My dad sold my soul to the devil #soldout #sales

My dad sold my soul to the devil
My dad is what they call a "macho man".
All he wanted was sons. He lived and breathed for "another Keller boy." Naturally, when my older brother was born, he was overjoyed. Three years later, he begged my mom to have another son. When he found out we were twins, he was excited to have three sons. So when my brother and I came out, and he saw that I was a girl, he was despaired. I've always been his least favourite kid, and he never tried to hide it.
While he named my brothers Anthony and David, which mean priceless and beloved respectfully, he named me Lilith, which literally means night monster.
While my brothers and mom tried to soften that direct punch to the gut by calling me Lili, he insisted on us all calling me Lilith, so I could "feel the disappointment that he felt the day I was born."
Clearly him and my mom did not stay married, and quite unfortunately he signed for full custody when Anthony was five, and David and I two. Things just got worse from there.
If he took Anthony and David out to eat or to see a movie, I was to stay home. He spent all his time playing sports with my brothers, and wouldn't let me join even though I, as a girl, actually showed a genuine interest in what he was doing with my brothers.
When I was four, dad got cancer. And from what I heard, it was supposed to be terminal.
That's where the title of this story comes into play.
Yup, he made a deal with Satan. 15 more years of life if he sold one of his children's' souls. And big surprise, he chose me. So once I die, it's off to hell, no matter how little I sin or how much I pray.
The first time I remember something happening to me was about a month after my dad made that deal.
I was in my tiny, cramped room, trying to sleep on a bed I outgrew years ago, while my brothers and dad watched a movie downstairs, when I saw it.
This thing in my closet.
It was pale, with gaunt, sunken eyes and a gaping mouth. It's long and bony fingers wrapped around my closet door.
There was no question that this thing was a demon.
I immediately cried for my dad, who stormed up the stairs and gave me a proper beating for interrupting his movie night with his kids. After that, he called me a little girl for crying and locked me in my room.
As I cried all that night, the demon simply watched me from the closet, unmoving.
Demons watching me were pretty normal from then on.
Sometimes it would be the pale gaunt thing in my closet, other times a dark figure hovering over my bed. And on bad nights, a horned figure with glowing red eyes would stare at me, taunting me through the window.
After a while, I stopped being scared of them.
One night when I was nine, the gaunt creature was back in my closet, staring at me while I read. He began to make this really weird growling noise, to which I shushed him. He then did something he
never did before. While he would occasionally wrap his hand around my slightly ajar door, he never actually came out of my closet. Until that night. In one swift movement, he tore open my closet door and stood up fully, revealing he was taller than the ceiling itself. He bent his neck in an abnormal way to fit under the roof.
I rightfully should've been shitting my pants at this moment, but for some reason, I just wasn't that scared. We locked eyes for a while, which was more awkward than scary, so I just went back to reading my book.
He just looked at me curiously for a while, until my dad decided he wanted to be a horrible person again, and threw open my door to yell at me for something or other. The entire time the demon just watched. Thankfully my dad left after slapping me across the face, but I was crying again for the rest of the night.
The demon, who now looked at me with something more than curiosity, looked back at my closed door, trying to see my dad. As I did nothing but sob, the demon just sat down beside my bed, towering over me. Neither of us looked at each other the rest of the night, I cried while he just stared off in the distance, but I wasn't alone, and that was all I cared about.
From then on things changed.
I wasn't just not scared of the demons, I welcomed them. Especially the gaunt looking one who sat by me that night. He would sit with me whenever my dad was bad to me, or whenever I had boy troubles at school. He never talked at me, and barely ever looked at me, but all I cared about was that he was there for me.I even gave him a name.
Papa.
I remember this one night, I was fourteen, and upset because Jacob, the boy I liked, didn't invite me to the Valentine's Dance at our school. On top of that, my dad had gotten into one of his moods, and had thrown a chair at me.
When I ran into my room, I was almost relieved to see Papa crouched by the closet.
"Papa!" I cried, running to him. It was stupid, I know, I was calling a literal demon papa, but I had nobody else. He was the only one who had ever shown me any sympathy.