The soul-collector

He knew it when there was a knock on the door.

Ten years ago at this day he made a choice. If you look in his green eyes there isn't any regret.How can you regret selling your soul to the devil when he saved your son's life? 

The knock gets louder and maybe the wooden door will burst because of hell's impact. 

Smiling he opens the door. 

"Old friend, you're coming to take what's yours?"

The man in front of him chuckles. 

"It has been mine since your mother kissed the lips of your father, hasn't it?"

He opens the door a little bit wider so the man can come inside. 

"Want a beer?" 

"I'm not here to grab a cold beer. But the Jack Daniels there seems like something I'd enjoy."

He puts two glasses on the black table. He pours each of them a two fingers width. 

Both of them get as comfy as you can get on stools made in Hitler's time. 

"How's Richard doing?" 

Richard, his son. 

"Now happily married. Three kids, loving wife. Still he cheats on her. But the cancer didn't come back." 

"Sounds like his soul's mine already too. But first I go for yours." 

Suddenly the whiskey is gone. The man traces a cold finger down his cheek. 

"It will sting at first, but the pain will be gone soon. Just like ripping of a band-aid."

And he's right. First it hurts like hell literally. Then he sees his son. Happy. So happy that he doesn't feel the pain as darkness comes over him.