Under Hell’s Watchful Eye
Kindra Sowder
Published by Kindra Sowder
Copyright © Kindra Sowder 2015
Cover Art Design © Kindra Sowder 2015
Model © Jessabell Kathrynn
All rights reserved.
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To Jessabell: For your support and love of this story. You are the best inspiration.
I could feel them there. I could smell the perfume of evil that blanketed their skin. I could see them. Their brilliant white eyes and distorted faces. They were all around me, and there was no escape. They were in the crowd of writhing fans, distorting their bodies to the music I had sold my soul to play for them. I wanted the music. The music was mine, but a price had to be paid, and it had been.
My soul and body were trapped in this hell where I was made to sing for demons and all manner of evil things. I wanted the music and I got the music. As I sang for them a song of damnation I couldn’t help but enjoy the fame I had gained, even if the only creatures that would hear me now were the spawn of Satan. But at the same time, I loathed the life I was forced to lead because I made a deal with the devil. I didn’t live a life of luxury I so longed for. Yes, I was given anything I ever wanted now. All I had to do was sing. But this price was no longer worth paying.
I was quickly tiring of singing for this crowd of heathens and I was my only way out. No one else could do it for me, seeing as how I was the only one who could acquire my soul so that I could place it back inside my body. I just had no idea where it was kept. As I continued to belt out lyrics that had them writhing within their own skin from the inside out, I couldn’t help but imagine where my soul was at that very moment. I still wore the scar over my heart as the reminder that I no longer had it in my possession and it was always displayed proudly even though I was no longer proud of what it meant.
I pictured it like a white and sparkling vapor inside of a beautiful glass jar in a large room among millions of others as they all emitted their own light. As I thought of it I could feel a stinging sensation begin in that scar from where it had been removed from my body. Whenever I had thought of retrieving it or just that fact that it was missing that sensation always started there, turning the scar from a pale mass of tissue to a fiery red that couldn’t be missed for miles. It was like a beacon for the soulless.
Looking out into the crowd those distorted faces have become too familiar for my taste, but seeing them dance and grind to the music I sang for them still terrified me despite the familiarity of it all. Their white eyes looked empty and lifeless and, most of all, lost to darkness. The song came to an end and it was time for me to return to the only room I was ever allowed to be in besides this one. As I turned to my band mate all I could see in him was the distorted and empty face that would stare back at me every single time I looked at him. There was nothing there.
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