You felt... empty, at first. Like you were missing something. And you just watched that girl walk away, maybe a little surprised, but without feeling. Everything that you used to love just didn't sound good anymore. Things that used to scare you like spiders and heights didn't faze you like they did before.
You went back to work. You were a social worker. But there's wasn't that drive, that fire, that longing to help people. In fact, you could care less. You just felt detached from everything. You quickly quit the job, to the surprise of everyone. But you didn't care. You tried talking to people. People you used to love. Nothing. People that you used to hate. Nothing. Your brain said you hated them, that they were rude, but you didn't feel it.
And then one night, you were standing in your kitchen. A knife was lying on the counter. You picked it up, studying it shone in the moonlight. And then carefully, you carved into your arm. And it hurt. It hurt like a mother. But where the sight of blood may have disgusted you before, it didn't make you feel anything. You dropped the knife and licked the blood off your arm. It tasted coppery and tangy, but you weren't grossed out.
The next night, you left your house, the same knife in hand. You walked into the neighbors house, kicking the dog aside.
(Ouch, that physically hurt to write. I do not endorse the abuse of dogs or cats or any animals or people for that matter.)
You hear the cock of a gun and turn towards it, seeing the face of a man you barely recognize.
"You?"
You step toward him unfazed, raising the knife.
"What are you-"
And with one fluid motion you stab him directly in the heart. There's a voice in the very back of your head.
That's wrong, it says.
But it's quiet. Quieter than it used to be. He gasps, blood spurting out of his mouth. You stab him again for good measure. And you feel absolutely nothing.
A few days later...
You stand in the house, staring at the grizzled bodies. You want to feel sad, distressed, angry. But you just... Don't. Two figures step in, guns raised.
"Hi." You drop the knife and wave weakly. The two men look at each other and then back to you. "Go ahead. Kill me. Arrest me. Something."
They step into the light and you see their faces clearly for the first time. Hot. Whereas the old you might've felt embarrassed by this thought, you don't feel anything.
"We'd like to ask some questions first."
"Damnit, just kill me!" You scream, smashing your hands into fists. "I can't feel anything, haven't felt anything since that fucking girl!"
"I kill, and mangle, and talk, and try new things, I drank my own fucking blood! I can't feel anything, no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try. So just kill me. Please. Because if you don't, then I'll hurt more people. I'll hurt myself. I just don't know anymore. So kill me, or tell me what happened to me, or something."
The tallest of the two keeps his gun trained on you but steps forward, comfort and sympathy in his eyes.
"We can't help you, but I can tell you what happened."
You wait for an answer, not caring as the shorter one steps behind you and puts his gun to your neck, wrapping an arm around you to keep you in place. You don't mind. You weren't going to be going anywhere anyways.
"You lost your soul. That girl ate it."
"She ate my soul..." you repeat.
"Yes. And before you ask, you probably won't get it back."
You sniff, taking in the smell of blood.
"At least I know."
"Yeah..." the man trails off uncertainly.
"Well, now I know. Ya gonna kill me?"
"I won't."
"Well, I sure will. Go wait in the car, Sammy."
"But Dean-"
"Just go."
Sam finally obeys. The gun presses into your neck harder.
"Please just do it. Let's get it over with."
Dean clears his throat, trying to keep emotions out of this.
"I'm sorry, kid."
And then your whole world disappears.