhere in the distance that doesn't belong with nature's own symphony, but I can barely make it out. Being a cop has helped sharpen my instincts, which made it easy for me to recognize the noise despite how lost it was in the cacophony of everything else.
I make an effort to steady my breathing, which only amplifies the burn in my lungs as I slow my pace. The less noise I make, the better my ears can decipher the sounds around me. I listen intently for the sound, and I slow down even more when I finally catch it. It sounds like crying somewhere among the trees, and the haunting noise causes my hair to stand on end. I drag a hand through my hair and come to a stop, fighting to keep my breathing quiet as I try to pinpoint where it's coming from. It is then, with lungs burning and heaving to catch my breath, that I hear the softest voice from the bush to the left of the path.
“Fuck you, Mark. You'll never touch me again.”
The cop in me slides firmly into place, instantly recognizing distress when I hear it. I narrow my eyes as they scan the line of trees, intent on finding the girl that soft voice belongs to. I can't see anyone immediately, but I am positive that I heard someone. That voice. Soft, feminine, and so full of agony. My brain knows how to recognize suffering in someone's voice. It's not only a part of my skill set as an officer, but it also comes from being a natural born predator. After years of dealing with every kind of person imaginable, you develop an ear for the subtle nuances of emotion a voice can hold.
I take a few steps forward until I am standing at the line of trees that marks the side of the trail, trying to spot the person responsible for speaking such strange words out there in the tangle of branches and leaves. A flash of colour stands out amid the greenery, clearly out of place. There's someone sitting on the ground by a large oak tree, and I'd never have seen her if not for her pale skin gleaming with glittering red. The last echoes of day cast just enough light so that the blood on her skin doesn't turn into another shadow out here in the woods.
Another few steps bring me into the bush where I can see her more clearly, resting seemingly lifelessly against the trunk of the great oak. My heart shoots up into my throat as I recognize what is unfolding before me. The blood cascading across the girl's forearm calls to me like a siren's song, drawing me in. The black-hearted predator living beneath my skin wants control here, but I fight the sickness surging up within me. Whoever this innocent girl is, she doesn't deserve to be hunted like prey in her moment of weakness. I'm the devil made flesh, but I am also human. I can act like it now, for this bleeding stranger.
“Time to go.”
Before she even gets the chance to finish whispering those harrowing words, I'm moving. I shift through the trees with ease, pulled towards her like there is some magnetic force between us. My eyes roam her body as she comes into full view. And Goddamn it, she is beautiful. It's fucked up that I am thinking about how pretty she is when she is clearly in trouble, but I can't ignore it. The girl is small and pale, framed by the longest, softest looking dark hair I've ever seen. Her eyes are closed, and her full lips are parted slightly. She is wearing dark clothing, with an oversized hoodie that hides her body from my curious gaze.
She is ethereal in the darkness, lending to my struggle to stay rooted in reality. I never imagined I would ever find a bleeding girl out here in the woods at this hour, and part of me wonders if she is even real. She is so pale; her skin almost glows in the dying light. She is a whirlwind of chaos that my brain is struggling to comprehend. She is clearly injured, but she was also talking to someone. My eyes leave her momentarily to scan the area, but everything is quiet. If someone else were here, I'd know it. We're alone.
The girl's arm is hanging lax beside her, the back of her hand resting on the dirt. Her forearm has been bathed in red, with blood still seeping from the line she carved vertically down her arm. One long slit from wrist to elbow, the tool she used held loose in her other hand. She is killing herself here in the forest. She is ending her life, and apparently someone named Mark is the catalyst. Instantly, I hate the name as much as I hate the man I don't know a damn thing about. She looks far too young to die.
As I watch the slow rise and fall of her chest, something unknown emerges from the darkest corners of my being. I can't quite decipher the flood of emotion that rises in me unbidden, but the voice in my head is clear as day.
Mine.
Confusion joins the hectic tumble of emotions I'm experiencing, and I can't stop the frown that etches across my face as I look down at the bleeding girl.
Mine, now.
I narrow my gaze as my jaw clenches shut, the muscles of my body growing painfully tense. I have no idea who this pretty little thing is, but the dark side of my psyche is taking over any rational voice in my head. The beast in me is awake, and demanding that I take this unknown girl with me. Demanding that I take her, save her life, and destroy whatever thing drove her to death's door in the first place.
The sharp, metallic scent of blood hits me hard as I tower over her. The small red pool forming beneath her is almost a relief to see, because the amount of blood there means that it hasn't been that long since she slit her arm open. I need to stop the bleeding before things get worse. Bending down, I lean over her and gently knock the bloodied razor out of her other hand. She doesn't respond to my touch, which tells me I need to work quickly here.
I stand back up and grab the hem of my shirt, tugging it up and pulling it over my head. Once I've got the dark material in my hands, I kneel beside her and begin wrapping it tightly around her forearm. She doesn't seem to respond as I prepare her to be moved, which means I'll be able to get her back to my car relatively easily. I've got a well stocked first aid kit in my cruiser, and if I get there fast enough I can avoid having to take her to the hospital.
Taking her to my home is the only option the beast in me wants to acknowledge. If I drop her off at the hospital, I'll lose access to her. If that happens, I won't be able to figure out who the fuck drove her to suicide.
