Page 5 of My Demon Mate

My eyes pop open and I look around, all traces of sleep leaving me. Where did that come from? I know it’s my mystery voice, but what is it talking about? What instructions am I supposed to listen to? And I deserve better than what?

Was it the voice that woke me up? It’s still dark out, so it can’t be the early morning sun rays beaming into my window.

I get my answer as water drips onto my belly, the cold droplets sending a shiver up my spine. My roof is leaking again, rainwater dripping on my bed and soaking into my skin. Did it start raining in the night? Thunder cracks overhead so loudly that I jolt in my bed, rain now coming down on the roof hard and fast. Of course. I eye the bag I have taped over the crack in my ceiling, seeing it had come loose.

Sighing, I get up and rifle around in my nightstand drawer, looking for the tape to fix it. I wish I had duct tape to keep the bag more secure, but all I have is cheap scotch tape from the local Dollar Barn. After I locate it, I stand on my bed and tape the bag back over the crack.

I sit heavily back on my bed, then jump up when a loose bedspring pokes me in my left ass cheek. I’ve had this bed since I was twelve, and it’s practically falling apart.

Sitting down more gingerly, I put my head in my hands, wondering when I’ll have something better. Be somewhere better. Since I only have two thousand dollars saved up over the course of two years, it seems like I’ll be staying with my dad until I die. Or he has that heart attack I keep wishing on him, or he keels over from liver failure. It would be serious cosmic injustice if I die before he does.

I check the time on my phone: 6:15 am. The wind outside shakes the trailer, and a sudden fear hits that the storm will knock it over completely.

“I will take you away from here. As soon as you ask for me, I will be there.”

It’s a near thing that I don’t blurt out, ask how? I want away from this place, this life. If a voice in my head can take me away, shouldn’t I ask?

Yeah, that’s likely to happen.

Groaning, I lie back down and try to get comfortable on my shitty mattress. I really am going crazy if I’m looking for someone that doesn’t exist to save me. I need to save myself. Waiting around for a savior will only keep me here forever. I just need to make a little more money and I can get away, far enough away that dad can’t get to me, not in his permanent drunken state.

It’s too early to get out of bed to make breakfast, but I’m wide awake and the bag above my bed looks like it won’t hold for long. I’m not too keen on getting drenched.

Even if I wanted to, the high winds outside rattling the trailer is making it hard to drop back off to sleep. Unable to ignore the angry gales, painful bedsprings, and cold drops of water dripping on my belly any longer, I move over to the pallet I made in the corner of my room out of several tattered blankets and sheets. It’s not much, but it’s warm and dry. Better than sleeping on rusted metal that can break skin and give me tetanus.

After getting comfortable on the floor, I reach under the pile of clean clothes I have in a crate beside my pallet and grab the battered notebook I keep hidden there, a mechanical pencil stored in the spirals. With the pencil poised over the paper, I think for a moment, then start sketching.

Since I was a kid, I wanted to draw. I saw the comic strips in the paper when I was five and knew that’s what I wanted to do when I grew up.

When I first started, I’d draw a strip or two with the same theme and characters, but then I’d get bored and move on to another character. But soon, my drawings turned from comic strips that were all over the place into full blown graphic novels that had one central hero with a fleshed out back story.

Who knows? Maybe they could lead to an opportunity in my future. I’m not quite sure what, but something. This could be my escape.

If only I were brave enough to let anyone see what I draw. I’ve never let a soul lay eyes on my sketches, for fear they’ll hate them and take away the only comfort I have in this world.

I was afraid the first few weeks after I finished my first full graphic novel that it would be discovered, but when my dad didn’t find it, I relaxed a little. Not enough to let anyone see, but enough that I wasn’t afraid he’d found my secret and kept drawing.

Since that first full book, I’ve drawn and written two others, working on my fourth now. One day, I dream to publish my own graphic novel or work with someone in illustrations. I have no training, but I have enough raw talent to at least get my foot in the door.

At least I think I do.

“You are so talented. I love seeing your work. How about we make it come to life? Would you like that?”

My hand slips and I drag my pencil, ripping through the paper. “Thanks a lot,” I mutter to the voice, hoping it senses how pissed I am.

I adjust the rip in the page back to its original position as best I can and keep drawing. The scene for this particular frame is what I should have done when my father attacked me yesterday—if I had the skill and strength.

This is his book after all.

Over the years, I’ve taken to making graphic novels that shows me being a braver man than I am, exacting revenge in the most brutal of ways. Each person that has wronged me has a book dedicated to them. I’ve saved my father for last. I’m not sure why.

When I draw my father, I exaggerate his features, making him look as grotesque as I possibly can, depicting how I really see him. He has boils all over his arms, some exploding as he stands in my doorway. His feet have pustules growing from them, wild hairs cropping from the top of a few. His face is an amalgamation of all kinds of creatures—spiders, snakes, a rodent and even a clown. All things I find disturbing, disgusting even. His body is bloated, as if overly inflated by a balloon pump. His clothes are always dirty and tattered, much like they are in real life.

As my father stands there threatening him, my character—who I call Nightshade—lashes out, punching my dad’s face just as he punched mine, making him collapse to the floor in a heap. As Nightshade stands over the twisted form of my evil father, he vows to end him if he raises his hands to him again.

Just as he would in real life, my illustrated father stands and charges towards Nightshade, but Nightshade is fast. He steps out of the way, and when my illustrated father runs into the wall, Nightshade thrusts his hand into his back, grabs his heart, and rips it from his body.

Nightshade stands over my father, a foot on his back, heart held high in triumph. Then he looks down at him, saying, “You should have heeded my warning. I make good on my promises.” For good measure, he stomps on his head—skull, blood and brain matter exploding everywhere.

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