I have seen the face of the devil.

I have seen the face of the devil walking past me on the street. Brow furrowed, lips frowning, face contorted in an expression of pure rage.

It was only an instant; in that fleeting moment, I felt the entire weight of the world crashing down on my shoulders. I felt the familiar sensation of terror engulfing me as her fiery gaze met mine, toyed with mine, dangled mine over the precipice of sanity.

It’s hard to say what possessed her to be in such a fit of rage. A jilted lover, perhaps, or just unfortunate circumstances? An over-obtrusive morning alarm, the betrayal of a close friend?

Whatever it was, it spoke to, no awakened, a deep-seeded anger, a burning fire that scorched her insides and left behind the charred remains of a once-kind soul.

I will never forget that look, boring into my mind, my psyche, my essence of being from underneath the black hood of her raincoat. That look, framed by locks of long, blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. That look, emanating from those piercing blue eyes, their unemotional iciness belying the fire within.

Perhaps it was only the rain that saved me from her. There was only a light sprinkling falling from dark, thick clouds, but it must have enough to protect me from the flames of hate radiating from her grotesque visage. It was only a passing second, yet all it needed was a passing second; it grabbed, it pulled, it twisted, it came so close to drawing me into its jaws, the jaws of hate, malice, resentment…

Now, the memory continues to grow fainter and fainter, and the vision of the face continues to fade. Now, there is no more than a black hood, blonde hair, and an approximation of a face. Soon, I will forget her ruddy cheeks, her delicate nose, her angular eyebrows; nothing will be left to remind me, save that look.

The look of the devil.