Page 40 of Psycho Devils: Aran's Story 2

The brightness burned my corneas.

I missed the dark.

John’s empty bed mocked me, and my stomach was in knots of worry. I hadn’t seen him since he’d been tied up and Lothaire had taken me to get tattooed. When we’d RJE’d back to the classroom, he and the demons had been gone.

I’d finished smoking the joint from the party hours ago, and the drug had worked its way out of my system. My pipe wasn’t doing much to help, because panic had returned.

I avoided looking over at Horace’s empty bed.

Smoke poured from my lips, and it made my skin tingle as it rubbed against the bleeding cut on my lower lip.

Turning my head, I stared up at the enchanted black hole swirling across the ceiling.

Someone had started the fire in the hearth, and the voices screamed at me in the flames.

My eyes itched from smoke exposure.

I sucked harder on the pipe.

My brain kept looping back to the same thought pattern: I was a grim reaper in a woman’s body.

It was obvious what was happening. I needed a shopping trip.

My body was crumbling under the stress of not being able to buy pretty clothes. I was degrading on a cellular level.

I could barely remember the rush that accompanied purchasing gorgeous shoes. I pinched my hand to ground myself as I became hyperaware of the fact that I’d been wearing the same sweat suit for weeks on end.

“This place is trying to kill me,” I said to Horse as he flapped above like he was trying to teach me how to fly.

Poor demented creature. He reminded me of my best friend Sadie.

The wall against my bed vibrated to a heavy beat and shook my headboard.

I rocked with it.

Muffled music echoed down the halls.

Across the quiet bedroom, three devils softly snored and were, unfortunately, still alive. Although, I didn’t know how they were still asleep. It wasn’t healthy.

They slept in a pile of limbs. After Malum had had a tantrum and fought the wall (he’d lost), the three of them had climbed into the small bed and promptly passed out.

I shivered. Men were such simple, primitive creatures.

The grand clock on the wall ticked. In a feat of pure mental strength, I stopped myself from clicking my tongue back at it.

While my slavers had been sleeping, I’d been wide awake still losing my mind.

At least the screaming voices in the fire had returned. I’d missed them.

I’d also established a little routine.

I stared at the stain on the floor, wallowed in silence, stared at the ceiling, dragged my nails across the wall like a rabid animal trying to escape a cage, pretended to be in a coma, stared at the clean sheets on Horace’s bed (RIP), hyperventilated, then danced to the music. Repeat.

Structure was good.

My vision blurred, and with a heavy sigh, I decided it was finally time to do something productive.

I rolled over.

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