#eray

Eray used to be a very enthusiastic, extroverted.. and horrible object, but that was years ago..

He was talking with his friends in a hidden alleyway, since he was a part of the cool kids, they needed some cool place to meet up and chat! So a creepy-cool alleyway that’s always empty was perfect..

As they were chatting with each other, One of the cool kids suddenly started to laugh at Eray out of the blue, one after the other, they all suddenly started laughing at him (group of 5 cool kids,, Eray was the 6th)

As Eray chuckled nervously, he asked if there was something on his face, but his friends circled him, two behind him, two getting good grips on both of his arms to keep him still, and the final one, standing right in front of him menacingly

His name was Hammahead (Hammer), and he was always the meanest out of the group, the two other boys that were holding him in place were Mirror and Lanter (Lantern), as for the last two, it was Coffee maug (Coffee mug) and Charger cable.. to make sure if he managed to run, he wouldn’t go far…

Hammer cracked his hands, as Eray looked around in confusion, he was completely confused and worried, as Hammer walked closer, Eray was about to ask what was going on, before Hammer punched him in the face. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.. nine.. ten.. and eleven.. is when his lid fell off, he had a crack in his glass and his mouth was leaking ink from the punches, as he slowly regained consciousness, he saw Hammer holding his lid

Hammer mocked him, making fun of how “important” this lid was, even when it wasn’t even Eray’s lid, Eray went from silent pain to instant anger and fury as he tried to break free from Mirror and Lanter.

Everyone laughed at his pitiful attempt of escape, Hammer placed his lid on the ground, and aimed his head on the lid, the fury turned into fear as Eray pleaded him not to break it

But that just gave Hammer a better reason to do so.. Hammer aimed his head, as Eray begged and shouted for him to stop, he kept teasing him and acting like he would actually break it, as the boys around him laughed louder and louder, as Hammer started to tease him again..

Suddenly, Hammer slipped.

He smashed the lid, pieces broken and scattered everywhere. The boys went completely silent, as Eray stared in pain at his lid. Hammer looked horrified at the lid, he was about to say something, until the rest of the boys suddenly ran away, Hammer didn’t even hesitate and ran away as well.

Then it was just Eray and his lid, shattered and broken to pieces in his hand, his heart heart so much he couldn’t feel the pain on his face from the punches, and the pain on his arms from the painful grips, as he whispered some words to himself.. it was the only thing that was left of her, he held the painfully sharp pieces with a tight grip out of anger and frustration

He sobbed silently as he tried to collect every single piece, trying to find a way to fix this, but the pieces were just too small, so he stood up, collected as much as he could, and took it with him. he went to his house, put all the pieces in a jar, and fell asleep, losing all emotion in him that night.

A year passes, and he has grown out of his depression, he runs to his new friend, Mooch (Mochi) and walks and talks with her, as they happily ramble about their days, they go to their house as they were roommates, and they suddenly saw Book, their neighbor, run to her house worryingly, and in devastation.

Is that… Book? Why is she… pink?

“Okay,” said the Devil, Mr. Macnamara’s voice raspy and possessed-sounding but flat, “This is the best I got--”

Brad waited. He watched the computer display’s clock change from 11:59pm to 12:00am. His set would be late at 12:01, but it didn’t matter. He knew a B on the set would have the same impact on his future as an A.

“We,” the Devil continued, “can have you gamble with hours of your life, instead of money. How does that sound?”

Brad thought for a moment, looking at Dr. Macnamara’s now-seizing face. He was vaguely worried Dr. Macnamara would bite off his tongue—Brad liked the guy—but it seemed unlikely.

“And,” threw in the Devil, “No soul selling required. It only seems fair, given that you’re already wagering your life.”

Brad kept waiting. He’d heard from a few guys that the Devil relied on his reputation pretty heavily, wasn’t actually that great at making deals.

“And you can gamble with me directly.”

“Okay,” Brad said.

Brad waited for a moment, expecting some fear to finally hit. None did. Brad sighed. It made sense, he figured. The rules of probability weren’t going to be different with the Devil, so Brad would probably just win. And if he didn’t, what was he losing? Just some nice afternoons alone on the porch with his beer.

Brad was familiar with the idea that sometimes smart people convince themselves they have no feelings when the opposite is true. He held out hope some emotions would sink in as he and the Devil began playing.

“What game?” said the Devil.

“Poker,” said Brad.

“Classic,” said the Devil, trying to ingratiate himself with brad a little. Cruelty was so much less impactful when a human hadn’t attached to you a little.

Brad half-smiled back, knowing it was the polite thing to do. He was disappointed talking with the Devil felt the same as talking with one of his frat brothers—full of patterns he already knew.

“Let’s start with five years,” said the Devil.

“Okay,” said Brad.

They began to play. Quickly, Brad realized the Devil was cheating. Brad hadn’t expected this. He waited for a corresponding wave of adrenaline. None came. An additional five years of porch drinking didn’t matter that much to him, he supposed.

They finished their game in silence, the Devil winning with all aces and face cards.

“Thanks for the five years,” said the Devil. “Don’t be too upset. Ages 88-93 were all stomach cancer and Parkinson's for you. Now you’ll just go up in a puff of smoke. Really, I just did you a favor.”

“Now I have no motivation to play to win the years back,” said Brad.

“I’ll throw in perfect health for all the years you win from me,” said the Devil, sweating a little.

“What do you do with the years you win, anyways?” asked Brad.

“Give them to serial killers, rapists, etc.,” said the Devil. “That’s why those guys always live so long.”

“Figures,” said Brad.

“Another hand?” said the Devil.

“You cheated last time,” said Brad.

“As if you care,” said the Devil, feeling slick.

“Fifty years?” said Brad.

“Good man.”

They played another hand. The Devil cheated again. Brad was down to 38.

“Okay,” said the Devil. “I won’t cheat this time.”

Brad considered his options. The Devil could be lying. Brad could lose everything. But he hadn’t felt excitement in years. It was all he ever craved.

“Okay,” Brad said. “All my years from now to thirty-eight.”

“Good man, good man,” the devil repeated.

They began the hand. The Devil’s brow was furrowed, so he at least didn’t appear to be cheating. The last two hands he’d telegraphed imminent victory the whole time.

Brad’s hand was bad too, unlikely to beat anything unless he picked up some real good cards. But from the Devil’s brow furrow, it looked like they were in similar positions. This was something it was possible to get excited about.

Only, Brad still felt nothing. Either it was going to work out—he’d attend to the cards properly and have some good luck—or he wouldn’t. He was glad he hadn’t put up his soul at least. There was nothing that seemed particularly interesting about hellfire and eternal damnation. Not that he knew which direction he’d be going, but he supposed he’d see.

The Devil won. He put down his cards triumphantly, gleefully turning towards Brad so he could drink in the devastation on Brad’s face. The Devil was disappointed to see there was nothing there in particular.