Daughter of the Demon (II)

Dear Aunt Clara

~Jemma~

Maybe I shouldn’t have punched her in the face.

People could argue that I might have stepped a smidge out of line, but then again, so did she. So did all of those nutjobs in stupid lovely, southern ‘ole Heart High school. What right did they have to insult me in such a way? They couldn’t have just not expected retaliation. I grew up in Philadelphia. The school I went to was edged with a chain-link fence. Graffiti replaced tax-funded art programs. My neighborhood sucked; my dad was a drunk.

I knew how to throw a punch.

And that Angelina chick, she was asking for it.

But walking down the path to my Aunt Clara’s cabin-house, thinking over the past few weeks of my life, I almost regretted my actions.

I was supposed to start over. Clara wanted that for me desperately. Being the one to find your mother after she committed suicide and going through a house transition, all in one month, was enough to drain a person. I was drained. Heart was supposed to be my new beginning. Already, I was fucking it up.

All I had to do was sit through class and ignore the jeers. I just had to endure the day, endure the rest of the year, and get out. Why couldn’t anything ever be easy?

“I heard about your situation in Philadelphia,” the principal had said. “I understand you may be experiencing a lot right now. I can assign you a therapist, if you want. Or our school psychologist can speak with you.”

No. No I didn’t want to speak with another therapist. I lost count of the number of certified doctors who tried and failed to drag me from the spiral I was in. They couldn’t. Every time the little demons inside of my head won. Every time the doctors were no match for them. It was horrible and sick and tiring, and just the way it was.

I was Jemma Knight.

I was a ticking time bomb.

Clara was home, her worn pick-up truck in the driveway. She lived in the strangest house, more like a cabin, made of logs and everything and neck-deep in the woods. I didn’t question it, of course. I loved the seclusion. The closest neighbor was through the trees in the back about three minutes away. But it was home to me, regardless.

The front door flew open before I could dig out my key. “Jemma!” Clara exclaimed. “My goodness, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Being numb sucked. It made emotional circumstances unbearable. “I’m fine.”

“What happened? The principal called and everything . . . Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Yes, Clara,” I mumbled, shuffling by her and into the house. Food would have been a grand option if my lack of feeling enabled appetite. In the end I just sat at the table, staring down into a cup of water. The front door shut, and moments later my aunt joined me in the kitchen. I could feel the disapproval radiating from her.

“You punched somebody.”

I nearly cringed. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“She was irritating me.”

An exasperated sigh was her response. “Jemma, remember what I told you? Kids will be rude, judgmental pricks, but that doesn’t mean you can take your frustration out on them. If you weren’t new, and if you didn’t have the background you did, you would probably be suspended.”

I shrugged. “Well, then, I guess it’s a good thing I’m a depressed basket case.”

“Jemma.”