Bela means beauty. That's why I chose it, I wanted to be beautiful. I wanted to be the one people noticed, the Bela of the ball, so to speak. I wanted to be the beautiful, untouchable statue, carved out of ice with an appeal like fire. I wanted to be that girl, just out of reach. Beautiful. Not quite tangible.

When they find me I'll be covered in blood, ripped apart and broken. My guts will be spilling out of my stomach and my body will be saturated in sweat and blood. There will be so much blood.

I could do it. I could do it now. I could put on that flowing black dress I brought in Rome last year. I could curl my hair; put in my most delicate pair of diamond earrings and wipe the tears off my face. Then I could shoot. I could shoot straight through my heart. God, that would be poetic. When they find me, they can find the beautifully tragic corpse of a beautifully tragic girl.

But I can't do it. I try and I can't. Just like I couldn't do it to my parents. I wasn't strong enough. I'm still not.

Abigail means 'my father is joy.' God, that's ironic. Abby couldn't do what she had to and now Bela has let me down as well.

All these years of ignoring her. Pretending she doesn't exist. Pretending Bela is all there is. All there ever was. Pretending that every time a door swings open Abby doesn't take a deep breath and her heart doesn't beat faster and her muscles don't tense. Pretending that the girl who prayed for her parent's deaths every night, who prayed for her own death every night, who made deals with demons on creaking old swings and didn't know why she was crying
had never existed.

I don't regret it for a second, the deal. The demon did for Bela what Abby could never do- she let her exist.

I hear the howls in the distance. They are coming for me. It's too late.

I need help, God I need help.

I can't go to hell.

I can't.

It isn't the fire that scares me. Not the fire or the torture or the demons.

It's him.

He will be there. I know without a doubt. When the demon put an end to him that's where he went.

Straight to hell.

Its like I'm twelve years old again and my bedroom door swings open for the second time. Not the first, I didn't know what was coming the first time. It was the second I will always remember. My breaths come in short and sharp and panicked. All I can think is no.

No no no no no no.

God, no.

Please, no.

And that's how it ends. Messily. A blur of pain and blood and just mess.

It's not true what they tell you, there is no clarity.

No epiphany.

No calm.

No beauty.

Just mess.

With my final breath I manage to utter a single phrase. 'Forgive me.'

It's for my mum and its for Dean and its for everyone I've ever betrayed and its even for my dad.

But mostly, it's for Abby. It's for the girl who laughed and cried and loved ice cream and skipping games and pink ribbons in her hair. It's for the girl sitting on a a creaky swing praying for death. The girl who wasn't strong enough.