Page 8 of My Demon Mate

I push the unwanted memories away so they don’t mar the great time I just had with Danae. After she asked me to hang out with her at her home, we talked about mundane things, and I got to know her. She’s from Florida, she’s my age—twenty-five—and she went to college to be a dental assistant. I ate up every morsel of information she told me, excited beyond belief I had someone to tell me about themselves.

I’m still smiling when I walk inside the trailer, but it slides off my face when I’m not greeted with the sight of my father on his recliner, beer in hand as he watches trash TV. In fact, the trailer is eerily silent. I frown at the strange turn of events but don’t think too hard about it. Maybe he’s in his room asleep. He rarely sleeps in his room, taking to napping and falling into a deep slumber on his favorite recliner. I let out a long breath, glad I can come inside without him pestering me about one thing or another.

I make my way to my bedroom, hoping to get more drawing done, this time of Joey. His book is finished, but I could add a few more frames, really give him a terrible end. The memory of how he treated me in school has my hand itching to give him a more creative death besides the original I drew.

When I push my bedroom door open, my stomach plummets to my feet. My room is ransacked and the vent is pulled up. My father sits on my bed, the can I keep my cash in beside him and my unfinished graphic novel with drawings of him in his weathered, swollen hands.

He looks at me with rage in his eyes, and I shrink back, pressing my body against the door. I should run—he’d never be able to catch me—but I’m frozen in shock and terror. “Is this supposed to be me, you little fuck?” He holds the book up and shakes it, showing me the drawing I made just this morning. “You want to rip my heart out?” He throws the book at me, and the spiraled edge catches me in the face. I hold my cheek and press myself harder against the door, hoping that hit will be enough and he’ll just leave.

“And you want to stomp my face in after you finish me off? After all I’ve done for you, you think about killing me?”

“Dad, no,” I mutter, holding my free hand up. “It’s just art. I don’t?—”

“And then you hide money from me! I’ve kept a roof over your head and food in your belly. How dare?—”

“How dare I what?” I finally explode. All the years he’s pretended he’s taken care of me and not the other way around bombard me, my temper rising. “How dare I try to leave this fucking place? How dare I want to get away from you? How dare I save my money to leave this fucking hellhole?”

“Fucking ungrateful bastard!” My dad roars and leaps off the bed. I turn to run away, but he has me by my hair before I can run more than a few steps and hits me so hard in my face, I see stars. “This will teach you not to talk to me like that!” He beats me worse than he ever has. I wish I had kept my mouth shut.

He knocks his elbow into my lips, and I feel them immediately swell. Gripping me by my shirt, he tosses me into my closet, breaking the flimsy door and causing all kinds of clothes and old boxes to come tumbling down on me.

Even then, he’s not done.

When I try to crawl out of the closet, to get away from the mess stifling me, he yanks me up by the front of my shirt and tosses me on my bed, bedsprings digging heavily into my back. Before I can catch my breath, he puts a knee against my throat. I struggle, trying to push him off, but he’s too big. I weigh only about one hundred and fifty pounds, where he’s probably closer to two hundred.

He’s going to kill me. He’s crushing my windpipe and I can’t get more than a thimbleful of air in. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision and everything starts to go hazy. My arms pinwheel around with less strength as his weight sinks into my throat, not able to gain purchase since my brain is being deprived of oxygen.

When I feel like I’m going to die—my heart making a valiant effort to keep me alive by beating frantically—my father lets off some of the pressure from my throat but doesn’t move his knee. I greedily drag in a lungful of air, trying to keep the coughing at bay so I can breathe.

“Now you listen here,” he growls, spittle flying on my forehead. “I don’t want to hear anything else about you wanting to leave. You remain here, understand? You are my son, and I’ll tell you when the fuck to leave!” He leans down and puts his face as close to mine as the knee at my throat will allow. “From now on, you empty your fucking pockets when you get home. You’re not going to hide any more money from me, got that? All those tips you get at that shitty diner belong in my wallet.”

I nod as I bite back a sob, and he moves his knee. But he’s still not done.

He pulls me off the bed—a bed spring tearing at my clothing and ripping my pants—and throws me to the floor. Before I can cover myself, he kicks me in the face. I wail, holding my busted nose and finally let the sobs break free. It’s no use holding them in. I’m hurting too badly to try to keep up the pretense.

Howling as loudly as I do does no good. Even if we had neighbors that gave a fuck, they wouldn’t come help me. No one comes to the rescue of this town’s queer kid. They don’t want to end up a pariah like me.

As if from far away, I watch my father lift his foot—having more balance than he should in his inebriated state—and bring it down once, twice, three times on my side. I cry out loud enough to alert the neighbors each time, feeling and hearing a sickening crack in my side after the third stomp. Pain radiates over my entire body and I’m frozen with pain.

My dad mutters something about money and good-for-nothing kids and snatches my can of life-saving funds from the bed. Then the sound of ripping paper fills the air, and the tatters of my graphic novel drop on me, drifting down over my prone body like freshly fallen snow.

When he staggers out, I turn on my side as much as I can without excruciating pain and grab the torn shreds, pulling them close to me. I can’t repair them, but I can cherish what I had.

With a shaky hand, I touch my nose tenderly and almost cry out again. I’m not sure if it’s broken, but it hurts like a bitch. Pulling my fingers away, I see blood and cry anew.

I’ll never escape. I’ll always be trapped. I’ll always be a victim of his abuse because I’m not strong enough to fight back.

I need help.

Sobbing with my torn drawings clutched to my chest, my ribs throbbing and a broken heart, I send a message out into the universe, hoping that somebody, anybody hears me. “By the powers that be,” I whimper, my tears and snot mingling with the blood dripping from my face, a cascade of mess displaying my hurt and pain, “send me the mate you made for me.” I repeat the line two more times, hoping it can at the very least give me strength, even if it doesn’t work for me as it did Danae.

Suddenly, as if on their own accord, my bloodied fingers trail over to the floor, drawing a pattern I couldn’t ever hope to replicate. I try to keep track of what it is, but like Danae says, it’s like wool is over not just my eyes but my mind as well. My brain fuzzes out and I’m panting, even though I’m merely lying on the floor. My head feels full, like it’s being stuffed with something. If I’m not careful, it’ll explode.

Pressure builds higher and higher in the back of my skull, and I clamp my teeth together to keep from screaming out in pain. Just when I think I can’t take it and the pressures intensity might kill me, the sound of glass breaking magnified by a thousand reverberates through my head. I raise my bloodied hands to my ears, trying to block out the noise. It’s no use, since it’s in my head—there’s no getting away from it.

It goes on for a few seconds then abruptly stops. I’m left panting and shivering, my head now feeling incredibly light, though the rest of my body feels heavy as a mountain.

When my ears stop ringing, words from my mystery voice drift through my mind, and I’m not sure if they are ominous or promising:

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