“She’s not who she says she is.”

That’s what I always hear. Whispered, or even screamed, behind my back. She’s a witch, she’s a terror, she’s a demon.

The last one is the closet to the truth.

For I am not some mundane human who has some glitchy powers, nor someone whose purpose is to scare others. No, I am the devil himself.

Or herself, I suppose. It’s strange, isn’t it, how all depictions of the devil seem to be male? As if a woman could not hold the same power? Perhaps the men may beat us in brute’s strength, but we will forever be cleverer, more cunning and, most of all, more devious. But that does not matter. For they seem to think I have fooled them all.

Each night, they watch me; in their nightmares, they watch me. My glittering black eyes slither into the mind, wrapping around their brains and squeezing the life out of them. Each day, they see me again, but I am different. My eyes are the same, still glittering, still black. But they are clearer now; the humans, they can see now what my eyes truly are.

Empty.

As deep as the abyss itself.

The gateway to hell.

They run. They scamper away as though there is no tomorrow. As though the darkness of my eyes has seeped through the blood in their veins.

I am not who I say I am, that’s what they say. And it’s true isn’t it? What is the devil’s purpose? To punish, to torment, to torture, you might say. But you’d be blatantly incorrect. That is not my purpose.

My purpose is to reveal.

For my eyes, in truth, are simply a reflection. Not of me, not of what is behind you, but you. The inside of you, the inside of your soul, everything about you.

And if that makes you run, well, you might want to reflect on who you say you are.