[ WP ] You made a deal with the Devil , and now he 's come to collect .

It was cold, dark, dreary. A perfect day to depart in a foul spirit, if there ever was one. The rain endlessly pattered against the glass, spilling streams of rain down onto the windowsill underneath it, flooding it, coating the very bottom of the window in a seemingly endless river of water. This weather was normal to where Smith lived, the endless rain and the damp spirits seemed to come naturally to the harbour town on the last stretch of winter when it was still cold enough to constitute a good jacket, however warm enough that it no longer snowed, and instead rained in the place of the flurries. It would rain all today, or atleast that's what the weather network woman had said over the television, it would rain until nightfall, and then break away to a lovely spring morning, one of the first with temperatures above freezing. 
 
 Smith had called in sick today, telling his boss that he did not feel well enough to leave his bedside. While his boss was a bit of an ass on most ocassions, today, on the day of his death, he understood. *Fate? * his mind inquired, and with a short shake of his head, he dismissed it. *No, the devil. * The burden of all his problems in the last ten years running, the looming shadow which sulked at the end of his bedside, the greedy hand coming to snatch away his soul. The Usurper, The First Demon, Lucifer, The Fallen Angel. So many names for one man, one concept of all evil embodied, yet he was real, he was the one that on this day, ten years ago, struck a bet with Smith, making him an offer he could not refuse. 
 
 Was it wealth? No. 
 
 Was it women? No. 
 
 Was it power? No 
 
 Was it talent? Unfortunately, yes. 
 
 Smith had struck a deal, in the days of soul searching, that he would give up his soul in ten years, in return for the ability to be artistically-talented to the point that a picture would make a god weep or reconsider his actions. He was granted this, the ability to draw, to paint, to sketch and to colour things beyond imaginable, to make things so beautiful that he, himself, could only weep. Yet, the deal itself was that he was to become the best artist, not that anyone would recognise him as this. Once he obtained this talent, the moment he tried to show someone, to prove to them that he was the most amazing artist in the world, the person's mind saw it differently. Not that they said it was bad, they simply showed no interest in it, as if it was magically blocked from their vision, as if it was nothing and would be nothing in their mind, no matter how beautiful he had made the picture. 
 
 At first, this infuriated him, it made him break and tear up his pictures. Hundreds and hundreds that he had sketched and created did he tear and destroy, yet eventually, he learned to live with it. In his flat, his one-bedroom, one-bath, flat did he cover the place in paintings. Paintings that he had created, magical, beautiful paintings beyond what even could be described in script. He painted and drew when he came home until the morning broke, only to go to do the same thing again. His hand never wavered, and he could draw from cartoon to realistic, the very print that he made on a page seemed refined, perfected, alluring. He showed no sign of being anything less then perfect, and after four years did he learn to understand that, and at five, did he eventually come to terms with it. 
 
 `` Knock knock.'' It was n't actually the sound, instead a voice that emanated from his doorway to his bedroom. He did n't bother to look, for he knew it to be the devil, and instead checked the time. Exactly 3'oclock, on the dot, the exact same time he made the deal those ten years ago. `` I'm always on time, before you ask.'' The devil reminded, a thin smile crossing over his pale-white lips. `` Of course you are n't. To say someone would be late to their own death would be preposterous.'' Smith retorted, raising a brow from the devil. `` You intend to kill me?'' The devil remarked, crossing his hands across his chest. `` No, but I'm not going to die if you're not here.'' Smith cracked back, finally turning his gaze onto the tuxedo-wearing, pale man with those round black dots for eyes and that uncanny, almost polluted, oil-slick back hair. `` Ah, well I suppose that is true.'' The devil said, now that he had caught Smith's attention, and flashed him a very car salesman-esque smile, drawing a dull eyeroll from Smith. He had grown tired of the aspect of the devil's attitude, he had nothing to fear in his last moments, so acting so carelessly was simply in his nature to do so. 
 
 Silence, tense silence, passed for a few moments, the devil remaining silent as he looked around, a bit taken aback by the amount of pictures. `` Most people who end up like this usually destroy the works they do. The few who have n't ended up being revelled as some of the best, you know that right?'' The devil asked aloud to Smithy, a certain one, a depiction of a lady clad in fire, almost made up of it, caught his curious eye. `` How so? You made it so that nobody notices my work, that nobody will ever grow to acknowledge that it existed in the first place.'' Smith barked back, a bit irritated, and rightfully so. The wound from what the devil had done to him still having not closed even after six years of acceptance. `` Once you're gone from this plane of existence, I no longer have control over what fate dictates, meaning that people will grow to notice your works, and they will fall in love. You could go down as the greatest artist in history, for all I know.'' The devil shrugged, slowly making his way towards Smith's bed, only to stop at the footrest. `` Does that make you feel any better?'' He inquired, looming over Smith. `` No, not really. They're your creations, after all, my body and mind was a vessel, it used your talent.'' The devil pondered that, before gleaming a sly grin, `` Now, nobody will know that, will they?'' Smith shrugged, rolling over in his bed, ignoring the devil as if it was an unwanted guest. `` I suppose.'' 
 
 The devil's hand came to rest on Smith's back, the very touch feeling as if he had walked, bareback, out into a blizzard, the sense of pure burning, yet a cold burning, running through his body, chilling him to the bone. `` Now Smith, it's about time we go. Would you like for this to be a natural death, a suicide, or a homicide?'' The devil surely was being awfully kind for a man on his deathbed. `` Natural death, heart attack.'' The devil released his hand from Smith's back, his heart beginning to race, pacing against his chest, burning his eyes, a feeling of overwhelming sickness running rampart in his head. This certainly was n't a heart attack, instead, Smith knew it to be the devil's own interpretation of it. `` Did you have fun, Smith?'' The devil asked once Smith was nearly falling away into death's cold embrace, a perplexed smile crossing over Smith's face, rousing a bit of a smile from the devil himself. 
 
 **'' Of course I did, and perhaps I will enjoy death as much as I did life. `` **
