I saw the devil once. Just once. He was suave and porcelain and ever so lovely yet... he was grotesque, one couldn't bear to look at him. But I did. I could smell power seeping off his clothes. He was wearing dark denim jeans and the top of a vinyl suit. It was the strangest thing I've ever encountered. On the back was a big blue number '6'. He had pretty, sad eyes and stark blond hair. He was standing, sighing, singing. He was waiting for a light to change so he could cross the street. He stepped out just a bit early and a car clipped him forcing him to the ground. His skull cracked against the pavement and there he laid, eyes opened, skull spilling demons, spirits, jinn. Six little monsters paraded from his skull before he could scrape up the broken bits of his skull and wedge and squelch them back into place. His blond hair was infected with blackish red blood. He got up from the ground and that was when he looked at me. Not once could I look away from that fumbling, tumbling freak show. He looked me in the eyes and began to move towards me. I was already very tall but he approached and looked down with an extra foot and a half against me.
"Excuse me miss," he said.
I stepped to the side and he walked on by. He turned into a shop that gave psychic readings and sold voodoo dolls. I never saw him again.
I saw the devil and six days later I died.
