A Demon in my Soul

ONE

Mom says a demon lies dormant within every person’s soul—they’re our negative thoughts.  Like when you wish back luck on someone, or you hope someone will die.  And then, if you’re really negative, you become a demon.  Those people live in the dead zone.  All of those people who’s negative thoughts became so overwhelming, those demons.

            But the dead zone is what its name suggests: dead.  Just rubble and abandoned buildings that have never been fixed.  They—as in the Demon Research Center, the people who basically run the city—said there’s no way to purge the area of the demons.  Apparently, they’re there is essence, too.

The fact that the dead zone is a wonderland of rocks and rubble, kids wander over there every day.  And every day, I wonder what it’d be like to wander off the beaten path and join those kids, to venture into the dead zone with them.

I want to go there, to that dead wonderland where you can climb over things, climb into things.

The idea takes hold of my mind, wrapping as tight around my thoughts as my fingers clutch the icy pole of the train.  Bits of light flash over me, ready to guide the train down a different path.  Looking out the windows, I stare into the abnormal length of darkness that lasts really only for a second.

One of the dead tunnels.

I toy with my backpack, resisting the urge to tug at my school skirt, waiting for the train to reach the next station.  My fingers begin to twitch, begin to toy with the buttons on my coat.  I can’t help but fidget, can’t help but feel as if the people around me can judge my innermost thoughts.

When the train jerks to a halt, my heart lurches with it.  Pure terror and adrenaline jolt through me.  As I step out of the train, my legs shake.  The solid ground beneath me wobbles with every step. 

Just a short walk away lies the fence guarding off the dead zone.

I take a deep breath before jogging up the subway steps, squinting at the bright light breaking through the clouds.

As I walk through the streets, I don’t pick up any sounds.  It feels like I’m in a tunnel, one filled with gray lights and black blurs swarming around me.

It’s once I’m alone, by the abandoned shops and factories, when I zap back into reality.

“What on earth am I doing?” I mutter.  I stop walking and look around, making sure that I’m the only one around.  The wind whistles in my ear.

I let out a long breath.  I don’t want anyone thinking I’m insane, like those other kids who always wander into the dead zone.  They talk about their trips at school, about how they challenge each other into how deep they go, before they chicken out and head back.

My eyes are wide as I search for the towering chain-link fence.  When it comes into sight, my heart pounds.  I try taking a deep, relaxing breath to calm myself.

Nothing bad will happen.  There’s nothing in the dead zone—that’s what the kids at school say. 

My grip tightens on my backpack.  Scanning the area, I notice the hole in the fence, nearly hidden by some rubble and a tree.

As I grow closer to the hole, nerves shake me.

I stop a few feet short of the hole, looking it over.  If I crouch, I think I can make it through.  It’s at least three feet high, and at the base, two feet wide.  Large enough for even the older guys at school to slip through.  But the only thing I need to worry about is being caught by the loose ends, no matter the size of the hole.

Taking a deep breath, I set my backpack down and dip under the hole in the fence.  A couple hundred yards away lies a pile of rubble eroding from an old apartment building.