「Dιsςοrd」

「III」

Lucinda
After returning to the large onyx-black mansion I call home, I head straight to my own room. My feet take me down hallways and up a flight of stairs while my mind is elsewhere, beyond this prison-of-a-home I have shared with my parents since birth. Although I am beyond old enough to have moved out, demons hold little concept of age and I'm settled here. My parents lead busy lives while our kind holds no sense of general family morals so, it wouldn't be all that bad livings here if I weren't considered different. If I were like every other demon, my life would be perfect. A huge house which is normally empty, everything I could possibly want at my fingertips, parents who wouldn't care what I do with my life, even a fiancé waiting for me when I am ready. And all these things are pretty well true, except that my parents keep a rather close eye on me and my activities. And all because the sight of blood makes my stomach roll, the thought of death makes me nauseous. Simply because I have no desire to fight and kill for this petty war of theres', I'm kept prisoner here. I sigh as I throw open the door my feet have brought me too, finally able to breathe in the comfort of my own space. I close the door and take a few steps forward, dropping face-first onto my plush bed with its white comforter and grey-scale pillows. I roll onto my back and gaze at the ceiling before allowing my eyes to drop closed. My bloodied hand rests on my stomach, the wound nearly closed already. I sigh and force myself to my feet, careful to keep my hand from dirtying anything. I walk to the wall where the head of the bed sits, pushing open a door that stands there. I flip on the light and walk into the bathroom. I make my way to the sink and open the black cabinets under the countertop, pulling out a lousy first aid kit. I set the white box on the counter before popping it open and picking a small glass vial from the box's contents. I pop the spherical cork out and open my palm over the sink. I tip the bottle's contents into my hand, watching the inky black liquid fill my palm then spill over the edges, dripping into the white marble sink. The liquid is a product of years of studying medicinal magic, a healing potion of sorts. Or so they say, an attempt to make their simple magic sound cool and exclusive; Them being the major magic-users of the demon world. Although the concoction did take a while to formulate, it's a basic ritual nowadays. The fancy potion is nothing more than a mixture of herbs, blood, and a simple incantation anyone with a general knowledge of magic can use. I empty the contents of the vial then cork it, setting it back in the kit. I allow the liquid to remain pooled in my palm for a moment before tipping my hand, spilling the last of the potion into the sink. I watch it swirl down the drain before looking back to my hand. The cut is healed, no proof existing that it was even there. I give a satisfied sigh and rinse out the sink before closing the box and stashing it back in the drawer I retrieved it from. I am about to leave the bathroom when one simple sound sends ia chill down my spine. A gentle knock on my bedroom door. And so the fun begins.

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