The Devil's Advocate

[TW: implied self-harm in a skippable scene at the very end]

Seulgi has no idea why she had done it. Irene's fingers wrapping around her wrist had sent a shock of electricity shooting up her arm and she thinks that, if she had been dead at the time, it would have acted the same as a defibrillator. It certainly feels like she's dying from the shame of it all. Reflecting, her decisions weren't coherent with any 'storyline' she could conjure up in an attempt to relieve both the humiliation and regret that were manifesting into physical pain in her chest. She was illogical in every sense of the word. Twenty days isn't a long time at all to know somebody, especially if you live in opposite worlds and even more so if those worlds have been locked in war since they were just a mere glint in some greater being's eye. Alongside this, there is no substantial reason that she felt the need to kiss the angel; they hadn't entertained any flirtatious advancements between one another, nor even hinted at the prospect and yet, at that moment, when she spun around and saw the genuine concern twinned in Irene's eyes and the way her shallow breathing came out in vaporous puffs, she couldn't help but connect the gap between them like magnets. Except, one of them was not magnetised in the slightest and she had not only forcefully attracted it but, most likely, repelled it permanently.

Seulgi accredits it to not wanting to lose one of the only real connections she'd made since she had arrived in Hell. Like kissing her after an argument was going to be the crucial move that conserved their 'friendship' if that's what it could still be called. Perhaps such a movement would assure Irene that her platonic affections were real and maybe not strictly just that but something else, something so foreign to her that she's forgotten just what it felt like until now and yet this divine feeling was directed to somebody she could never touch nor get to know. Forbidden from enjoying sweet outings or romantic evenings or simply just smiling at one another in a way that wasn't deemed as provoking. Not only was the little shenanigan relationship-ruining, but it was beyond illegal. Fraternising with anybody even mildly associated with Heaven was a sure-fire way to get yourself exiled and, as Satan's second in command, she's fairly sure the angels aren't exactly going to welcome her with open arms. Seulgi doesn't even want to dwell on the fate of those who's souls can rest on neither side; dead on earth and unwanted on it's posthumous counterparts. She has distributed that destiny to plenty; she doesn't want to be on the receiving end of it.

What makes everything even worse was the fact that Irene made little known about her feelings surrounding their perplexing situation. Seulgi isn't oblivious; she knows that the angel stuck around to weed out some extra information from her, but the fact that once she did acquire some she never left, makes her cling onto the possible shreds of mutual affection they might share. The stigma that surrounds devils is not one of news to her and it's certainly not as if it is an unjust image-- in fact, it's entirely accurate. That's why she hates it. It doesn't apply to her (something she had tried to portray each time her and Irene met) and yet she sits at the left-hand-side of Satan and pretends to revel in the power to the point that her rivals are bitter over her 'scathing' presence.

She has 'horns that could prick fingers' according to many; a phrase used to describe devils with mean streaks or awful human pasts and, at this, she gingerly brings her hand to the red points rooted in her head. They're as tangible as ever, smooth and wine-dark and they curve at a slight angle inwards. If anything, they are perfect or as perfect as the features of a demon could be. Aligned perfectly with the illustrations and the fiction, Seulgi knows that she is what every devil aspires to be like. She could see it in their stares which they hid futilely behind drained glasses and the way they nervously tussled their hair when they spoke to her and yet here she is, taking hesitant steps down the path leading up to the irresistible coffee shop.

She doesn't know why she's here. After telling Irene that she'd have a new guardian put in place, there's little reason to be but, nonetheless, there's a glimmer of hope forcing her to assess the damage and, if she's ready to admit it, see the angel herself. It's stupid really. She's aware of Irene's ulterior motives; nothing about their relationship was natural-- not the meeting, nor the bonding.

It's in the late afternoon, the white light of the sun has swept away any evidence of last night's escapades. The door she had waited at was propped open, welcoming in a breeze and the yellow lights that precariously line the ceiling are nowhere to be seen. It's utterly transformed-- like another world or, as Seulgi so desperately wished, like it had never even happened in the first place. Although she came with the intention of looking, she doesn't want to see. Her eyes tentatively peering through the vague, distorted pane of glass like a student afraid to look at their test results.

She can see the booth they sat at largely untouched save a small ring of coffee yet to be wiped off. Yeri sits in silence, looking distracted and the general thrum of the shop is pulsing but there's no sign of Irene. Everything's present except the one thing she wants. She feels like a ship who's anchor is refusing to catch the ground. When it finally hooks onto a rock, it shatters into a million fragments and, once again, the ship is cast into a never-ending, grating journey and she's just so sick. Is this snowball ever going to stop rolling? Or is she going to continuously keep picking up more detrimental flaws until the snowball inevitably breaks apart or melts? She's so tired. There is no wind in Seulgi's sails anymore.

Walking inside she's greeted by nobody and it makes her heart sink. Knowing Irene as a woman who doesn't know when to stop, her absence is ten times more prominent. Perhaps that's why Seulgi is so drawn to her-- they both have a hubristic lack of self-restraint. Life is a game and love is the prize. Seulgi thinks whoever made that phrase up was wearing rose-tinted glasses because she's only got one life left and zero prizes to show for it.

Mentally, she curses herself; she can't just leave Yeri alone now. It would be nice if she could confide in the young girl who sits in blissful ignorance, both present through everything and unaware of it all simultaneously, but she also wouldn't want to pile the fears of an ancient devil onto a human who's life span is as long as the time she's known Irene. Irene. Irene. Irene. That name won't get out of her head.

Before she can exhaustedly slump into the chair opposite of her, Yeri rises from her seat, her eyes are glued to her screen like she's forgotten something and she's walking away, leaving a half empty cup with trickles of liquid running down its side unattended. It was unusual for her to not tidy up after herself. It was something Seulgi had noticed she always did and with a pang of guilt, she remembers that without Irene, or any guardian angel for that matter, (it's not as if she cares) there is nobody to balance out the natural inclination to do evil she forces onto those who she oversees.

Seulgi follows her and someone behind the counter huffs, probably upon spotting Yeri's unclean table but it's too late to look back now because they're walking down the street fairly quickly and Yeri's getting into a car and she thinks it's probably an uber so she clambers in too, instantly feeling the seclusion of the backseat closing her off from the world outside. Yeri tells the driver directions and it's only then does Seulgi realise that it's the first time she has actually heard her voice. It's low but soft and melodic and Seulgi wants to hear it more.

The journey is short, made even shorter by last night's events replaying in her mind like a broken record and the daydreaming devil is glad to be finally pulled out of the loop when Yeri's car door clicks open and she mimics her and does the same. It feels natural, like two friends arriving together. Alas, it is anything but as Yeri walks inside a towering building, that she can only assume is student accomodation, with the tense posture of a girl who is alone.

Yeri's phone screen flashes on and off, resounding small dings and Seulgi curiously peers at it. Texts are lining the notification bar and thickening by the second. Something about a party. She sees the word alcohol flash by a few times and some other slang word that she doesn't recognise but other than that, it's clear what Yeri's currently dressing up for. Her hair is gathered in a sleek ponytail and she's wearing a fitted black, sparkling dress to match and Seulgi already feels underdressed despite knowing there will be no reception to her outfit.

Soon enough the uber they sit in swings heedlessly into an avenue with lavish, sun-tanned houses lining it that look like they have been plucked straight from the streets of Spain-- or at least Spain in the movies. Seulgi doesn't know, she's never been there. The journey here was longer this time, they're far away from decrepit student buildings and homes for the elderly which slump with years of dejection. No, no. Whoever owns these houses use their evident surplus of money to play squash and taste wine. Seulgi's almost expecting a bouncer to be guarding the door with a red velvet rope and a list but they both pass through unchecked.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, they're secluded in a world of glimmering, neon lights in the dark which bounce off flat, harsh surfaces and the crowds wobble in the misconstrued rays of colour. Music is booming through loudspeakers and Seulgi can feel the vibrations in her body and swears she can almost see the thick soundwaves themself. People laugh here and there and others are gathered in clusters around TVs and sofas and counters and a extensive buffet table laden with cups, sandwiches, egg rolls and other such foods and Yeri has picked up a cocktail sausage and a cup of, what is presumably, beer and is already flitting around the different crowds. She's nodding her head at both people and to the beat of the music but whether she actually recognises all the people she's greeting, Seulgi doesn't know-- she certainly wouldn't.

Seulgi feels like some kind of celibate huddling around the outskirts of throngs of people and she knows they aren't but she can't help but feel judging stares gauging holes into her sides as she clumsily slips through people in an effort to keep up with Yeri who just won't stop moving. One beer is turning into two and now Seulgi's losing count every time she drops behind someone else's silhouette. The music is blaring and loud and the strong lights make the actual colour of the room ungaugeable. She didn't even get a good look at the house itself before she was dragged into it's pulsating depths. She thinks there were some elongated staircases by the front and large open arches in place of doors which lead into a series of rooms connecting the kitchen and dining room and the living room which, she has to admit, make a good layout for an open space party.

She almost wishes that she could just sink into the crowds and fall into the beat of the music and close her eyes and dance with people she doesn't recognise but there's that same name in her head again: Irene. Irene won't forgive her if she let something happen to Yeri, she's sure of it. The woman is a literal angel and, judging by her reaction to Seulgi's unprecedented kiss, she probably cares more for Yeri than she does a devil. In fact, the most she probably cares for her is ensuring that she won't anger the horned woman enough to lose her head or something. She had made those thoughts clear on multiple occasions and each confession hurt more than the last.

How long have they been here? Seulgi hasn't a clue but the music isn't letting up nor is the energy of the attendees and that includes Yeri. The usually reserved girl is making her way through alcohol like Irene on the night they met and ensuring that she personally gets to know what feels like every single guest she comes across. Her previously slickened ponytail has loosened considerably but her dress is still as form-fitting as ever. She's smiling and laughing and giggling at jokes that really aren't funny and completely unaware of Satan's second in command tailing every movement she makes.

Yeri's head is a mess. If she holds up her hands in front of her, the fragmented thoughts in her head can't quite piece together which way is left and which way is right. But it doesn't matter anyway. She can't hold up her hands because one holds a cup and the other clings to any surface she can use as leverage to maintain her diminishing balance which only wanes away more in the disorientating lightshow. She is more flushed than usual, her face is scarlet but not from the neon and she revels in her insobriety. It has been a long time since she has felt this relaxed. Like something in her just changed, just once. The stresses of her studies are gone as if they never existed, except they do but she isn't registering that. The low lights wherein she dances are what she knows now and the people around her are laughing so she laughs too but she can't hear them over the music and the blood rushing past her ears. Maybe they're laughing at her but she doesn't know. She doesn't care; ignorance is a blessing and a choice and alcohol inhibits both.

Frankly, it's been a long time since she's done anything relatively interesting outside of sitting in the same coffee shop debating things in her head. Since last night, things have cleared and she's taking full advantage of the clarity and using it to fog her brain with her own drunken state. Contradictory but, oh boy, was it fun. Before her sobriety slipped between her fingers, she had noted how this 'house party' really felt like a club. She takes another sip of beer, swallows, and laughs again. It tastes cheap but it does the job although she's certainly not an expert on expensive alcohol. Is there even a difference like that in beer? She's half considering taking what she thinks is a lit joint from someone's outstretched hand belonging to a face she doesn't recognise before the crowd of laughing people sway away and carries her with them and the glowing embers of the joint merge back into the LEDs.

"Yeri!"

Yeri turns. She doesn't know who this man is nor how he knows her name. "Yeah?"

"There's a pool!"

"A what?"

"A pool!"

It's hard to hear him over the music. "A bool?"

"Yeah! Come this way!"

Yeri follows him, flanked on either side by other curious onlookers who have not yet discovered the accessibility of the ranging outdoors beyond the reverberating walls. She's very curious indeed to find out what a 'bool' is and even more so why it's on the second floor of the house. She thinks the stairs are steep and they're laughing again, definitely at her this time because her feet feel leaden and she imagines that if she were looking at someone in the same circumstances, she would laugh too.

The music is subdued up here and Seulgi breathes a sigh of relief. Perhaps she's deciding to take a break from the incessant booming? She can still feel it throbbing at the base of her skull and almost thinks she might feel something wobbling beneath her skin when she brings a hand up to put some pressure on it. The landing up here is less permeated with the odour of cannabis and people, the population matching it but many rooms have their doors locked and Seulgi isn't in much of a mood to find out what's going on the other side of them.

Luckily, Yeri and her newfound posse don't seem to have the same idea and are instead walking through an expansive corridor that leads them past the less-than-mysterious locked doors. They appear aimless but clearly there's some sort of collective target in mind when they veer into an open room and cross over through another door which is shrouded by curtains that flap open like arms in the wind which blows in through the balcony it lays open to. Now they stand upon the overhang which gives view to a darkened night sky. The sun has bled away in the west and it's final tangs of orange are melding into the navy and there's very little light save for the moon which shivers above the clouds which blot it. There aren't any stars out tonight but the ceaseless scintillations make up for their absence in a rainbow that would put Leprechauns to shame. 

The only thing that snaps Seulgi out of her thoughts is a yelp followed by a splash and then cheers and she realises somebody is missing in Yeri's newfound friendship group. On a slight offset to the edge of the balcony is a blue, illuminated pool which looks almost unnatural and undeniably appealing in the heated atmosphere of the party but it's a far jump away for a drunk person. Yeri is laughing harshly about a 'bool'..? And the others are cheering, hanging their torsos over the boundary to look below with mirthful grins. 

Now the others are taking turns. Each leaping over the balcony's edge into the pool's deep end, leaving white, frothy residue to rise up in bubbles which fizz out once the diver breaches the surface. Seulgi half wants to leave them all be; she has guarded people doing these types of things before in her past and yet she can't shake the foreboding feeling travelling through her veins and wrenching her stomach. She thinks it's to do with Irene. Yeah, probably. She'd be angry if she saw what's going on. Her hand reaches out feebly to take Yeri's shoulder who is now alone in the quiet (or so she thought) on the abandoned balcony. The beckoning calls of those below are louder than the music out here and the young girl watches them with awe in the dappled moonlight and Seulgi can only watch as she clambers up onto the ledge with alcohol-fuelled bravery and her heart is in her mouth.

The way down is long and unforgiving, the tremulous water the only safety net and yet she looks at it with the eagerness of a child getting their first look at the Christmas tree on the big day itself. Seulgi's fumbling with her phone in a desperate attempt to contact an angel; she really wishes she had Irene's number now, even if they're not the best of terms. Joy's name is on her screen when she sends a hurried text begging her to do something. She doesn't know what Joy could or even would do, but there are other things she's trying to think about right now like how Yeri is now facing her, back towards the eager onlookers, standing on the ledge. Her hair whips back in the invisible, humid wind and Seulgi feels herself going cold nonetheless. Don't do anything you'll regret Yeri. Turn back around and face forwards. But clearly, Seulgi's futile willing doesn't beat the intoxicating chants of those below them and Yeri takes a deep breath, steeling herself.

And then she jumps.

For a second Yeri's eyes lock onto Seulgi's, as if she's looking right at her, as if Seulgi is a tangible person. But the look in her eyes isn't one of recognition. It's fear. Horrible, terrible fear that wrenches her gut and renders her a paralysed mess and it is only then does Seulgi realise that she has not jumped. She has slipped. And now she's plummeting down into some great unknown below, the pool a metre offset by her position. The humid air is bitter now and if Yeri could feel anything except her own blood running cold, there would certainly be goosebumps, and her hair waves around her face the colour of black and only that of the sky and she can't even bring herself to scream because she meets the ground before she can entertain the thought.

There's tinnitus in Seulgi's ears ringing loudly as she sprints down the stairs three at a time but she can't tell if it's from the music finally bursting her eardrums or the crippling dread which threatens to buckle her knees and collapse her ankles. The crowds feel thicker now to push through as they slope in tangent to the music's bass and rock against her every which move and she doesn't really know where the door to the garden is, simply following the natural assumption that it'd be at the back of this never-ending house.  

Finally, she breaks through into the wintry outside and the commotion is noticeable. A crowd gathers beneath the balcony edge and people are shouting here and stretching their tight dresses to get a look and those in shirts creasing them. No one moves for what feels like a long time and the empty pool's water froths quietly under the silence which is more deafening than the music. There, in the middle of the crowd, Yeri lies stilly, frozen amongst the moving lights in some awkward position in which she should not be. Seulgi wishes she had just frozen moments before, when she had only been contemplating climbing onto that ledge which bore nothing to stop her fall. 

Blood seeps from where she doesn't know onto the stone, her hand resting in the fluid untwitching. Unmoving. But before Seulgi can get any closer the world is spinning and her balance is waning. Her knees finally give way and she's upon them, the grating pain unnoticeable because when she looks up she's at the party no longer, instead in some strange vision in which the sun has eclipsed the moon. An earthly replication of what she doesn't wish to relive. There's that same metallic tint on her tongue she remembers from both years and a little under a month ago and her hands are before her. Trembling. She's standing now in the upper landing of her own house, the only light is the last, yellowed and pale shreds dwindling through the windows and fading already. There's old blood on her hands and it's turning wine-dark on her clothes. A few drops have bloomed an ugly maroon on the carpet. Her mum will kill her.

Her hands push on the door which gives away, the bottom of it just riding the surface of the floor when it skids open. It hitches and Seulgi slips through the gap. A lump rises and falls beneath the thick duvet of the bed which is unmoving in the centre of the room. Seulgi's blanket is thin and ragged and the jealousy is seething in her throat as she approaches the cyst. And pops it. That same feeling encompasses her hand; pushing what is clearly a knife through a 'starchy pillow.' Blood soaks her skin, soaks the coveted duvet and her hand is damp from her victim's rapid breathing. There's no screaming that can be emitted, just their panicked eyes palpitating and glazing over. She sees double of herself in that bent image and doesn't much like what she sees so she looks away. She has lost count of how many times she has thrust the weapon and she's not shaking anymore, instead a mirthless grin is stretching across her face. Eyes wide and unseeing. Liberation is what she feels and, oh yes, she likes it very much.

Sirens wail in the distance and her breathing slows, their blue tapering lights are stark against the house now with its non-existent spotlights which are finally still in bated breath. Seulgi is on her knees again, staring down at her clean hands and she's doesn't move nor speak. As if to would break the fragile atmosphere on which Yeri relies or she hopes for her to rely on. The stretcher on which she lies is hoisted and the blood that stained her is wiped away and Seulgi doesn't know what to pay attention to; her own warped mind's trickery she has barely recovered from, the unresponsiveness of Yeri or the eery silence of the party all of which are her fault.

If only Irene was here. She would have been able to stop Yeri from jumping, even partying if it were for Irene and the regret is intense and washing over her. It's intoxicating and she only falls deeper into her own sorrows. She's a monster and even the birds of a dawn sky know it. They stay silent with her, knowing what had passed but unable to acknowledge what Seulgi couldn't put right. Even the doors of the yellow and green ambulance swing urgently shut before she can board it and she is left alone in her thoughts. Surrounded by hundreds of people, yet utterly solitary.

* * * 

The other inhabitants of Hell look like angels compared to herself. Like Irene. And she stands in front of the mirror, staring at the vague image and it stares back. She doesn't like the paleness of the reflection, the grey circles beneath its red eyes which bare not even the lick of a candlelight in those dark irises, ungracefully tussled hair and crumpled clothing and most of all, those red little horns. A signature of what she is and what she wishes she isn't all perfectly summated as those two distinctive shapes on her head. They don't hurt. She doesn't think they feel either. Natural for an unnatural being. 

There's a file in her hands. Her clean hands with skin dried from overwashing. White divots litter the file; it has been used before. She brings it up and it hovers inches away from her horns and she waits. Perhaps someone would stop her or call her name. But she's the devil's advocate. She has no guardian of her own.

The pain is no worse than what Yeri probably went through.