We do not choose our fates. No one has ever heard of the universe asking about our wishes, consulting us as if asking how many teaspoons of sugar should be added to the tea. No one heard of it because there was never something like that.
Destiny has its own rules, written or unwritten, and we’re all puppets to the world puppeteer. And in this very moment, so it’s Evelyn, who is trying to move a stranger out of her house and go on with her night.
It could never be this easy.
"Sir, dude, Jesus or whatever you like to call yourself," she says. "Please, get the hell out of my house!"
A look of disgust on the man’s face at the last name was projected in such a contemptuous way that confusion replaced the determination on Evelyn’s face.
"Don’t you spell that name!" he warned, still holding a repulsed expression on his face.
She wonders what all of his remarks mean. He had made way too many of them, and she started doubting her first theory—his being one of those crazy stalkers. There was much more to it than she could recall in the fifteen minute period of knowing him.
"I am Heeseung," he says, puffing up his chest and holding a high smile. "At least, for you," he adds.
'Heeseung,’ she repeats the name in her mind, pinning it in the chambers of her brain like precious information.
"Alright," she speaks with venom, "Heeseung." Evelyn continues, somewhat close to bold, "What are you doing here? What could you ever want from me?" Her eyes are narrowed, yet he is showing nothing but excitement.
"And she finally asked it,"—he sighs—"Took you long enough, butterfly."
She obligates herself not to comment on the unrequested nicknames, and, in all that time, Heeseung holds the very same amused look.
"I am here for something that your precious heart wishes the most." He lowers his voice an octave. "Let me get myself clearer, what you truly and undeniably desire."
"Would you speak clearly for once?" Fumed with annoyance, she asked, more as a command rather than a wonder.
He closes up the narrow space between the two of them and grabs her by the shoulders, firmly enough that when she tries to squirm, she is disappointed.
"And you’re such a smart girl"—he exhales in false disappointment—"I thought you would’ve got it by now."
"I am a demon, as you call me," he pauses, letting the information sink in, "although I like to give myself a more pleasing name, the Devil of Desire," he tells her, fixing his eyes on the girl sternly. "It is, after all, my un-heavenly title."
Evelyn’s expression at that precise moment portrayed her looking like she had just been slumped in the abyss and then lifted up right back.
"Is this a sick joke to you?" Her voice holds the usual icy tone.
"See, we can’t do this if you don’t believe me, and, truly, I don’t have time to prove myself. How about you think a little about my arrival and your blue companion?"
She was already thinking about it, but it seemed impossible for his aberration to be true. She knew she wasn’t the best Christian—far from that, for sure—but she didn’t think she would attract a demon out of everything on this planet. Her eyes search the air for logical explanations, but there are none. For the man, there could be, but not for that butterfly coming out of thin air.
"Assuming this is true,"—she lifts her previously cowered head, her mind having tried to work out something rational—"What is the purpose of your sudden visit?"
He smiles, content with her accepting his answer, although only partially, and takes off his hands from her shoulders. In a literal snap of fingers, they are set on her lavender couch.
The trip from the kitchen to the far right side of her living room leaves little doubt of his telling the truth to Evelyn.
She widens her eyes for a brief second but recollects herself before he can notice, staring right at the man who she now knows as Heeseung. She wonders how this name could be attributed to a demon, as he claims he is.
With a hand on the couch’s armrest, the boy (or not a boy) digs his black nails into his chin, supporting his tilted head as he observes Evelyn with a great deal of attention.
"I did like you better when you were on the floor"—his exclamation disappointed
—"but this will do too."
Standing himself straight on the couch, he gazes at her and receives an acidic look directed right back at him. Her distrust of him is obvious, her fear faded
—the only reason for feeling it was the shock—and her lips pursed into an irritated streak.
"The purpose of my visit," he starts, repeating her words, "is actually the purpose of my existence: to fulfil others’ deepest desires. But, you cute butterfly, I will find my desires accomplished as much as you will." He winks mischievously.
Evelyn endures another wave of disarray and takes in another deep, agonising breath.
He seems to ignore her reaction, continuing his monologue, "Do you know what your adorable little wish is?" He waves his arms and, with a rush of wind coming from nowhere, the forgotten presence of the butterfly reclaims its importance.
His question was rhetorical, for he opened his mouth to answer it on his very own, "It is adorable indeed."
"All that your heart wants is a romantic connection, a meaningful and true romantic connection," he says, pinching her delicate nose with his fingers, gaining a gasp and retreat.
Evelyn is quick to protest, with a clear look of disbelief and denial, and something more that is curiosity, "You really are a creep," she scowls, "I don't know how on earth you do all these tricks, but I will politely ask you to leave my house one last time."Her hand crawls to her dress's pockets, searching eagerly for her phone to make the call.
But the hard material doesn’t touch her tips of fingers. Instead of the small device, she touches nothing, a deep ocean of nothing.
Panic and anger collide inside her heart, and she clenches her fists, anticipating what was to come. The phone is between his white fingers, rotating it playfully in the air.
"Oh, my apologies!" He hoists the phone above his head. "You must be looking for this," he concludes, bringing it up to her nose, almost ragging her, his smile losing its friendly tone.
Just as her fingers brush the metal, he pulls away, and with that, she steps on his foot, pressing aggressively on his loafers.
‘Screw him,' her voice echoes through her head.
But life didn’t screw him while he was not letting out even a single low whimper of pain or discomfort, it didn’t screw him while he was standing there amused as if going to a comedy piece at the theatre, and it didn’t screw him while he put her in the trance once again with a bored motion of hand.
"As endearing as you are," his words are fragmented as he gets up and looks her down before resuming, "It is our time to talk about serious business now."
He pets her hair, and she tries to move, in vain, for her body is yet another time stuck. Pouting, he goes on, "But we will have enough time for you to delight me with your acts of rebellion." Finishing off his sentence, he fills the air with a chuckle and a shake of the head.
Squinting at him, she questions,"Why would I ever want that? I am very content on my own."
His sly vision reaches her again as he speaks, "That’s the thing, love."
"You can lie to yourself." His feet move in sync with one another. "And you can blah-blah-blah me, but your pure soul could never deceive." His feet came to a halt, allowing him to stand a few inches away from the couch she was trapped in.
"I told you before, it’s all in the butterfly. You ought to listen more carefully!" he scolds her like a teacher. Yet his tone breaks character when he bursts into a hearty laugh, not a second later.
Her words refuse to stay inside any longer,"You—" her phrase hangs in the air as icy fingers govern her dialogue into disappearance, pressing themselves on her lips while creating a slashing sensation for her.
"Ah-ah-ah!" His rising eyebrows follow the sound, stern and decisive.
"Don’t make me shut that pretty mouth of yours too," he says as the ice-cubs slink themselves off her rosy lips. "It would be such a pity." She glares at him, and he sees it, laughs, and proceeds to continue his discourse.
Bizarre hotness and tattered rugs of flames, red and angry, pop and explode inches away from the long inky hair spread across the equally inky sleeves of the dress. They fling ashes in the air and terror in Evelyn’s eyes, but they bring with them a sheet of paper, looking new and of great importance.
"Now," a clap screams in the air, "Shall we start with the contract?" He gives out a questioning look.
"What contract?" Her voice demands an answer, yet settles for a small number of words, choosing not to have her voice taken away.
He sighs, “I thought I had made myself clear.” Heeseung forces her entire attention on him as his hand entraps her chin, anew.
“I am offering you a deal, my dear Evelyn—one you shouldn’t turn down for your own benefit.” The girl glares at him. "A lover and at the same time, someone who understands you better than anyone else is your heart’s strongest longing. And I can give it to you.”
When he sees her addled expression, he continues, “The soul is such a traitor, really…but you should listen to it, and listen carefully.”
She contemplates on his words, the illogical theory she recalls in her head (of all this being true), and on the possibility of this being the true answer to her ‘heart numbness’. But her rational side demanded that she’d listen to argumentation and not dive into stupid acts.
At the end, we always know what part of us gets to win; it shouldn’t even be a battle but we love to complicate everything.
“And who would be my ‘romantic partner’?” She hides the curiosity in her uninterested tone.
His smile revives, looking like it had just won everything, making her question her decision, but she doesn’t have the time.
“That, of course…would be me!” His exclamation forces her eyes to magnify. “Don’t look so surprised, love!” He snatches the paper still lingering in the air, shaking off the small ashes of its corners, consequential from the fire that had brought it.
“Who else could it be?” his slightly higher voice interrogates her, “Cheer up now, what’s with the expression?” He closes her slightly parted lips with his knuckles, stinging with fire the skin of her under-chin.
“Evelyn Mei Anderson,” he mumbles, reading the printed letters of the contract, displayed with cursive, red writing. The red resembles blood all too well and Evelyn obligates her mind to push that thought away.
“I think I like Mei better,” he states with his eyes still focused on the writing.
She stares at him completely unaware of what to say or do but finds herself filling the empty silence in seconds: “It’s my Japanese name,” she explains, earning a small smile and nod of head from the man now standing back on her lavender couch.
The unexpected thunder that regained its ruling over the scary silence that had settled in the old house, and raving mad, strong and gigantic drops of rain bashing the asphalt take their journey in Evelyn’s ears, making her mouth unwillingly let out a wail.
Heeseung’s eyes withdraw themselves from the paper and he flings his head in her direction, drawn in by her small cry. Evelyn feels her cheeks turning red, wanting to curse herself for allowing the sound to ever escape her.
He looks at her, leering. His hand leaves the sheet of paper, finding her shorter front strand of hair and tucking it neatly behind her ear, continuing his travel down her cheeks as she sits, unable to budge.
“I could be here when this happens.” His hand stops in the place, his large fingers shading her face with warmness. “I can give it all to you,” he completes.
She tries to shake her head—to no avail, as he feels him rubbing his thumb over her cheek, “Company,” moving it ever so slowly to her cupid’s bow, “attention,” and making a stop only at her trembling upper lip, “and affection.”
Abruptly, his hot fingers abandon her face, letting the skin carry the agonizing aftermath of a heat Evelyn doesn’t want to be acquainted with. His eyes drift back to the writing, reading through the long lines and paragraphs.
“Well, of course—when you’ll agree.”
Her eyebrows turn into a frown and the debate with her inner self picks up from where it left: uncertainty and indignation.
“I never said I would agree,” she says, making him laugh.
“Evelyn,” he pauses after the guffaw—“Are you completely sure you want to give this opportunity up?”
His hands grab the butterfly again, stopping it from flying near his head, in a trance of his own, just like its owner.
“You don’t have to tell me about those lights again,” Evelyn states as his mouth opens briefly to speak, interrupting him just like he did previously.
“Then, where’s the uncertainty?” He hums, interrogating the girl. The tiny blue flashes brighten the foggy room and confuse her heart further. To make a decision seems too hard for her, whether it is to give up on a demon’s proposal to grant her her most profound wish or to get rid of someone who she has known for barely an hour.
“What’s in for you?” she turns the conversation around, “As a demon, shouldn’t you want something impossible from me? Huh?” Her voice is solely waiting for a reply.
“You’d be delighted to find out, it’s not impossible at all. You actually don’t have to do a single thing other than accept the deal.” Interest plunges in Evelyn’s spirit and she listens attentively.
“As my name obviously says, if you were willing to listen, I of everyone have the highest desire. And that is to dictate others’ longings. You could say I fancy your gratification.”
His fingers force a snap and she can move again. But, she doesn’t as he continues, “And that is all I want to benefit from.”
She muses about what she should do for as long as she can, stuck in the place, not by a spell, but by her own mind. After entire moments of silence, she lets out a deep sight then fixes her wood-like orbs to his black, devilish ones.
“Before I agree to this, I want to put my own terms to this…contract.” Her demeanor holds as much uncertainty as her mind and although the words slip off her tongue like soap from watery hands, she struggles in her own head. The struggles fight themselves like in a war: there’s a wish and there’s a fear.
Our fears do get the best of us, what if brightened eyes and terrifying faces follow us in our sleep? But so do our wishes. And Evelyn is contradicted.
She ruminates over the overpowering inquisitiveness she feels towards the whole affair, she is dragged into the want, the deep ache of her heart that commands her to accept something she should portray as dangerous.
The only thing is that she doesn’t. She is shocked by the whole temptation of the situation, actually scared of her own interest, but she doesn’t feel in danger. Her skirmish with oneself finishes in a bit, interrupted by Heeseung’s motion of head, signaling her to go ahead.
“I don’t want you using your powers or whatever those things you’re doing to me are, again. Write this down.”
The man nods his head, hiding a smirk through his pinkish hair and lowered head as he picks up a pen from his inside pocket, skull-shaped at the end and as black as his leather jacket, and writes passionately on the contract.
“And stop touching my face!” Her peering eyes eyeball him with firmness.
“This one I can’t do,” his tips of fingers brush the red ink in circles and he lurches his head towards her with deceiving care in his face, “Don’t expect too much from me, I have the blood of the Lust Devil running through my veins. Dear uncle Asmo, he is such pleasurable company.” He smiles at her after accentuating his words.
Evelyn sighs and blinks her eyes before shifting from her spot, making her way back to the kitchen, and pouring water into a shiny glass.
"Do you, like, drink water?"
He almost cackles before replying,"Yeah, we do drink water."
Evelyn shakes her head in understanding and picks up another clear glass, bringing the both of them back to her wooden coffee table in the living room.
"I want to read the contract," she states demandingly.
"I would’ve been worried if you didn’t." His remark wakes something inside of her and she can’t shake the questions gravitating in her mind: how did he even know her in the first place? But before she could ask, the document is brought to her face and, with hesitant hands, she reaches for it.
Reading with undivided attention and a remarkable engrossment, she seeks out small things that could ruin this seemingly dream proposal. She is scared of this—doing everything people say not to do, a deal with the devil. And at the same time, she is convincing herself to try, try and see what ‘company, attention, and affection’ feels like.
'A demon can't have less than wicked intentions,' she tells herself as she digs deeper, reading everything ten times and turning the paper up and down, the white and red blending together in her head after about fifteen turns.
Through inky letters, she learns the deal follows a one-year period of time and the official motive is not different from what he said it is. Yet, besides that, she finds absolutely nothing: no door leading to disaster or a cruel fate, nothing to alarm her. She is even more skeptical now, rummaging through and taking in every single reason he would precisely choose her. "Why would it be me?"
His legs press down on the floor, along with Evelyn, whose hand is weaved around his now. The handsome embodiment of the devil gazes into her eyes, smiling differently than he did all the while he was there, with a genuine smile, no signs of arrogance or slyness, just frank and good intentions.
"You mustn’t worry about that at all. The only thing you need to know is that you pique my interest, you only."
Her cold eyes, bruised by time and life, soften for a second, finding an odd sense of comfort in his words—a painful, sinful, and solemn comfort. But they are back to normal quickly, and the walls of ice around her grow tall again as she removes her hand from his.
"I will take care of you, Evelyn," he promises, eying her assuredly.
She zips her eyes to the paper on the table, then the man, then herself once again on the mirror hanging from the wall. She watches her frowned eyebrows, filled with contemplation, her pursed lips, and her questioning eyes.
With slightly quivering hands and after toddling to the paper, she reaches for the pen Heeseung held before, and she steals one last glance at the owner of it. He nods his head at her with seriousness and, taking one last breath of thinking she—
"And I demand you don’t hurt that butterfly again." He looks at her, chuckling and bringing his body closer.
"I didn’t actually hurt it."
She accepts his words and nods, taking the pen in her hand again.
"Evelyn Mei Anderson __________."
She may pursue, somewhere, in her heart, yet doesn’t know she does. All the pursuits she has ever chased were too insignificant—too minimal and ephemeral to count or make a difference. But this is big; it’s not something she can take lightly, like it’s just the choice of snacks or juice for a Friday night spent alone.
'It’s too important,' she tells herself. And she doesn’t know if she has it in her to sign her name away, to part with the devil in the most literal way.
The thunder outside metamorphoses into wrecking drums inside her head, the crashing sound daring her to make her final decision. Snatching the paper off the table, the verdict arrives.
The deal is sealed when she scribbles her name, takes matters into her own hands, forces more independence in her decisions than ever before, wants to live that fairytale life and no longer denies her curiosity.
As a result, the gates of hell open. Don’t bark, Cerberus.
We’re friends.