She hadn’t eaten in three days.
The air in her room was stale, thick with the smell of unwashed sheets and perfume she no longer wore. Her pillow was still wet from all the tears she’d cried. Her phone was always face-down now, the screen cracked from the last time she threw it. That night, her ex, Daton had posted a picture of himself with Myaa. Matching bracelets. Matching smiles. Her world had caved in without even the decency of a warning.
Yet, she still went to work. She gave her best, as if work could keep her alive. But she had changed. Aurora was no longer the jolly, pretty girl everyone once admired. The light in her had dimmed. Her smiles were forced, her laughter gone. Her world had stopped the day Daton left.
Daton – the man she had loved with all her heart, the man she would love even after death. He had been her everything. Until that night out with Mia. Aurora had been drinking having one of the best nights of her life. That was when one of Daton’s friends assaulted her. She told Daton everything, tears spilling from her as she confessed what had happened. He didn’t defend her. Didn’t believe her. The rumors spread like wildfire, twisted and cruel. One night, when she confronted him again, broken and desperate, Daton said coldly, “Who wants to be with a girl like you? You get drunk and let men grope you like you were begging for it.” After that, he started going out more, and more often with Mia.
And then, he left.
Aurora lived with her father, Roger – old, grumpy, but kind in the ways that mattered. He never asked her what was wrong. Maybe he knew. Maybe he’d seen it all before. He had seen her collapse – a complete breakdown in the living room when she knew about Daton hysterical, screaming so loud the neighbors could hear. She punched the table, over and over, unable to stop herself. The pain, the noise, the chaos – it was just so unbearable. She sobbed like her soul was being torn apart. Helpless, Roger had called Aurora’s best friend, hoping someone closer to her heart could bring her back. But even he couldn’t hold her. She had gone mad that night. And after that, she shut off completely.
She thought of dying often. Sometimes she would take some pills, wash their aftertaste off her mouth with the most bitter wines. Praying for solace. She hoped it would end. But she couldn’t do that to her father. So she did the next best thing – she wanted to disappear. She stopped speaking to friends. Deleted her social media, deleted all the memories – hoping that somehow, it would also erase the trauma she’d been through. As if pretending she hadn’t been hurt might make it true. Her reflection in the mirror began to look like someone else.
That night, she took her wax crayon and started sketching on the wall behind her wardrobe, where no one could see. It was her thoughts bleeding out. She drew a figure that looked terrifying, twisted, wrong – but it didn’t scare her. It comforted her. This was her mind speaking out, letting go. Her hand moved on its own – lines forming hollow eyes. She stared at it for a long time, and for the first time, it felt like the silence inside her had a voice.
Then, without really thinking, she opened up a plastic pencil sharpener, pulled out the blade, and cut herself. It was like the physical pain soothed her in a way nothing else could. Mentally, she was already drained, hollow. She watched herself bleed – drop by drop of blood hitting the floor like the last pieces of her falling away. Blood welled up from the thin line, and she let it drip onto the wall behind her wardrobe, where she had been drawing – hidden from sight, hidden from judgment. First a dot. Then a smear. She used the rest of her blood to paint the figure onto the wall, tracing each eye with deliberate strokes. And as she painted, she whispered to herself, “I give my soul to the devil, just make me feel better. I don’t mind living a life wrapped in the seven deadly sins – I just don’t want to be sad or broken anymore.” Her voice trembled, but the words felt like a release, like giving in to something that might save her. The room around her fell into a stillness so heavy it felt like something was listening.
Later that night, she took two doses of the sleeping pills – the ones she had quietly stolen from her father’s stash. She just wanted to sleep, to escape, to silence everything. Then she passed out.
And when she slept, the spirits came.
She did not see them at first. Only felt the chill, the weight in the air, the strange crackle of silence. They danced above her bed – not in human form, but ribbons of smoke, laughter without mouths. Then, every night, she would whisper to them, ask them to make her stronger, to guide her. She didn’t know who they were or why they came – only that they made her feel powerful. And for the first time in days, she felt something other than pain.
It was said that the shaman could speak to the dead. He had a lot of visitors – desperate people, grieving people. Aurora had once scoffed at the idea. She was skeptical, logical, the kind of girl who trusted evidence and logic, not incense and whispers. She didn’t really believe he could help. She didn’t want to be seen either – not in this state. And yet, something pulled her there.
His house smelled of herbs, incense, blood, and secrets. He looked at her like he already knew her.
“He always chooses the best ones, I see” he said.
He stripped her naked, removing her top, her jeans, her bra then her panties. He looked at her body, smelled it. Aurora’s hands trembled as she was getting undressed, each layer she removed feeling like a piece of herself being exposed to something she didn’t fully understand. A wave of shame swept over her – not because of her body, but because of what she was allowing to happen. And yet, she was convinced this was for her good.
She needed to feel strong again, needed something to fill the void. The room got colder, the air heavier with incense and something darker. He took the ash from burnt bones and rubbed it on every part of her body. He focused on her breasts and her private parts. Aurora shivered – the shaman’s hands were cold, methodical. He told her to close her eyes and think of the devil, to imagine it was him doing it, touching her. He murmured enchantments she didn’t understand and made her repeat words that didn’t feel like hers. She pledged, offered, surrendered.
“He looks after his own, you asked for him, he will come” the man had whispered.
And for a while, it felt good. Something else had taken hold. It was like the devil had crawled beneath her skin and worn her. Aurora’s look and personality changed. She dressed like temptation, moved like hunger, spoke like desire to make others lose themselves in her. She smiled. She laughed, but it felt distant, borrowed. And people adored her for it. They admired the version of her that was shallow and built to sin. There was power in her steps now, a cruel elegance in her smile. The devil hadn’t just claimed her – he had crowned her.
And then.
The devil came to her at night. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. She heard his breath – slow, deep, and unrelenting. It filled the room, curled around her like smoke, heavy and suffocating. It made her feel wanted in a way that blurred the lines between need and control.
He touched her, slowly at first, like he owned every inch of her. He penetrated her, and she moaned, arched, begged for more. Aurora welcomed him every night with an aching desperation. When he was done, she would lie there, breathless and upset, hating the emptiness that returned the moment he disappeared. Her skin would still tingle, her body still warm, but her soul felt colder. She woke up flushed, heart racing, craving the dream again.
One evening, she finally sat down with her father for dinner. He looked at her quietly for a long time before speaking. “You’ve always had a good heart, Aurora. His voice cracked just slightly. “You will be fine soon, just give it some more time”
She didn’t say anything. Just stared at her food. For a moment, something flickered inside her. A memory of the girl she used to be.
That night, she fell asleep thinking about her father’s words. And she dreamed of her mother.
It was a lucid dream.
Her mother wrapped her arms around her tightly, her scent instantly familiar and soothing – that unmistakable smell of baby powder, gentle and comforting. Aurora remembered the feeling of her mother’s skin against hers – it was so soft, impossibly soft, like time had never touched her. That warmth, that safety, made something deep in her chest crack open. Aurora broke down, sobbing into her mother’s chest. Her mother gently pulled back and looked into her eyes.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine, Ma,” Aurora lied.
Her mother caressed her face. “How are you, my Aurora?”
And that broke her.
“Ma… Ma, what am I doing, Ma? What have my life become? I need you, Ma.”
Her mother smiled softly, sadly. “I am here. My sweet little Aurora, you’re a child in a woman’s body, Aurora. You’ve always had this innocence, this kindness. Don’t lose it.”
“But I miss you, Mom. I miss you,” Aurora whispered, her voice trembling. Her mother hugged her again, tighter than before.
“I love you, Aurora. You are my pride, Aurora. You need to learn to love yourself”
Then Aurora woke up.
She stared at the ceiling for a moment, her heart still full and her eyes watery. She got up to get some water to clear up her mind. And that’s when she saw them.
The eyes.
Two glowing red orbs, staring from across the room.
She told herself it was just light – maybe from her charger, her air conditioner, a reflection. But she unplugged, switched off everything. The eyes stayed.
Aurora was a science girl, she needed to explain things. But the eyes defied her logic. On the left side of the room, light streamed softly through the windows, but it didn’t touch the eyes. They burned like embers, alive, tracking her every step. She stared, breath caught, heart hammering.
She lit up the lights and the eyes vanished. Gone, like smoke in daylight. She left her room, her heart still pounding, and paused in the hallway. Her breath caught.
The eyes were still there. They followed her – watching her every move. Then she saw them on the curtain too – shapes and shadows woven into the fabric that hadn’t existed the night before. Watching. Always watching.
Aurora’s voice trembled. “Pa…I feel something is wrong.”
Her father furrowed his brow, concern etched into his face. “Aurora… I know things have been hard, sweetheart. But you’ve been through a lot. Go to bed, you will feel better tomorrow”
“Pa..,” she whispered. “Pa,..”
He put a hand on her shoulder but didn’t say more. He didn’t believe in spirits or curses. Not really. He believed in grief. In the way it broke people quietly. He had lost his wife.
Later that night, the dreams turned violent. They weren’t nightmares – they were voids. Black. Empty. But in the blackness, she felt everything. Hands choking her, something suffocating her slowly, cruelly. She couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. It was like sleep paralysis, but deeper, darker. Sometimes, just at the edge of waking, she saw silhouettes – faceless people standing by her bed, watching. Who were they? She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. And always, she felt him – the devil – not touching her now, but possessing the darkness itself.
She woke up, or was she sleeping? Aurora was in her brother’s room. She couldn’t bring herself to stay in her own, not after everything. It felt tainted, like the walls still breathed what she had drawn and bled onto them.
She left his room and went through her mother’s old wardrobe, untouched for over eight years. The clothes still smelled faintly of baby powder, still folded with care, as if waiting for her mother to return. Beneath a stack of saris, she had found her mother’s prayer books – worn, soft, pages filled with notes and tiny pressed bird feathers.
She clutched the prayer book to her chest. The prayers were in a language she didn’t understand. She took her phone and translated the words to English. They were verses about the fight of good against evil, light against shadow. She read them out loud, her voice cracking, trembling.
You need be your own light in the darkest of times. Evil will be there to tempt you, to promise you a world of fame, lust, fake happiness. You will lose yourself to become somebody else. You lose what made you, you. You lose the genuine smile you had, the genuine connections you made, all that is real is lost.
And through finding yourself you are able to be true again – through forgiving yourself for the mistakes of your past, you can move on.
A pledge not to repeat them. A vow to be honest with yourself. To return, back, to you.
She prayed and sobbed and prayed again, tears falling freely. She thought of her mother, her brother she hadn’t seen in years, her father in the next room, and all the love that once made her whole. With every word, she remembered who she had been.
She didn’t beg God, she begged herself. For forgiveness. For return. For healing.
Each tear was a silent plea. A whispered apology to the girl she had buried deep inside. She closed her eyes and felt her mother’s presence. She felt her warmth. She felt her calmness. Aurora focused on her breathing, emptied her mind. She finally felt the peace she’d been searching for.
We could see the first sun rays, it was morning, a new day, another chance to be better, to do better.
The eyes never appeared again.
Little by little, Aurora grew. She spent time with those she loved and who loved her back truthfully. She painted the walls in her room white, layer upon layer, until even the memory of what once lived there began to fade.
The wounds she had brought upon herself healed slowly, leaving behind deep, visible scars. People might have noticed them, but they would never truly see the battle she had endured. She moved on and began to truly smile again; genuine, unforced, and filled with life. Her laughter returned slowly, like sunlight after a long storm, warming the spaces that had once felt hollow.
But a pact made in blood… is it ever truly broken?
How did the story make you feel?
