BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL.

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[strong music recommendation: "VHS Voyeur" by Stallone Jones. But trust me, you'll need earphones for this one...]

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After Edgar Serre the remnants of any fear I had harbored for things that moved and breathed were completely gone, for, in all honesty, 𝘐 was the true killer. Just like the demon had prophesied, I did not give a damn for the increasing mortality of my kind. Stained my hands with blood again, and again, and again…

"What will happen to him?" I'd ask Asmodeus, gazing into the eyes of a stranger, melting in the stranger's arms.

"Death." He'd whisper through that stranger's voice.

"What will…ahhh…happen…t-to....mmmmm.....her?" I'd moan into some woman's ear while her hands drove me to pleasure.

"You are her doom," the woman would moan into mine.

"Will…he…die…" I'd groan, nails scratching the back of yet another someone.

"He's very, very close." That someone would growl ambiguously.

And like this, many, many, many more….

By the time our 'honeymoon' year had passed, there was enough blood to fill a river. Four rivers.

I truly couldn't care less for who was next in line to do me. As long as Asmodeus orchestrated the act. And after…I was fine with them expiring. I only needed 𝘩𝘪𝘮 to come and fill my emptiness with fire.

People could probably call it love – but it was exactly the opposite. My hatred for Asmodeus never faded. In fact – it reached its summit. I loathed him for what he had done to me, turning me into a monster that couldn't take a full-chest breath without his permission.

As God was my witness, I hated him, hated for that dark, consuming rapture he'd broil me in each and every night.

"Asmodeus…" I'd gasp his name on empty lungs, eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "I…can't hold it…any…longer…"

"Too bad." He'd growl. "I will not stop."

"Aaaaaaaah!" I'd explode to atoms. He'd glue me back together, squeeze my convulsing limbs to immobility. I'd heave, feeling the heat slowly rising from his unending, thrusting movements. "Please stop! It's—starting to burn!"

My words would only excite him, making him faster, more aggressive, more evil.

"Stop!" I'd scream.

"No, sugar," he'd grin at me, eyes black as the Bartholomew's night. "You are not there yet."

"W…w'here! OUCH! WHERE!" I'd roar, battling the fire that would swirl in me like a storm. "ASMODEUS! WHERE!!!"

"In hell." He'd utter and shut me up with the scorching breath of his kiss.

What went on between us was nothing but a ruthless war. Another night – another fight. And I cried. A lot and hard. In the beginning because of how much he hurt me, leaving me covered in black bruises and deep sores, and in the end because of how good he felt.

I was indeed balancing on a tightrope, between heaven and hell of Asmodeus's lust. I do remember that there were times when I especially wished I had never known him, when I thought the ground I walked upon was made of lava and broken glass. And I do remember the times when even paradise seemed not as blessed as how the demon made me feel; times when it seemed that even angels could not reach the heights I reached with Asmodeus.

I found I was utterly dependent on his hunger for my flesh, and on thousands of ways he made my flesh burn so brightly. He taught me how to endure the pain he inflicted on my body, and then how to love it. He even made me believe my glowing marks were stunning. He was nothing like Ronan, or those noble men who loudly proclaim their lover's imperfections perfect.

He never once called me beautiful, or attractive, or some other flattering adjective that pleases a woman's ear. But the way he touched me, caressed my every scar, kissed my every burn, and ogled my every bruise like those were precious creations he, the proud sculptor, carved so masterfully, told me that to him I was nothing short of art, beyond perfect, flawless to the point of sacred.

So with time I picked up on his body language and learned to speak it, for what went on between us simply could not be put in words.

And then his fluttering consistency with no postponements and delays, a dangerous thing on its own.

Have you ever met someone, been with someone, knew someone who would want you more than air? He made me feel like air, something he could not exist without. I only needed to wish for him and he was there, as if all he ever did was waiting to be summoned. As if I were the light of his entire universe.

Just imagine what it's like…like every day is your birthday. Magical feeling. You're always the center of attention, always the first choice, always special.

Can you already spot the issue?

This was pure destruction, for the more of his sick 'affection' he gave me, the brighter those demonic eyes glowed at the growing number of my bodily scars, the more I obviously wanted. I could compare it to a snowball effect, or, better yet, addiction. You know it's bad for you but you do it anyway for its perfect bliss point and fleeting dopamine spikes. Those spikes felt so amazing that I began to squeeze them more and more into my holy schedule.

In between prayer and work, or other monastic activities, I'd conjure him whenever I saw it fit. I stopped visiting Valeria at a detention center in which she was held on a pending trial, and failed the simplest collage course into which I was enrolled by sister Rosalyn to continue my education. I even, in most cases, preferred him over food and sleep. Whatever time I'd get to myself was wasted on my carnal sin.

Shooting heroine into a single vein over and over would probably be safer than playing with fire like Asmodeus, but the drug addict that I was becoming, I couldn't stop fixing myself with dozes that were gradually crossing out my health, relationships and my future.

I remember the moment when my greed for Asmodeus had grown so vast I shook with rage at the mere thought of sharing him with someone else. One day I even asked him about it when he had brought another body into my cell.

"Besides me—are there others?" I remember how he sat on the floating bench, and I – 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮, when I asked that idiotic question.

He laughed. "A whole boiling pit of them."

I tried to hear past human voice, feel past human touch, see past human expression, past another doomed faceless face. I couldn't. So I asked if he preferred me over that boiling pit of substitutes to which he scoffed, "What fool prefers a single drop over a river?" When I reasoned: a fool who is drowning in it? His tonality scraped the floor, "What if that's the goal?"

That broke my heart in a different way, and I saw clearly then that he 𝘸𝘢𝘴 death, and the meaning of 𝘮𝘺 poor existence was to stay alive, afloat. We were never meant to be and I – unless drowning myself for him – would never give him what he wanted. He confirmed it too when out of heartbroken desperation I blurted if I could ever hope to be his favorite.

His reply was awfully matter-of-fact, "You will never be enough."

That hurt, even if it was the answer I had expected, even if it came from the king of lust and destruction. Why it hurt I did not understand. But that nasty, ever-bleeding wound just kept expanding the more I reflected on his words, grew so big I could feel the agony magnify with its size, could hear the blood dribble down the walls of my chest into the cold bloody pool where my heart floated almost lifelessly. Later I'd comprehend it – jealousy.

Asmodeus, that evil genius…he was too wickedly clever. Indeed, the god of arithmetics. He'd map the whole thing out in advance. Calculate his every move to the very last decimal to be precisely ten moves ahead of you while ten inches deep in you. Adore you and scar you and please you and hurt you exactly the number of times he needed for his plan to work. Factor you and everything around you into one grand equation with no other solution but one – to nullify you.

I understood it too late, this wickedness of his. He made you feel like you were his entire universe so that eventually he would become yours. So you tell me, what happens when someone becomes your whole fucking world? I'll go first. It either creates or…destroys you.