He just shrugs. “Guess I’ll book a reservation next time I want to touch my own girlfriend.”
He storms out the door, slamming it behind him, causing me to flinch, and leaving me alone in the quiet. I sit staring at the now-closed door, the half-eaten pizza still sitting on the table, assomething hollow presses against my ribs. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I still feel like I did. That familiar guilt creeps in like fog. I switch the TV off and curl my knees to my chest, staring at my reflection in the dark TV screen. I look so tired, so not me.
Maybe this is me now. Because it’s not just Ethan, it’s everything. The bills piling up, the empty fridge, the way I flinch every damn time my phone rings, in case it’s my dad calling to ask for money he knows I don’t have. And as well as all that… the deal. The one I never made, but somehow got thrown into anyway.
I keep pretending it’s not real, that it’s a hallucination, and that I’m just severely mentally ill. I laugh softly. I must be going utterly insane.
“If anyone out there’s listening,” I whisper up to the ceiling, “maybe throw me a goddamn bone?”
Nothing answers, of course. Just the drip of the kitchen tap and the gentle creak of the floorboards above. I think about my mom. What would she say if she saw me like this—tired, scared, nearly starving, and desperate? Would she be disappointed in me? Or would she hold me and tell me I’m stronger than I think I am? My throat tightens. I miss her. I miss her so, so much.
I let the silence settle, heavy on my chest. And still, somehow… I smile. Because tomorrow, the sun rises again. And so do I.
Chapter 8
She dreams of ash.
It drifts like snow through a dead sky, weightless but heavy, covering everything in silence. The stone beneath her bare feet is cracked, pulsing faintly with a dull, embered glow—like a heartbeat buried too deep to rise.
There’s screaming in the distance. Or maybe they’re memories. Or maybe they’re her own screams, tearing from her throat until it’s raw.
Something sharp glints near the foot of a blackened throne—half-melted, twisted into something that once meant power and now only whispers ruin.
A crown. Or what’s left of one. She reaches for it—her fingers blistered and trembling, skin blooming with smoke. There is no pain, there never is. Just the unbearable weight in her chest, pressing down like grief carved into stone.
She cannot move.
She cannot run.
The air thickens.
“You were warned.”
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. It’s not cruel, but it carries no mercy either.
The ash begins to swirl faster, like it’s being pulled by something unseen—spiralling in on her, around her, into her.
She opens her mouth to speak, but her tongue is thick with soot and flame. She tastes betrayal.
A figure rises from the smoke. No face. No name. Just shadow.
“She will return.”
Her knees buckle. The throne burns brighter behind her. The stone at her feet cracks wider, light pushing up from below—hellfire or memory, or something worse.
She falls?—
Chapter 9
Daisy
Two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since Ethan stormed out, since I pawned the necklace, since my last semi-decent night of sleep, too.
Work’s been steady, college has been overwhelming, and the rent is still unpaid. And Korithax? Yeah, he’s been as absent as my dad—hauntingly present in my thoughts, yet never actually there. I keep expecting to see him in mirrors, or lurking on street corners, or lounging in my damn closet like some cryptid with wings. But no, not even a flicker of his smoke. Just silence, and recurring nightmares. They’re the same ones I’ve had since I was a kid. Always dark, always having me waking up, clawing at my sheets like they’ve tried to swallow me whole.
I visited my mom’s grave last weekend. I try and do it at least once a month, to go by and visit her. This time, I ended up staying so much longer than usual. I didn’t say much, because what could I say? “Hi, Mom, I miss you. Also, turns out demons are real, and one of them may or may not technically own menow. Hope you’re proud.” Instead, I brought along some daisies which are her favourite. I know, how ironic. And sat cross-legged on the grass whilst I tried not to cry. I succeeded, instead opting to watch the clouds and telling her about everything that I could say. That I was tired, but I was trying so very hard to always be the sun.
