You Were Born Inside Your Head

Chapter 8

I stared at the plushie, the silent witness to my misery. It was the middle of the night, and the house was eerily quiet. Gon was out cold, probably dreaming of new ways to turn our lives upside down. Ging was outside, doing whatever it was that he was doing for the last few month. I couldn't blame him; if I had the choice, I'd run away too.

But the plushie? That fuzzy little shit was staring at me, its beady eyes glinting in the moonlight that filtered through the window. It was like it was waiting for me to do something stupid, to play into its paws again. And I'll admit it, I was tempted. The itch to test my powers had been gnawing at me like a rabid squirrel on a sugar rush. I had to know if there was a way out of this hellhole.

So, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, focusing on the energy that I'd felt the last time I'd tried to summon someone. It was like trying to grab a fistful of smoke, but I was determined. I muttered the incantation, feeling the power coil in my chest like a spring waiting to be released.

The room remained still, the plushie's eyes still glinting in the dark. I opened my eyes, ready to hurl a string of expletives at it for ruining my one chance at a peaceful night. But to my surprise, it was gone. Vanished, like a fart in the wind.

Panic set in. Where had it gone? Did it get tired of my shit and decide to take a permanent nap? Or was it just playing hard to get? I glanced around the room, my heart hammering like a drummer at a death metal concert. The moon cast shadows across the floor, but there was no sign of the furry little creep.

And then, I heard it. The sound of paper rustling, like someone was playing a game of pin the tail on the donkey with the lights out. It was coming from the direction of the bookshelf, where Ging had left his stash of smokes.

I slid out of the crib, my legs wobbly from months of disuse. The plushie was gone, but the energy it had brought with it remained. It was as if the air itself was charged with mischief, the very molecules tingling with the promise of chaos.

As I stumbled over to the bookshelf, the rustling grew louder. And there he was, the furry little shit, sitting on the edge of the shelf like the Cheshire Cat at a Mad Hatter's tea party. He had a pack of ciggies in his hand, dangling them in front of me like a carrot on a stick.

"Miss me?" he purred, his voice a mix of silk and nails on a chalkboard.

I stared at the kitsune, his furry form now perched on the bookshelf, his grin wide and unsettling. He had a pack of ciggies in one hand, my salvation dangling just out of reach.

"You son of a bitch," I snarled, reaching for the pack. "What game are you playing now?"

The kitsune leaned back, his grin widening. "Just a little incentive for being a good little baby," he said, flicking the pack so it danced just out of my grasp. "You know, for not burning down the house or summoning a real monster to eat your father."

"Ging isn't my father," I spat out, my hand trembling with rage. The kitsune just chuckled, the sound echoing through the room like the cackle of a villain in a cartoon.

"Technically, no," he agreed, "but in every way that counts, you're his little bundle of joy. Or...misery. Whichever you prefer." He flicked the pack of ciggies again, the cellophane crinkling in the silence.

My eyes narrowed, and I lunged for the pack. This time, the kitsune didn't move. He just watched as I grabbed them, my victory as sweet as the first drag would be. "What's the catch?" I demanded, clutching the ciggies to my chest like a life preserver.

The kitsune's smile grew wider, if that was even possible. "No catch," he said, his voice a purr that made my skin crawl. "Just remember, Gen, every action has a consequence."