My Walk In The Park

The Contract. My Blood. My Fate.

Artwork By: Shain Parwiz

Some talk about loss like it’s subtraction,
clean, neat, like something taken away.

But it’s not.
It’s a cold transaction.

An exchange in a dark alley
in a neighbourhood,where sirens and gunshots
aren’t disruptions,
they’re background noise.

The skies drizzle.
Even the heavens cry.

One man walks in, suited, precise,
smile like a lighthouse,
eyes so hollow they pull you in.

The other? Hood up,
shoulders hunched,
socks soaking in rainwater.

He knew what he was doing was wrong.
But the voice in his head said it was mercy.
Said he was saving her from suffering.

He signed.
In blood.

The man in the suit, he took the contract.
Returned to his masters.
“Did I do well?” he asked.

“You did okay,” they said.
“But we need more.”

So he evolved.
New costume.
This time, a trader.
Wall Street. Clean. Global.

Dealing not in numbers,
but in souls.

Stocks became people.
Currency was flesh, bone,
the splinters of minds coming undone.

He got good at it.
Too good.

And that’s how he got me.

His pitch was perfect,
He could sell guilt to a priest,
delusion to the power-hungry,
doubt to the devout.

I was light work.
A walk in the park.

I met him in a place full of green.
Families. Lovers. Artists.
No one saw the horns.
No one noticed the tail.

So I thought maybe it was okay.

He told me what life was worth.
Said everything was in order.
Asked nothing, just an initial.
“If you change your mind,” he said,
“no hard feelings.”

And I hesitated.
Because I’d seen what death leaves behind,
the confusion, the echo,
the old jazz band left playing
without its melody.

He must’ve heard my thoughts.

He leaned in:
“Death isn’t what it used to be,” he said.
“People are desperate.
This is a limited-time offer.
Just for you.”

He spoke with voices I knew.
Ones I missed.
Telling me I could be with them again.

I picked up the blade,

shaped like a pen
and I didn’t just initial.
I signed.

He smiled.
The grotesque kind,

where breath meets bile.

His final form bloomed.
Tail, teeth, the full horror.
And I knew I’d been duped.

I begged.
Asked for a refund.

He just said:
“A life for a life.”

A DEADLINE, if there ever was one.

And for signing,
he left me a gift:
whispers, voices,
too loud to ignore.

Here I am.
trying

To sell to save.
Sellout.
To trade a trait.
Traitor.
To amend a man.
Manipulator.

The voices don’t stop.
Too loud.
Too constant.
They bleed through the walls.

I gave up.
Couldn’t do it to someone else.

I still hold the contract.
Studying the fine print,
looking for the exit clause.
Not for everything.
Just a reprieve.

But he’s still out there.
Waiting.
That assassin in the dark.

One day I thought I found a way out.
Called the number scrawled in the margin.

The voicemail said:
“God is busy right now. Please leave a message.”

I did.

Author’s Note

I didn’t know where this one fit.
Just something that came after rewatching The Devil’s Advocate.

I kept thinking about how temptation doesn’t always scream.
Sometimes it whispers.

So here it is.
A deal nearly made.
A voice that’s still.

Thank you for reading.

—Shain