by Plum Pascal
Only the shadow demon remains.
Why is it here? What does it want?
I turn back to watch it again and immediately right myself. It moves from the back of the train to the middle. It appears almost as black mist, coming closer to me. I can feel my heart start pounding as fear creeps inside me, and I can’t help but look back again.
“Eep!” The high-pitch squeak brings me out of the protective walls of my heart. The thing is in the seat behind me, and now I’m ready to vomit again.
Crap. Crap. Crap!
I want to double over and puke all over my shoes. An H-bomb of pain explodes in my head. Breathing comes at a labored price. My heart hammers.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the thing whispers in my ear. Instantly, I feel coldness all over my body. I shiver.
“Why are you here? Go back… over there.” I fold, putting my head to my knees as I try to keep my stomach contents intact.
“You’re needed. I hope you’re the one.” The voice is a quiver and shrouded in an echo as if it’s speaking from far away, but the tone is definitely male.
“The one what?” I say into my knees.
He hisses and I recognize the sound as a sigh.
“Close your eyes.”
Panic laces my soul. Close my eyes? Why? “No.”
The shadow demon hisses a sigh again. “Go back inside yourself, like the good witch doctor showed you.”
I feel something reverberating off him. So much pain. I stutter and sit up. I turn and face him. If only I could heal what ails him, maybe this throb of anguish would stop. I reach my hand out to touch him.
“No!” The shadow demon jumps to the other side of the aisle. His yell reverberates like a vice against my head.
“Shit,” I whisper. But the unrelenting stabs to my brain, my body and even my soul ease.
“Don’t touch me, not while I’m dressed.”
Despite the pain, a smile curls the ends of my lips and I can’t help a retort. “So touch you naked?”
A gurgle bubbles up from the shadow demon and his coughs echo, but it’s the kind of hack that hides his surprise. “Bit of a masochist, are we?” His mirth is as transparent as his body.
“I’m a 5.0 student, what do you expect?” I wait for the question everyone asks—how do you get a 5.0? Simple. Weighted grading scale. Better known as honors classes.
But he doesn’t comment, and I’m still drowning in pain. Agony shoots off him like ocean waves. I gasp and fall back to my seat. I want to get away from him, but it’s almost like I’m trapped there, like I can’t move.
“You are beautiful…” He whispers as he steps forward, and my vision goes white. Blinding hot knives dig into my arms, my legs, my organs. I can’t even get used to the hurting; it changes and twists, never settling on one type of pain. “I’ve never seen one of you before…”
I muffle a cry. “Go away!”
Another sigh-hiss is my only indication that he comes closer.
“I’m sorry I must put you through this,” he says.
“Then stop!” I cry out, tears running from my eyes.
“It won’t be much longer.”
Then, I’m in so much pain, the only thing I can do is escape into the blackness of unconsciousness.
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About the Author:
H. P. Mallory is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author who started as a self-published author.
She lives in Southern California with her son and two cranky cats, where she’s at work on her next book.
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