I had plenty of leisure, now -- it had occurred to me to give myself something in the way of a small holiday. The deed was done, anyway. What more could I do? The gun buried in the middle of a wheat field, his body cut up and separated in places he would have never gone, thus, the police would never find him. They only investigated anyway. His wife -- whom I deemed the Devil's Apprentice years ago -- probably would have killed him, anyway. She wouldn't care that he was gone. And Lord knows she hated me, so it was just one less thing and two less people she had to worry about. I was just a waste child, the throwaway no one really cared about. I was nothing to her. Maybe I should have done the world a favor and killed her, too, and then both of the Devils would be gone. No, too risky. Pointless, really; she wasn't the one who messed up my life.

But him, he deserved this. He was the one who took control of my young life and played me like a puppeteer. From dragging me across the sidewalks and concrete patio by my hair until it bled, to holding me in confinement and withholding any form of nourishment -- I had been through it all. So it was time I took revenge. I was not going to let him live any longer; it was his turn to suffer. The question, now, as I walked away from the field wiping my bloodied hands down my white leather jacket and feeling the wind blow through my tousled waist length brown hair, was what to do with the Devil's heart. It's the only thing I kept. He took mine, so it only seemed fair.

I kept his heart, maybe to prove to myself that the man that forever had seemed soulless actually had one. I mean, at least it beat, to what drum I would never know, and what he ever used it for I would never know, nor did I hasten to try.

My hands are covered in the wretched smell of his rotting skin, but it smelled sickeningly sweet. I looked down at my faithful dog and just stared. His gaze makes my conscience crawl as if telling me what we had done was wrong. No. No it wasn't; he deserved to be killed. Everything separated and displaced. A dirty metaphor for what he had done to me. He ripped me apart and sold my soul only to keep his alive. He fed off the killings of his prey, me, so I got to have the last word.

I put 13 bullets to his chest and one from the spare clip -- for good measure -- through the center of his forehead. I had blown a hole in his chest big enough I could have crawled inside and excavated his body to find every ounce of my spirit he had ever stolen.

The walls of his house were still speckled with his own blood. And I wore a good majority of it, largely on my hands; however, a large amount covered my white leather jacket and saturated the toes of my black high heels.

I craved to see his suffering, the way he pleaded me, and taunted me that I'd never do it. I made him kneel in the same things he had once made me kneel in. And I made sure he felt the pain in his knees. The pain that once made my feet numb, he had to feel too. I watched his blood now pooling around him because of his inability to move. He had done it to me; payback was only fair.

This time, he wasn't the one standing over the top of me laughing and watching me wither in pain; this time, it was me.

Though he begged for mercy and forgiveness, my ears heard nothing. This, much like my own cries fell upon the deafness of my own ears. He deserved nothing; he deserved to experience the pain I had. No less fear would rush through his veins as it once did mine. He, like my soul, was about to die, except as I watched him convulse from the bullets blowing apart his chest, my own heart began to beat again.