A/N: Hello there! This is the second story in the '9: Death' Collection. I thought it out when I was at an all time low, but then added my personal all-time fear and decided to change it into a story. I usually write all my stories in my book or an A-4 sheet, and this A-4 sheet had 'To whom so ever it may concern' printed on top. That's how the beginning comes up. Well, read, review and answer the questions I've put up down below through a PM. Without further ado, I give you 'Guardian Devil'
To whomsoever it may concern,
Okay, that's a bit vague. Maybe I should address this to who picks it up first. Let's try again.
To whosoever picks it up first,
Less common, a little longer. So what? I strive to be politically correct, most of the times. Plus, I'm trying to write the beginning all fancy.
Anyways, to the person reading this letter, you may know me, you may not know me. I certainly do not know who's reading this, like, for sure. But you might. Or may not. Like I said.
As I write this, I feel not in the least bit sad—alright, I'm sorry for doing this to the few who like me, but hey—they'll probably hate me for doing this. Not that they need to know before. There's enough time after for things like hate. I'll probably be happier knowing they love me right now, as in, this second.
But enough of the chitchat. I really don't like wasting time. This really isn't a letter as such, for it's just a piece of folded paper flying around aimlessly. What it is? I'll give you a clue: It might be a suicide letter, but you decide by the time I'm done. Before I start, let me tell you a policy I started following right now: Bare your soul to strangers who don't know you. They won't judge you, but just take things as they are. That's what I need right now. So, whatever I write is from my point of view—other people see the world with different eyes.
Before you continue, just think whether you're making a mistake reading this. Sigh. But, then again, I have addressed it to you. But still. Just think. If you think you shouldn't read this, fold it right now, as in, this second, and don't read another word after the full stop.
You're still reading? I just hope you know what you're doing. But, hey, it is my new policy.
So, here goes.
You know how kids get hurt all the time, right? Fall down, bruise themselves, maybe break something. Rarely. Nothing too complicated; just a little ointment and crepe bandage can fix things.
I've never scratched myself, or gotten little wounds.
From the time I started walking, all sorts of things fell on me—blocks, vessels, wood, books. I know what you're thinking—minor, right?
Well, I'm talking about blocks of bricks, vessels with boiling water, trees and shelves of books, falling on me again and again. And again. Once, even the metal frames of a building happened to find itself high in the air, with me below it directly below it.
Nothing minor about it. As it fell on me, I froze, watching with fascinated horror as my death neared. You know how deer don't move when the headlights fall on them? It's because, at that precise second, their mind completely detaches itself from the body, entering only at the last second, when it's too late to do anything. A five foot stack of baked bricks fell on me, a hot vessel filled with boiling water fell on me, trees and whole libraries fell on me—and all I could do was stare. You get the idea.
But, even as I stared mindlessly, something seemed to pull me back. By the time I got my head around, calamity would've struck, and I would be out of range. Just. With no scratches or little wounds, but big bruises and open gashes. Sometimes.
This was what happened during the day. At night, when everyone was asleep, I would be awake.
There would be something looming over me, a dark figure which only I could see. Even sleeping between my parents wouldn't help—the figure would be closer to me than my parents were. Sleeping alone meant switching on every nightshade and every bed lamp and sleeping with the blanket over my head.
As I grew older, I could feel the hate from that figure—pure, unadulterated hate which had no meaning and no boundaries—press onto me, wherever I went. I did everything I could—I stayed with crowds, I took up workshops during my free time, I made many friends, I kept myself busy. But, every time my mind would wander, I could feel that hate pressing into my back, boring holes into my skin, flesh and bone.
I write well, don't I? But, I have no time to admire myself.
I even asked my friends to check out if there was a stalker behind me, I went to my parents, I went to the police, to private investigators—everything I did was to find that one person.
But he still remained there.
Why he? Just an assumption.
During my school days, I was a champion swimmer, bring laurels to whomsoever I represented. Now, at the age of twenty, I was a professional, full-time swimmer, who was a sports icon across the world.
When I was not swimming, of course, I was trying to kill myself.
Chuckle. Scared, are you? I hope not. Well, it was all by accident, actually. I was returning from a swim session when an actual stalker followed me, knife in hand, gun in other.
I should've died—the knife spun dangerously at me, and the gun was ready to complete what the knife had started.
Before I could blink, I was out of the knife's path, and the stalker was on the ground, froth around his mouth. I, of course, ran out of there.
When I caught my breath, many minutes later, I realized I was in front of a huge building with mirror-like glass covering the entire building. I looked up, and saw myself there. No biggie—just plain ol' me wearing a huge T and tight three-fourths.
No. What was behind me scared me more.
A huge figure, at six feet, stood behind me. A veil of black covered it, looking as if somebody had thrown the cloth on its head. It shimmered slightly, never once revealing what was there behind the veil. Instead of the face, there was a bleached mask—slits for eyes, slits for nose, and nothing for the mouth.
People passed us, but their eyes only focussed on me. Some of them passed their eyes on him, too, but they were unfocussed, as if not concentrating on anything in particular.
They could see me—everybody could. But they couldn't see it.
Only I could.
I ran, scared shitless, back home. By then, I'd pieced together most of my life, accounting it for every save I'd had from death.
But, as I brushed my teeth at night, I could feel cold fingers curl around my neck, then jerk away, as if branded. So, whoever it was hated the shit out of me.
It started with something simple—break a leg by falling from the balcony of my second floor room. I fell, but I broke no legs or hands—anything, for that matter, wasn't broken. The ice incident—saved. The fire thing—saved. The kitchen event—saved. It all happened, and I was saved.
But there was one thing no one could save me from. I just hadn't tried it out.
I stood on the highest jump-board ever made by our gym, and looked down into a seven feet deep pool.
Think I was crazy? Think scary—
There was no water in the pool.
All of it was drained by a computer that was by the pool, regulating the flow of water into the pool. I closed my eyes, imagined the pool as it usually was, and jumped.
That one suspended moment in air—that was bliss. Then came hell.
I zoomed down so fast that my lip peeled back and any extra skin would've flapped back, if it was an attachment on my body. But there was a sense of exhilaration as I zoomed down, pulled by a force to meet the hard, unyielding concrete.
I could feel the coolness of the concrete floor, and—
A hand wrapped itself around my waist, and yanked me out of the pool.
The spirit. It did this, you might say. But, when did it grow hands?
I opened my eyes, and blinked into twin black abysses. Then I took in the rest—black hair leaned to maroon, bronzed skin, lean frame, muscular build and totally sexy. He was my saviour. He was the guy who'd been saving me all my life.
But, before I could thank him, he said, "You keep trying to kill yourself, and I'm going to keep saving you. Don't you get it?" His voice was sexy—that was all I got. But I figured he wasn't talking about that. "Every time you try to kill yourself, you put my life in danger—or what's left of it. We're linked by life. You live, I live. You die, I die. Simple."
But it didn't sound as simple as that. "Who are you?" I asked him.
"Jrrehelo," he answered. "A devil. Not of your kind—low class vermin. I hate being tied to you. I hate you."
This guy was pissing me off. "Then escape, smartass. Kill me and be done with it."
He looked at me in the eye—those abysses were filled with hate towards me. "I've tried, and it's more painful that to have you trying to kill yourself, trust me. It's like strangling myself to death, one feeling I do not respect."
So, I had to die, was it, so that he could leave me and go back? Maybe death was going to get him off my back.
So, as I write these lines, I wait for the upcoming day—the swimming championships, round two: Diving. We had drawn lots today morning, and I was to be last.
Upon intense calculation, I decided that it would approximately take forty-seven minutes for all the contestants to finish their routine. Then, I would have five minutes—two to climb up, with the computer draining system turned on in slow mode (the draining of water would be slow enough to escape notice), then, in the next three minutes that I had to preparing and dive, the computer draining system would go on high mode, where it would gulp in the water. So, by the time I descended, there would be no water.
I wonder—what would Jrrehelo do? He clearly hated me—he said and showed that every time we met. But his life depended on my survival. But, with twenty thousand in audience and the rest viewing at home, would he risk my death, or let a million people watch as I levitated in midair as he caught and saved me?
Grin. I can't wait for tomorrow.
A/N: Is the narrator a male, or female? Does he/she get saved by Jrrehelo (pronounced JRRay-hello, roll the 'r'), or does Jrrehelo let him/her die? *grin* I love asking people questions like this. Well, P.M me your answers and responses, and check out some of my other stories as well. Tata.