My mother always told me to be careful of men with beautiful smiles.

I laugh to myself when I think of how that might sound to someone at face value. “Beautiful smiles?” you might ask yourself, “Any old good looking smile?”

No, my mother meant a specific kind of beautiful smile. One so radiant, so filled with joy, that you couldn’t help but feel that it hid some darkness. My mother would tell me that those men were demons on the inside, waiting to lure in innocent and naive souls to their demise.

When I asked how I would tell a demon from a man, she told me that when they smiled at me, I would just know—I would feel something twisting up inside of me. She found it difficult to describe. “You’ll just know,” she’d tell me. I would always wave it off whenever she spoke about it. Just my silly mother’s ramblings, I’d think to myself.

I was at a bar one night when I finally understood.

I never go to bars, nor do I really leave the apartment for that matter. Maxim never allowed it, and I guess I got used to it. If I even brought up the idea of setting foot outside of the house, he would go ballistic and scream at me for hours on end. That night was an exception. He wasn’t going to be home that night. Tuesday nights, he never was in those days. I knew he was fucking that girl from down the street, even if he told me he wasn’t. It’s not like I cared. An empty house meant no drunken shouting, no shattered beer bottle pieces along the floor that still cut my feet when I walked barefoot, because he refused to let me even clean my own house. No new bruises or cuts from whatever he defined disobedience as that night.

Of course I wanted to run away. I wished I could run away. But I was too afraid to. I was shackled to that apartment, that tomb of mine. It took me weeks of working up bravery to bring myself to be able to open my apartment door with intent to walk through it.

The bar down the street was as far as I would drag myself. I just wanted some semblance of freedom that night. I remember I had caught a glimpse of myself in the window’s reflection. Dark bags under my eyes, cracked lips, and hair like I hadn’t gotten out of bed in months. I looked like a mess, and felt even more like one. I can’t remember how many beers I drank, but no matter the number, it wasn’t enough to get me drunk. I do remember how frustrated I was that I couldn’t drown out my troubles, though. Before I could order more booze, I remember a stranger sitting down next to me. The first thing that struck me was his scent—he smelled expensive, like he used the kind of colognes that cost a month’s worth of rent. I looked at him, and he looked at me. He was well groomed, strangely dressed for the kind of establishment we were in. This was a rundown place, not one to wear such fancy clothes in. His neatly styled hair was a warm shade of dull brown, and his eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses that gleamed when we made eye contact.

And that’s when I finally understood what my mother meant.

The stranger had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen on someone. It was so warm that I felt as if the room around me had increased in temperature a couple of degrees (though looking back, maybe I really was just drunk). But despite the warmth surrounding me, I still felt a pit form in my stomach. Something was wrong. God, I still remember the way his eyes were. Bluer than the sky above. Eyes that drew you in, the longer you stared into them. I felt like I had fallen into a trench just from a few seconds of eye contact. It was just a quick glimpse on his part. He had turned his attention back to the bartender, chatting him up about something I didn’t care enough about to listen to.

We slept together that night, if you were curious.

Could you really blame me?

I know my mother said to be careful, and maybe I should have heeded her words, but I don’t regret it.

I hadn’t been touched so tenderly in years, not since I first met Maxim, when we were happy. I missed it. He was handsome and willing to entertain a sorry sod like me for company, and I was lonely; so incredibly lonely.

And so obviously, I sought him out again.

The bartender stopped me that next Tuesday, when the stranger wasn’t there. He told me to be careful around him, he was dangerous. As if I couldn’t tell already. The Stranger and I talked that night at the back of the bar for hours. He mostly asked me questions about myself. I followed him outside to the alleyway behind the bar when he went to smoke, and we talked back there for a while. At some point, he asked me about the bruises on my neck.

“I don’t remember giving you those,” he joked. His gloved hand had gently run his fingers along them, just enough that it wouldn’t hurt.

I swore my heart stopped in my chest. It was hard to breathe, to keep calm. I tried my hardest to, but it was impossible. My breaths were shaky, and he knew that. I knew that. I eventually told him about Maxim. I broke down in front of him. I was too miserable, too drunk not to. I realize now his expression never shifted the entire time I told him—he still wore a smile the entire time.

“Do you hate him?” He asked. I can still picture his smile in my mind, I can still hear his voice rumbling in my ear, a whisper, a question that sounded like temptation. I choked out a sob, biting my lip until the skin peeled. “Yes.” The Stranger was quiet. I didn’t want to look at him, I couldn’t. At first, I thought he was going to laugh at me, or worse, somehow choose to tell Maxim. The silence made me feel sick. Thoughts ran across my mind like rats scurrying across the floor of my apartment.

Maybe he was a friend of Maxim, trying to test me. Maybe he would tell him everything. Maybe Maxim was just hiding in the alley someplace. I was overwhelmed by these thoughts at that moment, but when he put a hand on my shoulder, I was instantly brought back into my senses. It was scary how much his comfort eased me.

I remember that when I looked up at him with those teary eyes, I thought that he looked like an angel, truly—So beautiful. The most beautiful.

“Do you want him to go away?” He spoke slowly, calmly. Softly, even. His voice was like a warm caress.

I didn’t know what to say. I really didn’t. We both knew what he meant. There was no other explanation for what he meant. This stranger, this man who walked and spoke like he ruled hell itself, could make my problems go away. He could make every single problem I had go away.

I knew what I had to say. I knew what I had to do. And a part of me reveled in that.

He repeated the question again, the same soft calmness surrounding me like an embrace. “Do you want him to go away?” I just stared at him.

“Yes,” I said. “I never want to see him again. I wish he was dead.”

The demon smiled at my answer. I felt myself shiver.

“Name your price.” I stammered, unsure what to say. All my money belonged to Maxim. I didn’t have a cent to my name. My mouth made all sorts of sounds before he just… laughed. At my nervousness, at my new confusion at his reaction. “We can work it out later.” And then he left. I just stared at him, watching him go. He faded into the darkness of the alleyway like a shadow. I felt that pit in my stomach form again. I felt like I had just spoken to a demon—no, no. A hellhound. Lucifer himself. Whatever he was, I had just made a deal with this infernal man. Maybe I should have thrown up in fear when he left. I should have ran home, praying that he wouldn’t hurt Maxim. Maybe I should have felt like I made a mistake. But I didn’t. Not one bit. I went home at the end of the night, and slept the best I had ever slept in years.

The week continued on like normal, until the next week. I had honestly forgotten about my interaction with The Stranger, living back in my usual mundane lifestyle of cowering in bed.

Monday night, Maxim didn’t come home from work. I assumed he was just getting bolder with his lover. Maybe she would take him away. As evil as it was, I wouldn’t have minded. I would be free then. In the back of my head, I remembered the deal I made with the devil of the back alleyway. But I dismissed it at the time, it saved me stress.

As I had done in previous Tuesdays, I went to the bar again. It was a little later than usual. I was enjoying having the house to myself; the space was livable now. The bartender greeted me, which was unusual. Said “Mikhail” had been waiting for me outside behind the bar. Was that The Stranger’s name? I wondered. How ironic. That was the name of an archangel.

I stepped out into the alleyway behind the bar, where The Stranger was there, smoking a cigarette. He looked to me, and smiled. I got that sick feeling again, like I was before something terrible. In his hand was a rather large box, about the size of his hand, but a thick box. The lack of light in the alleyway made him feel somehow more inhuman. He had taken off his coat, slung it around his shoulders. When he extended his arm to present to me this offering, it looked like darkness was radiating off of him. His black sleeves melted into the scenery with ease. He didn’t smell like he did before. There was a strongly metallic scent to him that contrasted the dull grime of the alley.

He gave me the box, still grinning. He didn’t speak, just watched me open it.

A pair of eyes.

Blood had pooled at the bottom of the box, soaking through the material. I felt it moisten the palms of my hands, dye them red. They were still warm. They looked at me and him, those brown, beautiful eyes.

“He transferred me his money while he begged for his life.” He gave a chuckle. “So consider your debt paid.”

When I looked up at him, he wasn’t human anymore, and maybe I wasn’t either. The shadows enveloping his face, the way his eyes gleamed from the light of his cigarette, and that smile—that wide, warm smile—I was looking at the devil.

And I smiled back at him.

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