The Judge grins at me, his teeth snagging at his lower lip. "Did your parents ever tell you, Diana, that bad little girls end up in Hell? The people you murdered must have hoped so, I'm sure." He smiled, before, but now he's laughing. "I guess they got their wish, then."
On cue, the High Court snicker, poking bullets into my side with each bloated stab of mirth.
I'm standing in the High Court Room of the Afterlife, and the dead are counting up my sins and criticizing me. They've used mechanical scales and electronic character tests, and it's funny how far ahead the dead are compared to the living. I stare at the floor; my gaze stuttering over the worn brown ankle boots I died in.
"Look up. Look up at the Court," says The Judge and I obey because there's nothing else to do. I'm not sure if he's a resident of Heaven or Hell, but if he's from Heaven then I'm terrified to see what the people of Hell are like. Though, I suppose that is the desired effect.
"Do you know how many innocents died at your hands, Diana?" The Judge asks, staring me in the eye. His eyes dot have a pupil or an iris - they're a full, milky white that contrasts the black of his robes.
"T-they weren't innocent," I stutter, and I listen to the sound of my voice cracking, of all my fear and terror tumbling out. I was never nervous like this in the real world, not since I was a child - but something about this place seemed different, intimidating. The jury consists of twenty residents of the Afterlife, five of which seem to be residents of Hell. The others, I suppose, hail from Heaven.
I survey each and every one, and it's easy to tell how all the residents of Hell died. Two seem to be stabbed, one suffocated, and the other two have what looks like the remnants of a noose looped around their neck. The residents of Heaven are beautiful, no signs of death. And I assume resident of Heaven are blessed with eternal beauty.
"Ah, of course. What was I thinking?" The Judge says, his face cold. He claps his hands, and the massive mahogany doors of the court open slowly. They're well oiled, barely creaking.
Their footsteps silent, an exact count of twenty-six residents come walking in, all with smiles across their faces. And I recognise a lot of them. Most of them. At least twenty-three of them.
These are the people I killed.
One of them's a little girl - maybe six or seven years old. Her hair is in pigtails, and she's hand in hand with an old woman, maybe her grandmother. I remember her, the woman - I remember how she didn't scream even when I held a knife to her throat, how she looked into my eyes and pleaded that I spare the little girl.
I couldn't spare them. Either of them.
I never felt remorse.
"So, Diana, who are these residents?" he asks, his smirk still stuck on his face.
"T-the people I killed," I say, and it's hard not to look down at my shoes or fiddle with my shirt.
"Twenty-six counts of murder, and you were caught for none," says a The Judge , a sly smile flicking across his face. "This is going to be an interesting trial."
YOU ARE READING
Befriending the Devil
Romance"Twenty-five counts of murder and you were caught for none," said The Judge, a sly smile flicking across his face. "This is going to be an interesting trial." **I wrote this story with a friend on a site called Movellas, her name is Mirlotta.
