When it’s all over, I walk slowly up my creaking stares. I tiptoe like I did as a child, scared that I might wake someone but I know I can’t wake the dead.

My room is dark, lit only by a candle next to my bed, and what normally would feel gloomy felt comfortable. Peaceful. For once, my mind had gone silent.

I make my way to the window and sit. I remember looking out this window as a child, but only vaguely. My childhood memories have always felt like a fever dream, strange and vivid, but I’ve never been able to decipher what ad really happened from what my mind has created. I stare at my reflection in the dark glass, admiring the features my mother had unwillingly given to me. I look at my, thin eyebrows. Perfectly waxed every three weeks, just as my husband had wanted. I look at my lips, plump and pink. They look different from normal, not covered in unflattering colors my husband always insisted I wear. I notice my wrinkles now and I run my fingers over them. I feel like I could wipe them away with the swipe of my finger, but they’re still there when my hand leaves my face. I finally look into my dark brown eyes, and feel a sense of familiarity. Like I’ve been here before.

In this moment, I realize that the memories from my childhood were not created in my mind, they were real. In this moment, I realize that I’m not looking at myself, I’m looking at the devil.