A Deal with the Devil

I had never been to a funeral before. This, I suppose, was my first and last. I had made a deal with the devil to be in the mourning room. Literally. Three hours up there and then you come back down here with me, he said. I saluted lazily before being pushed out of hell and into my funeral. 

The air is thick, so much so that I gag and nearly vomit inside of my coffin. Dragging my flimsy tongue over my metallic lips has me dry heaving. I evidently taste like death. The room is quiet. Damnit. I snap my mouth shut and ever so slowly bring my index finger to my mouth and press it against my cracking lips for good measure. Aunt Sophia, I believe, is speaking now. Good. That’s good. She’s delivering the eulogy. Good. That’s good. I didn’t mind Aunt Sophia. She spent the most money on me. 

“Cameron was my light. She lit up every room that she walked into with that wide smile that she always wore. Cameron was always-”

I doze off. Am I a horrible person for nearly falling asleep during Aunt Sophia’s eulogy? Probably, but I’m dead anyway, so what does it matter? Besides, the only reason why I approached Satan himself was because I wanted to see if one person in particular would show up to my funeral. By the sounds of it, he didn’t. I silently roll onto my side and get into my preferred sleeping position and pray to a traitorous God that I don’t snore. 

A sharp ping in my chest wakes me abruptly. Likely the devil warning me that I’ll die once again very soon. Even so, the pain has me bashing my head off of the coffin’s atrociously hard wooden inside in an attempt to handle the discomfort and groaning in agony. Damnit. I seal my lips and kill my voice faster than I ever have. The devil didn’t mention anything about displaying my temporary revival to the still living part of society, but I get the feeling that it would be frowned upon if I did so. Luckily, the shifting of living, breathing bodies covers the sound of my injury excellently. Exactly three seconds later I am being moved. We must be heading to my gravesite. Isn’t that an extraordinary sentence? 

We arrive at what I fairly suspect is my gravesite a few moments later. Even inside of the coffin, draped in a ridiculous amount of wool layers that my ridiculous grandmother likely would have dressed me in, my body still begins to shiver involuntarily. I did die in January after all. Someone is speaking a further distance away now. My sister, it sounds like. I didn’t mind her either. A little too soft and preppy for me, but acceptable nonetheless. She keeps her speech short and sweet, just like I would have asked her to if I had the chance. For the first time in a while, I smile. 

“Cameron meant a lot to me, and even though she struggled to show it, I think I meant a lot to her too.”

A sniffle. A whimper. Likely a tear or two. 

“Cameron, if you’re with us now, just know that despite all that happened, you were loved. You still are loved.”

I’m about ready for the devil to drag me back to hell now. Tears haven’t honed my eyes in years. Even when I was falling off of life’s edge, down towards the pit of death, I did not cry. Damn my sister and her words. I feel myself being pulled downward. For a moment I think my time alive is up again and that I’m going back to hell, but not yet. I’m just about to be buried. Another extraordinary sen-

“Wait!” 

I suddenly halt my journey downward.  

“Yes?” Someone asks, so much closer to me that I can practically hear the concern in their deep voice. One of the men assisting with my burial no doubt. 

“I just have something I’d like to say,” That voice. I recognize it. “I’ll make it quick, I just have a few words,” That voice. I’d recognize it absolutely anywhere. My body melts, each frozen shiver replaced with a drop of soothing steam. But then my brain catches up to my heart and I am drenched in fear. Unmistakable, unforgettable fear that has my broken body tensing out of instinct. 

“Mr. Finlay, I’m not sure that that is a very good idea-” 

“Just let me say a few goddamn words!” 

John erupts. I begin trembling and curse every moving muscle for having the nerve. My fiery mask falters and I can practically hear the devil chuckling from below. I curse him too. I continue to curse him all the way back to hell after I feel the ping in my chest again. Somehow, it hurts more than the first time I died. 

The essence of smoke and flesh, the sound of screams and pleads, the sight of whatever the hell kind of monster the devil looks like. Yep, I’m back in hell. 

“So, was that fun?” My so-called master asks me with a wicked grin.

I attempt to hold on to my dignity and straighten my nonexistent posture before speaking. We don’t have bodies down here, just souls; I’m still getting used to that. “Why was John at my funeral?” I ask with a too raw voice. At least I still have my voice. 

Another wicked chuckle. “Funny you ask that now,” An equally wicked pause. “You didn’t even consider what he wanted to say up there. You didn’t even wonder how he managed to get into your funeral, and now you ask me why. Too emotional of a soul. We’ll have to fix that down here.” 

I feel tears building up, but they’ll never escape as they have no cheek to run down. Not anymore at least. “Please just tell me why,” I hate how utterly weak I sound, the devil feeds off of it. 

“John Finlay attended your funeral after sending a letter of requested invite to your young, completely foolish by the way, sister to which she wrote back accepting his request. Far too forgiving of a girl. He did after all beat the literal life out of her own sister, you’d think that-”  

He does not know I’ve walked away. My steps are not steps, my footprints equivalent to thin air. I feel more broken than I did when I felt the first hit I received from John. My sister invited my murderer to my funeral. Another extraordinary sentence, however this one is more heartbreaking than fascinating. Finally, my sorrow diminishes and my wrath ignites. I cannot seem to understand my sister, just as I cannot understand John. Their minds work differently than mine and yet so similarly. They feel emotions so strongly that they both make severe decisions without keeping logic close by. Perhaps I am just like them. 

“Master?” I faintly call out across the room. My voice echoes so clearly as if it is being projected, as if someone wants to hear what I am about to say. 

More than a wicked grin. An absolutely painfully cunning smile breaks across his hideous face. “Yes?”

I do not hesitate. 

I feel as if I should. 

I do not hesitate.  

“I want to make another deal with you,” I feel as if I should. I do not hesitate. “Send me back to the ground and I will bring you two more souls, master. I will bring you my sister and my murderer.”