The Devil’s Hour.

It’s 3 am. 
The devil’s hour. 
I raise my eyes 
To find her staring back at me 
Her evil yet triumphant aura
Sends chills down my spine.
Smiling slyly, 
As she sees me shroud in fear. 
Sensing her upper hand, 
She knows I’m jaundiced. 
It didn’t take time, she thinks. 
I can hear her thoughts, 
Loud and clear. 
As if they were brewed in my very mind. 
Startled, 
I meet her eyes. 
Now I know why they felt familiar. 
Why the hues matched. 
Why, inspite of the sinister gaze, 
Something mellow raged. 
Under this vicious veil, 
A virtuous self hid. 
As I stared longer, 
The white gained over the black. 
The good over the bad. 
The happy over the sad.
The optimist over the pessimist. 
In me.
The Patronus within me,
Victories over my dementors with its blinding light.

It’s 3 am. 
The devil’s hour. 
I raise my eyes at the mirror. 
The devil was me. 
And I was the devil.

Like what you read? Give Kirti Shilwant a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.