I have heard people say, “I do not care.” A thousand times or more.

I hear from their voices and see through their eyes that they do care.

In fact, they care more than anything.

But they do not speak up.

“I am fine,” I heard people say.

They are not fine.

They are in pain but won’t speak up.

They are about to die but they still refuse to talk.

“I love you,” some people say.

But I look into their eyes and only see hatred.

I hear their voices crack when they talk.

How sad they are, yet they just won’t talk.

Their lies came naturally but I am not blind.

Nor am I deaf.

I can hear the desperation in their voices and see the sadness and regret in their eyes.

But they do not talk.

They do not talk because they fear me.

Fear the blood on my hands every time I return.

Fear the power laced between my words when I talk.

They fear the scythe I hold in my hands and its sheath that was never washed. 

They fear my oily black hair and my beautiful face, now a ghastly color of white.

I feel their shivering when I come close but what did I expect?

I am the devil, after all.

I am Satan and I enjoy it all.