Caro's Descent

Chapter Four - Self-Pity

As the evening shadows deepened, I sat on the edge of my bed, lost in the flickering streetlights outside the window. Three months had passed since the accident. The room was a mess. Clothes lay scattered across the floor, and the remains of half-eaten meals cluttered my nightstand.

My heart still grieved for my best friend and the girl I adored. Vivid memories swam idly through my mind, mixing with flashes of long past moments—laughing with Bobby, standing awkwardly in a circle of friends at parties, and the passing joy of a shared smile with Heather. Those connections felt distant now, eroded by guilt and the supernatural shadows cast over my days. Each remembrance tasted bittersweet and clung to my consciousness with a persistence that made the present seem unbearable.

Asmodeus had granted my wish. For the three months prior, he led me down a path toward darkness. The voice in my head hadn't spoken to me since the night Bobby died. As for the demon, he never talked to me. Uncontrollable urges and desires were Ashmedai's tools. Attempting to drown my pain all summer, I'd developed a hunger for the Devil's nectar.

Resting on the bedside table was a small syringe, a haunting testament to my despair. When I picked it up, I felt its weight more in my spirit than in my hand. The prospect of using it was both terrifying and alluring—a potential escape from the guilt and anxiety that I couldn't seem to shake.

I sat on the edge of my bed, and my hollow eyes fixed intently on the sharp needle as I pushed it toward my pale-skinned forearm. I had never tried heroin before, but it was much cheaper than the pills I'd been popping. Flames crept up the walls, casting eerie shadows that danced and flickered in the dim light as the needle's tip tickled my skin.

The voice returned, echoing in the silence with a serpentine hiss, "That's it, Michael," it taunted. "Remember his funeral. Poor Bobby, he couldn't even have an open-casket funeral. Remember the tears rolling down his parents' cheeks as they stood in their suits? Yes, remember their agony."

"Consider how they felt. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds laid their only child to rest only two weeks after celebrating his nineteenth birthday. Now imagine how they'll feel at your funeral."

"Yes, that's right, Michael," the voice pressed on, its tone oozing with malice. "You're the closest thing they have left to a child. Have you even bothered to visit them since the funeral?"

"No! You're too busy feeling sorry for yourself. You loll in your self-pity."

Hearing the voice again unexpectedly gave me a twisted sense of relief. After the demon had possessed me, I assumed my guide had abandoned me. He'd been there all along, watching as I traveled the road to eternal damnation. Many times, he could have intervened, but instead, my guide stayed silent as I made mistake after mistake. His silence persisted until the very moment I needed him the most, a quiet presence in my turmoil.

Tears filled my eyes as I stared at the needle. My chest tightened with a mix of fear and longing. I didn't understand what I hungered for, but I desired it all the same. At that moment, I realized the demon was the one tempting me.

"Go ahead, Michael," the voice said, its tone smooth and insidious. "Push that needle into your arm. Give in. You know you want to. Who cares if you die? You selfish little shit! Picture your parents as they stare at your coffin, brokenhearted and crying. Imagine their agony when they lower your lifeless body into the ground. Go ahead, Michael. I'm waiting for you. The gates are open, and you've already paid admission."

I trembled, recalling the day in church when demons seemed to clutch every soul with greedy fingers. Taking a deep breath, I retracted the needle from my arm. Relief filled my heart, even as my body yearned for the drug. It had claimed me even before I tried it, wrapping tendrils around my mind, but the voice spoke again, and only then did I understand its true nature. It was Satan himself, and strangely, hearing his voice brought me a bizarre, twisted sense of comfort.