The Demon's Half

Chapter 9

Days blurred together, each one identical to the last.

Wake up. Work. Eat. Pretend to care. Sleep—if I was lucky.

Mia's birthday came and passed and I couldn't move at all that day. Not even to eat.

I was just going through the motions. And no matter how much time passed, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was living someone else's life.

The filth, the hunger, the constant fear of something slithering too close in the night—it was all gone.

My world had flipped, a clean break from the nightmare I'd once called reality. Now, the sheets I slept in smelled of lavender instead of mildew. My clothes were fresh, my skin soft, perfumed with a delicate fragrance I'd found in my dresser. The walls weren't cracked, the floors didn't creak.
Even the attic as quiet.

It was peace. It should have been a gift.

But it felt wrong.

Because Mia should have been here.

She should have been the one breathing in fresh air instead of choking on blood. The one feeling safe instead of feeling nothing at all. She should have been the one to survive.

If I could have traded places with her, I would have. Without hesitation.

I went through the motions every day, mechanical and hollow. I ate just enough to keep moving, went to bed before exhaustion could drag me under. But every night, without fail, I curled into myself, clutching my pillow as silent sobs shook through me.

Loneliness wasn't new.

It had been lurking in the corners long before Mia was gone, whispering to me ever since my mom walked out.

I'd made it easy for people to forget me. For my friends to stop caring about me. Ignoring their calls, their knocks, their voices reaching through the static. Eventually, they stopped trying.

Mia had been my last thread to the world. And now, I was floating. Disconnected. Waiting to fall.

By Thursday, sleep had turned into my worst enemy.

Every night, the nightmares got worse. The same haunting scenes, playing on a loop in perfect, merciless detail. Mia's screams. Mia, reaching for something—someone—that never came. Blood seeping into the cracks of the floor. Her eyes, wide and staring, even after the last breath rattled from her lips.

And every time, I woke up gasping. I was so useless. I couldn't even help her in my dreams. Guilt was eating me alive.

The worst part?

Even now—fresh sheets, warm showers, clean air—I still smelled death.

And no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't get it off.

But Thursday's nightmare was different.

This time, the man who killed Mia didn't die.

Instead, he turned to me. Smiling.

Mia lay crumpled on the ground, her lifeless eyes staring straight through me. Her lips were parted, as if she'd been about to say something—one last word—but only silence remained.

Then, he stepped forward.

The man who killed her.
Jack.

A sick smile carved itself onto his face as he turned his gaze to me. "I know exactly what you are."

I tried to move, to run, to fight. But my body refused to obey.

Then he was on me.

His hands slammed around my throat, squeezing—tight, tighter, until panic clawed up my spine. The need to breathe was as bad as the pain around my neck. I dug my nails into his skin, kicked, fought, but his grip was so strong I knew my neck would be filled with bruises.