Sympathy for the Devil

37

I didn't fight back as bands were placed around my wrist. I didn't argue as Sally, and I were brought to a shared living space.

Arawn healed up every cut and bruise I had obtained since arriving as if he had taken an eraser to my skin, wiping away every mark as if it had never existed in the first place. The burns that once blistered and screamed beneath my skin were gone. The bruises that had bloomed dark and ugly across my body had vanished without a trace. Lingering aches that had settled deep into my bones—proof that I had endured something real—were stripped from me.

He didn't just heal me.

He reset me.

Made me into a goddamn doll.

He made sure that Akira washed my hair and dressed me in proper attire. He wanted to make me appear presentable rather than appear like a malnourished prisoner.

Akira brushed my hair until it fell silkily along my back. I was wearing a forest green blouse, and black leggings.

Her touch was precise. Controlled.

Not gentle. Never gentle.

There was no care in the way her fingers moved through my hair—only function. She didn't pull, didn't snag, didn't cause pain, but there was something deeply unsettling in the absence of hesitation. It was the kind of stillness that came from something that didn't need to consider the person it was touching.

Akira didn't see me as a person.

She never had.

And she never will. 

Neither will Finn.

Or Uncle Charlie.

They aren't able to any longer. 

Up close, it was easier to feel what Akira was. Not just see it, but feel it too. The hollow absence of a soul. No flicker of empathy. No hesitation. No internal resistance to what she was doing or why she was doing it. 

A Sluagh. Soulless bastard.

Empty.

Vicious.

Willing.

Her reflection caught faintly in the polished surface beside us, and for a split second, it didn't match the room. Didn't match the softness of the light or the illusion of comfort surrounding us. A calculated illusion, Arawn made sure of including in my surroundings. Even though I see past all of the bull.

 There was something jagged beneath Akira's stillness, something sharp and waiting, like a blade sheathed and guarded. 

She hated me.

I could feel that too.

Not emotionally—not in the way humans chose to hate. It wasn't layered or conflicted or rooted in anything that could be understood. It was simpler than that. Colder.

Hate is embedded in her nature.

If Arawn hadn't given the order, she would have torn me apart without a second thought. Not out of anger. Not out of pleasure. Out of her own tenacity.

She braided my hair back. Silver mingling with red in her twisting movements. 

"Charlie tend to Sally." Arawn barked out an order in my Uncle's direction. I whipped my head around as Akira fisted my hair and yanked me back. I winced, but made no effort to speak my agitations. 

Her fingers tightened around her black hair tie as she finished smoothing out the braided area that came undone by my jerked movements.  

"Keep still," Akira pulled and yanked my hair into pristine condition. Another perfectly unflawed thing to keep Arawn content. Not a hair is to be out of place. Her clawlike nails scraped along my neck with warning.