The Devil's Last Dance

This will be my last dance.


1. D R E A M I N G

~~It's strange, don't you think, that we refuse to believe in anything until we've experienced it? Take you, for example. You don't think I exist. You don't believe in the devil. But you see, you really should, for your own good, and mine. I like to dance between the shadows of your world, but when people don't believe, I can't do that. I don't dance. I stampede, crushing your puny friends below my great feet.



Oh, and still you don't believe me? Perhaps it is the innocent blue eyes or the halo of golden curls - my best disguise. Looks can be deceiving. Yet you still don't believe.

You must be made to pay. You must be made to see. This will be my last dance.



You hear the knocking at your door, that strange, hollow sound which puts a wall between you and your slumber. It scares you, that sound. You don't know who is there. It could be anybody.

You try to keep the sound out, but you can't. You never can.

There it is again, that knocking. Your eyes are open wide with fear, and you think that their caramel colour is turning ever so slightly to mahogany. They're not, but your face is paling considerably in the dim light. Above you, the dark headboard feels like it's caving in, about to topple on top of your dark head.

"Go away," you whisper into the all-hearing darkness. "Please." You are pleading for safety, for security. You wish you had not left your home, moved to this place where you are shrouded in never-ending tenebrosity. Oh, how foolish you were. How very, very foolish.

"I can't go away," a voice - my voice - replies darkly, and you can almost see its source smirking. How pathetic it thinks you are. How pathetic. "I can never go away. Just the same as you can never block me out."

You scream as a hand grabs your neck, and you are plunged into the murky water's terrifying depths. "Let me out!" you scream in terror, but no one can hear you. It is silent, like the end of the world. The end of your world. "Please!" Again, no one can hear you. Quite simply, you should stop trying, especially when your hair obscures your already weak vision in a chocolatey haze. Your efforts are useless, anyway. They will never amount to anything.

Above you, there is little light, but still you struggle, reaching for it with your heart and soul, almost crying with the painful effort. "Help!" All in vain, my dear, all in vain. It fills your lungs, the sound of me, my very essence, twisting your heart until there is nothing left but a hideous knot with dozens of empty, lifeless places.

I choke you, and you gag into the very thing which continues to destroy you. Pathetic, that's what this little cycle is. Pathetic. It is no fun. You'll die soon anyway.

A face leers at you out of the murky shadows, and you scream at the chalk-white face. Its glowing red eyes are like blood-red rubies, destined to drain your very soul from you. A shock of orange hair surrounds it, and though you are placed in something reminiscent of a circus, you don't feel like laughing. You feel like screaming. Which is what you do.

Screaming, screaming, screaming. It's all you've done for a while now, that and bursting out of the water, running from the bright red orb of peril. The life of the party at a circus. The death of it in your mind.

"Get away from me!" you shriek. Oh, darkness, don't you understand? You can't control your fears: Your fears control you. "Please, please, please, let it all just end!" Oh, how pitiful.

A strange powder wafts its way into your hair, coating it in something like ash as you stare into the vacant, red ocean. Specks of orange appear, flooding the rocky ring. There is a rumbling below your feet, a shaking like the planet is the basketball in an inter-galactic game. A rather cruel game, you think. But that's life. Cruel.

You can't outrun this, you know. It'll always follow you, it will always come first in any race, and you will be late to cross the threshold of the finish line. You will always be late, if you don't do something. But you won't.

The cone explodes, showering you in the same white powder you despise. You choke on it, and run as fast as your stupid little legs will carry you, spluttering all the way to safety. Ugh. You're still alive. I suppose this is my fault really, but never mind. I can still make you wish you were dead.

Blood trickles in a river down the valley of your neck, pain piercing every meander, every nook and cranny in the cruel home of blood. Blood.

An ashen face stares down at you, thin yellow eyes glowing like that of a cat, lips stained with a deep red tint. Glossy black hair surrounds her snow-white face, almost melting into the shadows. Fear leaps in your chest, a petrified shriek rising from the pit of your stomach. "Please, don't," you whimper, shrinking back with such timidity, that beast continues to plague you. "Please."

Your voice is cracked, hard, dry, dwindling away quietly until there is nothing left but the harsh reality of your situation: You will die.

There is no point in pretending you're okay, you know that. Much as you want to say you're alright, you're okay, you're not afraid, that's untrue. I hate untruths.

Oh, how close you are to those inky shadows, how close you are to complete darkness. You stare down the cliff face at the rage of black below you, and scream into silence. You are falling, falling, and there's nothing you can do about it.

This is my last dance, and already you wish for me to stop. Oh, but I am just getting started. If you hate my dancing with such a passion, then my stampede shall be the stuff of your nightmares.

Because nightmares are formed from your strongest fears, and I am all those things. I am the devil.

Now do you believe? It still does not matter. This is my last dance. Tomorrow, I shall stampede; destroy the hopes of all mankind. This is my last dance.




The devil's last dance.


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