To Kill a Demon [Rewrite]

Chapter 1

Three days before my 16th birthday I witnessed a murder, my childhood friend killed right before my eyes by my 'best friend'. I knew deep down this wasn't my 'best friend', this murderer was a twisted creature. A demon, and no matter what I told people they would always label me 'delusional' or 'a crazy woman who didn't know when to stop'. Only I was the one that knew what really killed her. Most hunters didn't even know what or who this being was called, demons did have names. I didn't know his name. I just called him 'yellow eyes'.
His beaming yellow eyes appeared in every nightmare/dream I had, over the next few years that was all I could think of. Finding who killed my friend. But for what? Revenge? Revenge never made anyone feel better. At least that's what they say in the movies. Who knew what it felt like in real life. Surely my father would know. But he would never tell.

He never told me anything.

>A Few Months Later<

Roughly five months and two weeks later from my last therapy appointment my dad left, he disappeared from the house to go who knows where. There was never any 'goodbye' or 'see you later', he always just poofed. It irritated the shit out of me that he didn't show any sign of caring. My mental health still wasn't the best but I wouldn't admit it, I wasn't going to waste my money on some shitty therapist. If it had occurred to my father that leaving was the best thing for me, then he was wrong. I had questions, questions that needed answers that would only create more questions. Times like these I wish my mother was around.

He knew something, my father did, he knew something about me that he was avoiding speaking about. Maybe it was something about my mother. Or something about him. Or a friend. Or the thing that killed my b-f-f. Who the hell knew. Or maybe he was afraid of the thing under his bed. 'Just a thought,' I joked more so to myself, brushing a hand up through my long locks of hair, cursing when my nail got caught and pulled some out.
'Haircut,' I told myself, glancing up at the mirror across the room, pursing my lips. Then made a disgusted look, 'Ew, me with short hair'.

Maybe I wasn't completely truthful, I sort of knew what the demon wanted. Or what he was after. Me. The demonic being rambled on about me being some sort of special child. That I was going to be able to lead an army. He spoke of how I was very powerful and could destroy someone with a flick of my wrist. Sounds cliche, he was a crazy son of a bitch so who would believe him? Surely not me.
Deep down I did, there was always something off about me, this growing darkness inside that poked at my soul. That shook my very being whenever I was angry or on the point of snapping. When I was five, I lost my temper at my birthday party to my friend named Robert, I barely took notice then, but the power had gone out for three hours.
My 'dad' brushed it off as a power outage, but what type of power outage only effects one house in the whole block/city?
Surely not any of this sort.

Ever since then my dad had been careful, watching his words about me and doing his best to not 'anger' me. Lately, he'd been failing as a parent.

Lately, I had been raising myself.

(Present Time...)

12:30pm.
The house was always empty and cold, barely any groceries in the cupboards. Deep down I knew I was going to have to make a run for some sort of lunch meat or peanut butter. Living with barely any sort of money was hard enough, even harder when no one would hire you.
Getting a job in this small town was impossible, no matter how hard I tried it was always 'we'll call you back' and then the call would never come.
How does anyone expect you to live if you can't even afford a piece of stale gum?
They don't.
It's called population control.

I rose up from the couch, it was an old maroon leather material type couch, two pillows lay upon it. One on the left corner of the couch and one on the right. The right pillow was a little more worn down, my father had purchased it from a garage sale when my mother was still about. The pillow always smelled like gasoline and oil. Which I thought was very very nasty. I skimmed my fingers across the hall wall, making my way to the kitchen, throwing the fridge open and kneeled down. Milk, month old coffee, moldy cheese?
"Shit, maybe I can just scrounge up some change and buy a pizza," I muttered to myself, swinging the fridge door close and spun around. Down the hall from the kitchen was a lonely cracks window, from where I stood I could see a cat sitting upon the fence outside. It's grey tail swishing back and forth contently. It reminded me of Robert's cat, only his was an asshole and attacked you if you didn't share your food with it.
I yawned rubbing my eyes slipping out of the kitchen, walking down to my father's room. Shoving the door open hard, the clothes sitting on the floor behind the door scrunched and I even heard a tear. "Oops..." I sighed, shaking my head. His room was small, about 9 by 9. A desk sat in the corner of the room that took about 1/4 of the space, it was matted with journals, pens, papers and food wrappers. One of which had a half eaten granola bar. I flicked it off the desk and onto the floor, plopping down in the chair and pushed around the papers. Starting to sort them all out into specific piles. Glancing over a few here and there, none seemed that important. I picked up one of his journals and began flipping through it, my eyes scanning over every word carefully.

Hours could've passed, the room darkened as my eyes drifted shut and my head rolled to the side. A small snore left my lips which jerked me awake, I sat up quickly rubbing my eyes and cleared my throat. The door slammed shut, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand. I rose to my feet jiggling the handle to the door, turning around pushing my back against it. "Whoever the hell you are—get out. Right now. Don't make me phone the police."

I didn't have my phone. Shit.

The floor boards creaked, a steel toe boot made contact with the other side of the door. It wasn't a kick, just like someone stepped way too close. I could hear heavy breathing, the lights overhead flickered a few times. The light closest to the desk exploded sending glass everywhere, instinctively I covered my head and face, feeling the glass rain down overhead. I grabbed ahold of the door and pulled it as hard as I could, after a few seconds it flew open. Very very easily. Making me fall back onto my ass and probably bruise my tail bone. Outside the room was nothing—well, that wasn't true—sitting on the stained wood floor was a single shell casing. To one of my father's rifles, the casing was made of pure silver and even had the initials in it. Looking father down the hall the gun sat, leaning up against the cracked window, the cat sitting upon the windowsill.