Touched by Demons, though I fall into grace.

I've always wondered what sounds are. How a whisper from 20 feet away can reach my ears, but on occasion, I can't hear a whisper from a single yard away. Sound is a strange thing. Over the years, my hearing has degraded past return. Too many (and by that I mean five) years of listening to music too loud, not wearing earplugs, and going to concerts. If you were to walk up to me and ask how much I could hear, I would tell you I'm 95% deaf in my left ear. Though I don't quite know what it means.

Which brings me back to my question. What is sound? What makes a snap sound how it does? Most people answer how the middle finger creates friction on the thumb and slaps the palm of the hand. The sound would magnify through the tunnel that the remaining fingers forms and a snap would be born. A less amount of people would say the exact same thing, but replace the middle finger with the index. I've asked myself this question for years now, since I began college, in fact. I'm still clueless.

I've theorized that when a person is feeling a particular emotion, a sound appears. In nanoseconds, the person would pretend that they made the sound, while not knowing that they didn't. I've debunked it though, as sound waves disprove my hypothesis. I like the idea, though.
Another weaker theory is that it's all imagination and that everyone hears things differently. People have theorized that everyone sees colors differently, and I believe it. I can prove it, too. What color is at the top of a traffic light?

I'll wait till I say the answer, so you don't skip ahead and find it. I've surveyed many people, and everyone said that yellow was in the middle. That part is correct. But most people answered wrong on the top color. Is it red or green? As I used to draw, visual memory is of importance when it comes to painting. You can't erase paint. Trust me, I've tried. Instead, you paint over it with a layer of white, then a pale blue, then another layer of white. And, just like that, your canvas is good as new. So, why did three-quarters of the people I surveyed say that green was on the top when it's actually red? Some say that they are Mandella Effecting and that it was green. But that's a whole different theory, that I may or may not discuss later.

Back on the subject of sound. When you don't hear anything, what voices are trying to crawl their way from the black abyss, and into your mindscape? They're trying to manipulate into doing things. Too many voices can make someone go crazy. Have you ever heard of schizophrenia? Yeah. Hearing voices isn't normal.

Around me, I hear nothing. To shut out the voices, I'm not so unwise as to cover my ears. The voices are always inside your head, but your own thoughts are disabling them. It's their job to kick your brain in the shoulder, so you have to make sure you have a 10-foot stick with you at all times. However, I feel completely defenseless. So defenseless, that I can't even sense the voices in the abyss. They aren't trying to control me. Am I safe?

I sleep with a button-up and boxers on. I never expose my entire body for over 15 minutes at a time. Well, I never have. Perhaps if I ever need to do certain activities, with a certain someone, I would allow myself to be unclothed overnight. But never longer than that. But now I'm completely naked. No shoes, socks, wedding ring, and even my gunshot wound is healed over! My last visual memory is getting shot, in the chest. But the wound is healed. How long have I been asleep?

Only now do I notice how white it is, here. My pale skin is nothing compared to the neverending white foreground surrounding me. Is this what solitary confinement is like? White, for hours on end, and nothing else? It can't be. I'm not in an infirmary room. There is no bed. I must have died, then. This 'room' breaks the laws of reality as I know them. Nothing is neverending. Even space has a limit, and it's covered in red and yellow specs of dust.

I look to my right, the only spot of not-white that I can see for miles. It's not exactly a color, though. More like an absence of such. An off-white, you might say. I know better. It's the absence of light, while not being black. It forms a shape, which is hard to comprehend in a void. The shape is leaning back on something, resting its ankle on its knee. Even though I can barely see the outline of it, I get a sense of superiority from the being. Not the authentic type. The type that your older sibling has over you. None, really, but the 'superior' being enjoys the thought of it.

The absence of light slowly turns to a deep red, and I begin to spot feature appearing on the
mass. First a nose, then a robe, and then highly defined muscles. Hair begins to sprout as the creature turns 3D, and I notice the handgun the being is carrying. It has a small ﻮ carved into the barrel of the gun. If you had good eyes, you would see that it is a lowercase G in messy handwriting. My handwriting, more specifically. How did this being get the shotgun I bought?
I recognize the being for what it truly is as soon as the horns sprout up. There was no mistaking it. I had been shot and left in a void to speak with the Devil.

The Devil looks over to me, or rather emphasizes his gaze, as he was already looking. I abruptly begin to feel violated, and afraid. It's very few times that I feel afraid. This is one of them.

"You died a special way, Gerard. There's no hiding it." He begins, not moving an inch aside from his lips. I swear, even his throat stayed unmoved. I'm not sure if by the latter statement, he means how I died, or my nudity. But, besides the point, he is skipping to the fact. No stalling or introductions. Just what needs to be said.

"And there's a reason you are seeing me and not the man upstairs. You have sinned. You didn't pray daily. You didn't go to confession. And, normally, I would send you to hell and be done with it. But the thing is..."

He looks down to his overgrown and uncared for nails, rubbing his thumb to his index finger. "Your wife did. And she's having a great time up in heaven. But I've taken a liking to you, babycakes. I'm giving you the opportunity to revive you, and her, and live in a remote place aside from the rest of humanity."

I seem to have forgotten to mention that all the while that the Devil is speaking, I'm trying to find a comfortable place to sit. It's harder than it looks when there is no obvious floor. Though, the Devil seems accustomed to this arrangement. He almost looks proper, leaning on thin air and propping his elbow on oxygen.

With a little reasoning with myself, I come to the conclusion that I would, indeed, like to do that. But I know the Devil. He has tricks like a genie would have tricks to a vulnerable Alladin. There's always a catch. I learned it the hard way.

"Elaborate." It's one word, but it fills the cavern of nothingness.

"Well," The devil grunts, shifting in his 'seat', "You would have to bring me the souls of 1,000 dirty people. In replace for you, I require 1,000 more. In God's replace for your wife, he requires nothing. An ignorant thing, isn't he?

"If each kill took one hour, and you worked on an average of 14 hours a day to constantly rack in lives for me, you could be finished in a mere two and a half months. A good deal for two people's revival, isn't it?"

I can't believe I'm actually considering it. I've never even killed an animal, and I can barely stand to step on a cat's tail! But LynZ means everything to me. I would do virtually anything to spend an eternity with her, and that includes killing 1,000 people. Have I made up my mind?

"That brings me to the subject of your gun. You will be using it to kill each person. One bullet for each person. If you miss, you've got to kill them of your own accords. Once you take the gun, you will travel in time to your first target. As soon as you kill them, you will be time-traveled to the next. You will get their name, a picture, and what they did to go to Hell. This will continue 998 more times."

I'm going to do it, then. Now, all I have to do is muster up the courage to raise my arm and take the gun. My arm shakes as I raise it, reaching across what seems like 10 feet. No rules apply here, though. My arm stretches across the several yards as if it was 2 feet. With ease, more than I expected, I rest my hand on the gun.

The Devil's hand is warm and scratchy. Just feeling it makes me imagine mosquitoes nipping at my flesh, making marks that will last for days. That kind of scratchy. It's rough, too. It feels rough as a lizard's back, all the while smoother than silk. I wrap my fingers around the grip safety, lifting the gun ever-so-slowly from the red hand. No strong emotions or feelings occur to me right away, rather, they build up and leave me wanting more. Like dopamine, when you eat too much candy.

Or the third chord in a key, imitating the first, but in reality, the two are polar opposites.
With only the muzzle resting on the palm of the Devil's hand, I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't care if I look like a scared 12-year-old; I feel like a scared 12-year-old. Wanting and disregarding the future at the same time. As the seconds pass, the muzzle lifts off of the palm of his hand, and the white I've become so accustomed to fades to black.
- - -
Like opening my eyes after a long sleep, my vision adjusts to the features around me. It wasn't much of a change, but I still needed time to take in the full picture. Forest leaves cloud my vision, or what's left of it, as it must be midnight wherever I am. The air smells nothing like home. I can't detect a single bit of pollution. Based on the temperature, I'm thinking Arizona in the spring or summer. Perhaps somewhere around Georgia. Or perhaps somewhere outside of the USA.

A thud startles me, and I look to my feet. In the small amount of light, I spot a journal. At least 300 pages. I bend down, running my fingers through the dry soil before standing back up with the journal enclosed in my hands. With closer inspection, I discover that the spine is labeled Targets. I open the journal, the first page showing me the profile of a man.

Bugsy Seigel.

Fraud. Worked for Mob.

Attached is a picture of the man. His skin is fair, and a top hat covers his hair in the black-and-white picture. It almost looks like he's rolling his eyes at the camera. I close the journal, sticking it in the waistband of my newly regarded pants. I wear women's jeans by choice, so nothing fits in pockets aside from a small phone.

Now, I look around. The Devil implied that I would be placed relatively near the person. Given that I'm in the middle of nowhere, this will either be very easy or very hard. I spot a small pergola, with roses lining the poles. Perhaps it's where Bugsy is.
I begin my journey to the rose-covered arbor, occasionally stepping in a bit of mud. With virtually no time, I reach a window that shows a Bugsy sitting on the couch. I lean against one of the arbor poles. I'm roughly 15 feet away from this man, and I'm going to kill him. I raise the gun, aiming at his head. Fighting 101: Always go for the head.

He's watching television. Based on what I can tell, World War 2 has either passed, is about to begin, or is happening right now, considering they are showing pictures of Hitler. I rest my finger on the trigger, remembering how I can only use one bullet. Though I'm not a very good shot.

I count down from three seconds, firing the shot on one. I was eager to see the result, but before I can even hear the gunshot, I'm transported to a stable with many horses.

This is going to take a while.

Notes

skskkskskskks tada. comment/review? please?
skskkskskks uhh the first part about sound is just me ranting. fun fact: im goin deaf (?)