I collapse onto my bed, sending my clothes to another dimension. As exhausted as I am, I can't stop the images of Clara from marching their way through my head. One after another flashes in my mind, faster and faster until my eyes fly open and I struggle to breathe.
If I don't stop this soon, I'll be consumed from the inside out. She'll destroy everything within me without ever realizing what she's done. Because of course she wouldn't. She isn't lying in bed pining after what could be. She's not going over every comment she's ever made to me. She isn't watching a slideshow of memories of my time there.
I'm alone in this torture, and the only way to stop it is to cut ties. I may not be able to stop her from summoning me, but I don't have to linger. No more conversations or touching her unnecessarily. I'll close myself off in every way I can. Eventually, she'll fade from my mind and I'll forget all about my little witch.
Ithought I'd be done with my demon by now. Summoning once was bad, even if I was desperate. Summoning him a second time might be worse. But a third time? I'm not counting the instances of accidental summoning. Those weren't intentional. Tonight, though? Tonight I'm playing with fire. Except I've been trying to put this desk together for the better part of the day. With the sun setting, I doubt I'll be able to finish it before midnight, if at all.
All my friends are out of town. They extended the vacation I wasn't invited to. Or maybe this one’s new. They’ve pretty much abandoned the group chat. I don't blame them since it’s a couple's trip, but it still stings.
Watching everyone else in my life move on to the next phase while I'm still here hurts. While I'm content with my life, sometimes I wish I had what they have. It was fine when we were all single. We shared our lives, our struggles, our triumphs witheach other. They all have significant others to share with now, and I'm left with no one.
No one but my demon. Except he's not mine.
A demon who doesn't even want to stick around to talk. We're not friends and I'd do well to remember that. I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be consorting with demons anyway. Although Mom never said outright we shouldn't. It was more of an implied thing within the community. Mom just told me to be careful and think everything through. It was good advice, though I don't think I'm doing well at adhering to it.
Maybe I’m not content with my life after all.
I huff, throwing down the booklet. They're supposed to be easy directions to follow, but the print is too small and there's a hundred and seventeen steps and thirty-three bags of screws. Not to mention twenty-three individual pieces of wood. I'll never figure out how to put this desk together. I should have paid for the assembly. I couldn't justify paying an extra three hundred dollars when I'd already spent four hundred on the actual furniture.
“This is bullshit,” I mutter, shoving the screwdriver away from me.
I wander into the kitchen and go through the motions of making dinner. It's way later than I wanted, which isn't going to stop me from making spaghetti. I'm still nursing the jar Omen opened for me.
As the scent fills the air, I'm transported to my childhood home. Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply as memories swirl through the air, weaving with the sharp tang of tomatoes and earthy scent of spices. It's just another sign of time passing.
My mother used to spend days with me at her feet while she canned the sauce. My father would waltz in with a basket overflowing with vegetables, a grin plastered on his face. Shenever got around to teaching me how to do it and every time I’ve tried, something explodes.
When my dinner is ready, I post up at the island and pull the spell book closer to me. I've been taking my time to read through the whole thing again. I was obsessed when I was a teenager. Several pages are familiar, but I don't remember even half of it. Some of the spells are dark and twisted. I'd never use them regardless of how desperate I was. Nothing good can come from binding spells or severing emotions. On the other hand, I might use the protection spell for books. Regular protection ones are great for my house, but one specifically for books? Yeah, I might use that one.
I scrape the bottom of the bowl for the remnants of the sauce. The book has a mind of its own and flips back to the demon summoning spell. The last thing I'm going to do is get Omen back here to put together a desk. I've already used him more than I planned. Eventually, I'll end up hailing someone other than him and it'll be…bad.
My mind wanders back to when Omen changed the batteries in the smoke detector. I tried to keep my eyes off hisverynaked body. I did not succeed. Who could blame me, though? I don't know if all demons are built like he is, but I'm not about to find out. I could search out another sigil, try my luck with someone else. Omen's wasn't even one I was searching for. It just sort of came out when I was doing the chalking. I still haven't washed the floor.
Resting my cheek in my hand, I twirl my fork. Omen's skin seemed to absorb the light, which only highlighted the silver rods caging his impressive cock. I'd like to say I didn't wonder what he looked like under the suit after the first time. I wonder if my thoughts became reality because of magic. Snorting, I drop my silverware into the bowl. As if I'm talented enough to influence the clothing choices of a demon.
“I bet you did it on purpose. Didn't you, Omen?” I laugh lightly to myself.
I focus on the book again and flip to the next page. Scanning the text, I wrinkle my nose. “Why would anyone want to brainwash someone?”
“Perhaps to control them, little witch.”
I squeal, jumping up and knocking over my stool. Somehow the bowl ends up flying through the air and clatters across the island, coming to a stop right at the edge. Omen's hand snaps out and catches the fork before the tines sink into his face.
“Jumpy little thing, aren't you?” He smirks as I gape at him.
“What the hell are you doing here? I didn't summon you.” I grab the book, though I don't know what the hell I'm looking for.
He snatches the tome from me and drops it on the island. “You used my name.”
“But…but I…Ionlysaid your name. I didn't—” I wave my hands around as if that'll convey anything. “It's not like I actually summoned you.”
He glances away, then back, his black eyes shining in the low light. “Do I really need to teach you everything? I assumed you were adequate at witchy things.”
My blood boils and my stomach flips. Apparently, my face conveys just how much he fucked up. I'm so fucking sick of everyone telling me I'm not good enough merely because I don't flaunt my skills. It's why I moved away from my hometown. It was cliquey and toxic and tiny and witchy. Everyone there is a witch. And everyone competes with one another. They pushed me out long before I actually left. I didn't fit in with their way of life. They wanted to use their magic to make their lives better than everyone else’s. They looked down on anyone who wasn't a witch. I don't even know why my parents decided to live there. Especially after it was clear I was a different type of witch than the others—quiet, easy-going, compassionate.
“I am a perfectly competent witch, thank you very much. Just because I don't know all the ins and outs ofdemons”—I spit the word out like a curse—”doesn't mean I'm not good enough.”
Omen raises an eyebrow before resting his hand on his stomach and bowing slightly. “Apologies, Clara.”
