Ten Years to Damnation

It had been exactly ten years since I made the deal that changed everything.

Back then, I was a man gasping for air in a life that felt like drowning. Debt was crushing me like an anvil on a drowning man’s chest, my career was a cracked shell of ambition, and every night I stared into the dark, wondering how much longer I could fake being alive.

That night in the rain, when I met her, I wasn’t searching for salvation—I was looking for an escape. And she came, just as I poured the last of my cheap whiskey into a plastic cup, sitting alone in the shadows of Rosewood Park.

She looked like someone who didn’t belong. Modern jogging attire, yet her golden eyes glowed faintly in the darkness like molten candle wax. Her hair, an impossible shade of obsidian, swayed though there was no wind. By her side trotted a tiny three-headed Yorkshire terrier, each head sniffing the air as if they were all trying to remember the smell of fear.

"You're ready, aren't you?" she asked, her voice soft but layered with something ancient and unspeakable.

I didn’t ask how she knew. My soul was a battered radio tower transmitting desperation at full frequency.

"Ten years of peace," she said. "No sickness, no debt, no worry. In exchange—" she pointed to my chest, "—I take your soul at the end of the tenth year."

It felt theatrical, like a twisted joke. I laughed. “Deal.”

She handed me a thermos. “Drink this. Every night before you sleep. It’s not the pact—it’s the reminder. So you never forget the luxury you’re enjoying.”

I drank it that night. Tasted like warm vanilla laced with melancholy.

And the changes began.

I got a new job offer out of nowhere. My debts were cleared by a 'bank error in my favor.' My landlord offered me lower rent. My health improved. Everything became easy. Life turned glossy, like a magazine cover version of itself.

I kept the thermos by my bed. Every night, a sip.

Friends noticed. “You’re glowing,” they’d say. “Like someone who found purpose.”

But I hadn’t found purpose. I’d found a shortcut—and paved it with my soul.

Tonight marks the end of my ten years.

I knew the moment I opened my eyes this morning. The sky looked sharper, like it had been freshly painted. Birds sang in minor keys. The air tasted metallic.

As evening fell, I returned to the same bench in Rosewood Park, the thermos clutched like a sacred relic.

She appeared again—same hoodie, same glow, same hellhound-in-disguise at her heels.

"You kept your end of the deal," she said, almost approvingly. "Few do."

"Do you have to take it now?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "I finally learned how to live. Can’t I buy more time?"

She smiled, a tight-lipped expression with no warmth. "Ten years is generous. Ask the damned—they’ll agree."

I looked down at the thermos. "What’s in this, really?"

"Gratitude," she said. "A reminder that even borrowed joy has weight."

I chuckled bitterly. "So, this is it? No trial? No last-minute twist?"

"You misunderstand. There is a twist," she said, taking a step closer. "You assumed I’d take your life. I won’t. I’ll take your soul. And you’ll keep living. Just… without it."

She waved her hand.

The night didn’t darken—but I did. Something inside me shivered and vanished like steam. My thoughts became mechanical. The stars overhead looked like LED bulbs. The chill in the air no longer felt poetic—it was just… cold.

“People like you,” she said, “who crave peace without growth, who ask for comfort instead of courage—you don’t die. You fade.”

I stood up. The world felt foreign. My heartbeat no longer sparked emotion. It was just rhythm.

She turned, her dog wagging all three heads. "Enjoy your peace," she said. “It’ll last forever.”

I walk the city now like a ghost. Not dead. Not quite alive. People smile at me, but I can’t feel the warmth. I remember jokes, but they don’t make me laugh. Music plays, but the notes fall flat. I function, eat, sleep, speak. But everything is hollow. A simulation.

I still carry the thermos. It's empty now. I keep it as a souvenir of the decade I borrowed from fate—and as a warning.

Be careful what peace you pray for.

You might get it—

But only at the cost of everything that made you human.