Daughter of the Demon (I)

Daughter of the Demon-11-Drowning

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Chapter 11: Drowning

~Jemma~

I came to school the next day like I told Jacob I would. But I was distant. As in, more distant than usual. And he noticed.

Even Mr. Matthews noticed. He tried to ask me what was wrong but I excused myself from any further conversation. I didn’t feel like talking. I didn’t feel like doing anything.

*****

I felt sick during lunch. Not throw-up-sick, just, sick. I avoided Jacob’s eyes, and even Angelina felt the bad aura around me and didn’t come near me. When I saw Jacob trying to approach me, I hightailed it out of the courtyard and to the girls’ bathroom. I stared at myself in the mirror, clutching the sides of the sink so tightly my knuckles turned white. My eyes had deep bags under them and I looked nowhere near myself. My wavy black hair was in wisps in front of my face, and my shoulders were shaking. I could feel the demon inside of me creeping up, clawing its way out.

I jerked forward, my head near the sink, breathing hard. I needed something sharp. Something . . .

No.

I reached in my pocket and took out a freshly sharpened pencil. I held it clenched in my fist. My eyes trailed from it to my forearm where the other scars were.

Don’t do it.

I held it over my arm, pausing slightly.

You’re better than this. Don’t do it.

I pressed the tip against my arm.

Don’t. Do. It.

I took a deep breath and jammed the pencil into my arm, dragging a jagged line across my wrist. Blood started pouring out into the sink, and I panicked. Too much. Way too much.

What had I done?

I widened my eyes at myself in the mirror. All I saw was a monster.

"What the fucking hell?"

My eyes snapped up toward the door, where Jacob stood looking terrified and pale as anything. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do. I stared at him with panicked eyes. His mouth opened but nothing came out. He lunged forward and finally words came to him.

“What the hell did you do?” He screamed at me.

I shook my head, beyond tears. Just scared. God, I was so scared.

“Help me!” I rasped. He grabbed wads of paper towels and wrapped them around my arm. He saw the blood in the sink, stopping up the drain, and he cursed to himself.

“Jemma . . . oh holy fucking shit, Jemma . . .” he continued pressing the paper towels against my bloody arms. “Just . . . hold these for a second. I’ve got to go get the nurse.”

“No!” I reached for him and this time when he turned around his eyes were so livid I froze. The words in my throat smashed together and ran back down my vocal chords. At his look I wanted to turn into goo myself and ooze out the door.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly, darkly. He walked forward and pushed me up against the side of one of the stalls. “You can pretend to be a dark, solid figure, but I’m not. I’m not going to pretend I’m not human, because I am, and humans feel things. I’m worried about you, Jemma. So is your Aunt. Why are you doing this?”

“I---” Why was I doing this?

He grabbed the sides of my face with his hands and leaned in real close so his mouth was inches away from mine. “Something my dad once told me; in order to live, you have to suffer through a lot of pain. Natural pain. Not self-inflicted pain.”