My Sister and the Devil
Part I:
Thirty years have passed, and I cannot, for the life of me, begin to comprehend the events that transpired on that fateful, dubious, and utterly life-altering night. Even the moon seemed to sense the ominous and foreboding feeling that dominated the evening, adding to the melancholic proceedings with a bloodstained red glow behind the black clouds that shrouded it.
My sisters and I, whose job it was to save Townsville from certain annihilation, had seen our fair share of unspeakable evil, repulsive maladies, and precarious situations. We had been created by Professor Utonium for the very purpose of fighting the various criminals, deviants, and villains of the city. In his laboratory, he mixed sugar, spice, and everything nice together, and added a dose of Chemical X. This lethal chemical gave us superhuman strength, speed, and the ability to fly, among other gifts which only the truly blessed have ever possessed. Despite being only five-year old children, we were the most important members of the city.
Blossom, the self-elected leader of our trio, had long, beautiful red hair with a large red bow on her head that she wore like a tiara. Among us, Blossom was most distinguishable from a crowd among our trio because of her bright, pink eyes, which had a gleam in them that was unmistakable from even a long distance. This gleam in her eye gave her the appearance of someone wise beyond her years, and she quickly won over Townsville's citizenry whenever she spoke, as the gleam had the effect of turning into a trustworthy twinkle that danced around the pink in her eye as she did so, endearing the audience to her with mystifying ease. She also had a walk, which was almost akin to a strut, brimming with a confidence that she could solve any problem which befell us. This confidence was not unfounded, as she had not yet devised a battle plan that failed us in action. No matter how daunting, hopeless, and truly gruesome our situation looked, Blossom found a way, sometimes on pure willpower, but she always won the day.
I, Buttercup, the middle sister, had the label of being the most physically gifted and athletic. I made the utmost effort to look the part, keeping my jet-black hair short and sharp on the ends, and spending the majority of my leisure time punching frozen slabs of beef and being the ace pitcher on the local youth softball team. My lime-green eyes also struck fear into the hearts of grown men, for I could hold someone in a piercing, stone-cold stare for several minutes. I approached our work with a no-nonsense attitude: Kill or be killed. Often, I squabbled with Blossom, as I very rarely saw her tactical approach to every battle as necessary, preferring to get to the point, test my mettle against our challenger, and win the day. I must confess, however, that as much as I hate to admit it, Blossom's tactical and meticulous planning proved both pivotal and necessary when confronted with a more cunning, malicious enemy. Blossom atoned for her lack of physical prowess by utilizing mine to the fullest extent in our plans, often creating a diversion so I could deliver a direct, fatal blow to our adversary.
Bubbles, the youngest, radiated innocence. Her hair was a fair blonde, ending in two pigtails on both sides of her head, and her large, baby blue eyes were soft and comforting, which she coupled with a serene, placid smile which won her the adoration of everyone she met. The feature that truly marked her innocence was not one of her physiological features, but rather her unwavering optimism. Even as Blossom and I debated which of our battle strategies would be better, Bubbles always would pitch in, reassuring us that we'd come to the right decision, because we were superheroes and needed to be a team. Whenever a distress call from Townsville signaled the need for our aid, Bubbles was always confident that we, no matter the situation, would come out on top. This optimism served as a much-needed relief in the heat of battle, as her optimism was oftentimes contagious, and it complemented Blossom and my realistic cynicism so well that her optimism alone often elevated our performance level. Bubbles lacked the logical thought of Blossom and my physical prowess, but she had agility that both Blossom and I lacked, as well as the aforementioned (and far more valuable) purity of spirit.
Blossom's cunning and wit, my Herculean strength, and Bubbles' quickness made us quite the tandem. To date, there had never been a situation that, going into the heat of the fight, we didn't feel we could handle. The world was our oyster, and we would not be denied.
However, there was something about this night that was not present in any of our past encounters with the sinister and depraved. Was it danger? No. Danger was omnipresent in our line of work. Was it fear? No, I fear nothing. I couldn't then, and I sure cannot now, quite wrap my head around why, but something about the feeling that a battle with a faceless foe was inevitably about to commence brought with it a sense of utmost dread, a sense that this time, no matter how resourceful, powerful, and perfect our battle plan may have been, that something would go horribly wrong. This dread, which engulfed my mind, body, and even the darkest depths of my soul, was overpowering.
Blossom, ever vigilant and, even if fazed, never let it show when preparing for a fight, clearly shared the same fear as I. We spoke not a word, but one look into her bright, pink eyes confirmed for me what I already knew: Blossom also was fighting an internal battle against the all-encompassing dread, as evidenced by the gleam that is seldom absent from her eyes quickly fading. Her pupils were dilated more than usual, and she walked cautiously, the confident spring in her step nowhere to be found. Blossom was thinking the same thing I was: There was no distress signal for our aid yet, but it was only a matter of when, not if.
Overshadowing mine and Blossom's dread, however, was Bubbles' complete change in demeanor on this ominous night. The happy-go-lucky, sweet, lovable, and innocent Bubbles was a shell of herself. Even when distress calls came, she was excited to get to fight, prove her worth to us, and make the enemy pay when they made the inevitable mistake of disregarding her as weak and feeble. That night, though, even the unflappable Bubbles was frightened by the night's atmosphere to the point where she sat on our bed, clutching her octopus doll, Octi, staring at the sky in a catatonic state. "Please, let Townsville be safe tonight!" she muttered, unmoving, staring into the heavens.
As the night progressed, no distress call came our way, and we sat around and waited for what seemed like an eternity. In each of our minds, a swirling tempest of fear, paranoia, dread, and foreboding consumed us. We sat in our room, not speaking a word, trying to brave the storm violently rattling inside our very heads.
Suddenly, as the psychological storm reached its peak in our minds, the wind began to howl outside our window. The trees shook violently, and thunder began to rumble in the sky. I made nothing of this, and evidently, neither did my sisters, who were also far too deep in their own demented thoughts to pay notice to an atypical violent storm making its presence known to the world.
Continuing to listen to the wind howl, I began to focus on its howling and the rain which began to pelt the earth. In a twisted way, this storm was therapeutic for me, as I focused on its methodical howling and pelting, instead of the anxiety with which I was ridden.
With my mind finally at ease, the weather seemed to have a conscious, and seemingly knew I was feeling better, because that is the only possible logical explanation for what happened next. As a small, almost cautious grin stretched across my face, and I shut my eyes for the first time in what felt like hours, the wind howled again, but this time, the wind did not sound like wind. Instead, an inhuman growl pierced the night with this gust. The growl sent a chill down my spine so severe, so cold, and so sharp, that I felt like my entire body contorted. That sound, whatever it was, was not of this world.
"What was that?!" I shrieked.
Blossom, stunned by being taken out of her trance, replied. "What was what?"
"How did you not hear that?!"
"Hear what?
"That…growl."
"Growl?"
"Yes! That growl!"
"It's just the wind, Buttercup."
"That's not wind, Blossom! Wind doesn't sound like that!"
"It's clearly a product of your overactive imagination, Buttercup. It's a spooky night; your mind is playing a trick on you."
"The hell it is! That growl sounded like…like…"
"Like what?"
And then the growl, this time longer, more menacing in its delivery, made its presence known again. Blossom stood there, frozen with fear.
"Like that."
"Oh my God…what was that?! That certainly wasn't wind!"
"I think it was the devil." Bubbles said, out of nowhere, rather flatly.
"The devil?" Blossom asked, in stunned disbelief.
"Yes, the devil." There was something very unnerving about Bubbles' uncharacteristically flat affect.
"That's silly, the devil lives in hell. This is the mortal world. What would he want in this realm?"
"People to take into his service, I suppose."
"You sound awfully calm, considering you're talking about the devil…" I said.
"I guess I feel safe with you two around me."
"Regardless, girls, if there is something paranormal about this storm, no distress calls have come yet, so we must be ready if it indeed–"
And then, the phone, which all three of us were so desperately hoping would not ring, rang.
"Hello? What's the trouble, mayor?" asked Blossom.
She then stared into space as the mayor explained his situation, clearly quite harried and panicked, as the terror in his voice could be heard from halfway across the room.
"We're on our way, mayor!"
"Well, girls, we know what we have to do…we have a long night ahead of us. Let's go!"
And we flew into the blood-red, unholy night.