The Demon's Half

Chapter 5

"So, you've sold all your paintings," I cheered.

Mia's talent was cabrónsisimo, she could pull emotions from a canvas, a gift I could never quite understand, no matter how many times she tried to teach me. My only talent was cutting paper triangles. "I think my favorite is still your self-portrait."

Mia shrugged. "They were okay."

Adolescentes.

"Okay? ¡Están increíbles!"

She rolled her eyes like the embarrassed teenager she almost was. Because 1- she hated when I switched to our mother language in public, and 2- because I was making a scene.

"I'll always miss those paintings," I scowled, bottom lip jutting like a puppy.

"Maybe today I'll start a new one. By the way, I hung father's portrait in his room. Do you mind?" She spoke the words casually, sipping her pink beverage.

"Not in the slightest."

Of course it mattered.
That portrait was a shrine to everything I resented. Mia saw our father as a constant, a hero. To me, he was the embodiment of everything I hated in humanity.

I could picture the painting clearly: him, with his graying hair and his annoying smile. Everything Mia adored about him. And unluckily for me, I was his exact reflection.
Big hazel eyes, a crooked nose, thick brows; all of his imperfections mirrored in me. I wished I had had Mia's luck and had gone with my mother's beauty.

"I still think we should do something to help Father," Mia said. Her fingers twisted the white rosary she always wore. "It's been a month, and nothing has happened. I think maybe the spirit left."

That wasn't exactly true.
Things still shattered around us when we were near. The attic was still loud, but the apparitions had stopped, at least for now.

"No," I said, cleaning the table next to her.

At least Carly had given me extra shifts at the coffee shop after I lost my job at the store.
In Moonveil, proving you lived on the street got you fed for free, so most had given up trying. But our home was all my family had left. It had been under our last name for decades, according to our mother. And I'd fight with my teeth for it. Even with the ghosts.

I caught her eye. "We are never touching that board again."

"But the TV said—"

"I know what it said!"

I wanted the stupid ouija board gone, burned to ash, but the only two rules written on it were: always say goodbye and never destroy it.

"We have to help him. We can't just leave him."

"Mia, he's not coming back."

"I know he's not, but..." she hesitated. "We still don't have enough money. We owe that guy from the—"

"No empieces."

"We don't know what to do with the land! We don't even know if Father left a will. There's so much we don't know. And I just want to see if he's okay."

"Do you think normal people just summon the dead when they're struggling? If he had left us something, anything, we'd know by now. He didn't have anything when he was alive. And he sure as hell doesn't have anything now that he's dead."

"I don't care. I want to see if he's okay."

"Death happens, Mia!" I slammed my hands on the table. "¡Acéptalo, carajo!"

The silence that followed hit harder than any argument ever could. I knew I'd gone too far.

"I'm sorry," I muttered.