The Demon Inheritance

ONE

There are always two parts to that ever-repeating dream. In the first half of it, there is always a teen with shock-white hair, his slender fingers wrapped around a long blade. I'm never afraid when this part happens. I always feel safe and relaxed, protected. He unsheathes the sword, directs my hands around the handle, and teaches me how to use it. Although this nightmare had repeated exactly the same way every month, this fraction was never the same. I always learned something new. I always mastered it soon after. Soon, the teen with the white hair vanishes. He leaves me in the room with another weapon, much smaller, only a few inches in length. A hammer. I look up at a shadowy woman, who stands across the room. She is slick, laughing, holding another weapon in her hand that looks vaguely like the shadow of a knife. The next moments pass in a blur, and then we are both lying on the ground in a puddle of something thick, wet, and hot. My hammer is stuck inside of her eye, although I can't see in the darkness where I have wounded her. The back of her knife is in my arm. My pain is numb compared to the overwhelming fear and guilt that flood my senses, and I look down at my victim. In the window of the room, a flash of light etches across the blinds where a car is rushing down the street. And for a few mere seconds, I can see her face. She is dead, thin lips gaping, green eyes glazed over. There is no mistaking who she is.

My mother.

I woke on the darkest hours of the day. Through my window that lacked both curtains and blinds, the first strands of violet-blue light lifted up from the horizon; the presence of light only made the rest of the world appear darker. My room was like midnight-colored ink spilled onto a canvas of shadows. The soft glow of the white walls spilled a partially-visible ring around my room, but one had to squint to tell it apart from everything else. There were certain familiar things I knew were there despite the darkness. The dream catcher by my door, spotted feathers hanging down on brown threads, strung by aqua beads; my bedsheets made to look like static in design; the lengthy, knotted curls of my blonde locks against my pillow. The closet door on another wall across room my bed was slightly opened. I could tell by the morphed shape of the shadow.

Exhaustion possessed my eyes as I adjusted them in the darkness. My heart beat at a quick rate, making my body shudder at every change in pulse. It didn't matter how many times I dreamed of killing my mother, I was always afraid and confused in the aftermath. Most times, I thought the dream had become reality - my body was wet with hot sweat, feeling as sticky and sodden as the blood felt in the dream. I usually awoke clamping something hard in the midst of my fear, which I mistook for the handle of a knife. That night, however, was very different. I knew truth from fiction. There was a difference in what my mind saw and what my eyes did. I immediately knew I was in my bedroom, unharmed. And more importantly, my mother was as safe as I was.

The dreams were getting more and more persistent. At times, I would daydream and zone out completely. Then, those horrible visions would occupy my mind.

As if my phone had emitted a cosmic power to alert others of when I was awake, my ringtone began playing. It was the beginning tune to a Metallica song. My phone was lit up on top of my dresser, which was hardly an inch away from my bed. I grabbed my phone. Then, I discovered a fact that any other person my age would have moaned in remorse at: it was a Monday. The wicked word occupied my home screen.

I felt a thankful that it was the worst of my problems now.

The call was from my closest friend, Mary Clarkson. In the middle of reviewing tips for acting, her childish grin sprung up into my view as she called a second time. I took a second to observe the pale, adolescent face of the girl on my screen. Her locks were as dark as the feathers on a raven, and as equally curly as mine. Her bright green eyes were lit with excitement and joy. Her pink lips were cornered by dimples.