The Demon's Half

Chapter 2

Fluorescents buzzed; the store felt like a tired carcass under their light. Popcorn stank and bleach bit at my throat. The place smelled like desperation. It was always crowded, but not with shoppers, only souls fleeing the cold or staring slack-jawed at the TVs.

My boots dragged across scuffed tile. This was Moonveil's only department store, which meant the pay wasn't the worst. That meant, I couldn't afford to lose this job. No matter how much I hated it. I wanted to be anywhere else. Maybe a school, rolling my eyes at homework. Instead... I was a ghost in my own reality.

"Morgan, you shouldn't be here." Elena said. I hated how she could see the cracked places I kept hidden.

Elena Parker had been at the store longer than any of us. She was steady, like an old lighthouse that didn't bother pretending storms didn't exist.

"It's only been two weeks since your father passed," She placed a hand on my arm, her tanned skin was almost the same shade as mine. "You need time to grieve."

A bitter laugh almost escaped. Grieve what? My father's indifference? ¿Sus pendejadas? I did my grieving almost sixteen years ago, when I was four. That was the real funeral.

"I know," I said. "But David's already looking for an excuse to fire me."

"We're talking about your well-being."

"I'm fine."

She didn't look convinced. "You and Mia can stay with me, if you need it."

Something in my chest ached. "I'll keep it in mind. Gracias."

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself."

"I promise," I lied.

She lingered, then turned away. I didn't care about me. I had Mia. Nothing mattered more than her. Elena was kind, probably the best person I'd ever met, so the offer hurt in a way that made me ashamed.

I rubbed my eyes. It was only noon. I reached for my phone for a moment of escape—

"Morgan! What do you think you're doing?"

My stomach dropped.
David.
He stalked toward me, small-eyed and smelling of onions. His red shirt had sweat stains underneath his armpits. Disgusting.

I shoved my phone in my pocket. "I—"

"No personal phones on the floor," he barked. "One more screw-up and you're out."

He turned and left, but his presence stayed like grease on my skin.
David.
The name alone made me want to puke every single piece of food I had ever eaten. From the moment I first stepped into his office asking for a job, something inside me had screamed at me to run. His eyes devoured me. He hadn't even tried to hide the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips as I spoke. The dynamic had nothing to do with qualifications and everything to do with asserting dominance.

At first, it was subtle. Flowers in my locker. Coffee left at my station. Then, bolder, his hand brushing my waist as he passed. Fingers lingering at my hips a little too long. I told myself that I could handle it. Then, three weeks ago, he cornered me in an alley.
I remembered like it had been yesterday.
The cold bricks biting my back. His breath was thick smelling like fish. I prayed to every nameless god and all I got was silence.
His sweaty skin was rubbing against my skin. And when I dared to refuse, his touch turned violent. His lips tried to reach mine... but my stomach wasn't having it, so it turned itself inside out, all over his face. I could still see it. The way his wounded ego twisted into something cruel.
He punched the wall behind me, cursed me, but he had stopped. And he hadn't touched me since.
Instead, he found other ways to make me pay.
The late-night shifts. The constant, relentless threats to fire me.
A small price to pay for freedom.
Or so I told myself.