She sits on her bed, shaking slightly; salt from the brine still soils her skin. She tries to be good. She tries and tries and tries. And it keeps happening anyway and she can’t stop it. He says she’s a demon. She doesn’t want to be a demon. She wants to get better. Be good.
She hates him and is afraid of him.
He says it’s all for her own good. Salt kills demons. It will destroy the abomination, make her better. It doesn’t feel like she’s getting better. Maybe she will be this way forever; this shameful, freakish, evil thing.
Can demons have salt inside them, she wonders. She can taste it in the tears spilling down her cheeks.
The cups start to tremble.
No. Not this. Not again. She buries her face in her hands. No. No. No. Stop. Stop it. Stop it.
The figurines on the mantle are shuddering too now. It’s just getting worse. She can’t control it. Nothing works. Nothing ever works.
She can hear his footsteps approaching. She lets out a sob.
He forces a funnel into her mouth. Pours salt into it. No added water this time. More and more and more. Too much. She feels like she’s being stuffed with cotton. It burns, so she must be a demon.
She hates herself and is afraid of herself.
And she is so, so angry.
She knows he’s wrong. She thinks she’s good. But sometimes, she thinks he might be right. Maybe she’s just lying to herself.
The cups don’t just tremble anymore. They rise and fly around. She ducks her head and tries to hide.
He enters. Too many things are flying around, something hits him and he falls. She runs.
And runs and runs.
Someone finds her and takes her to a shelter. They help her.
She meets people, makes friends, and gets a job. She builds a life for herself. And if unexplained things sometimes happen, no one needs to know it’s her.
She still feels unsafe. She still feels angry and dark and broken.
She goes through four therapists before she finds one she can talk to. It’s a slightly overcast Thursday afternoon when she realises what she can do isn’t evil and isn’t something to be afraid of; it’s just power.
It’s easier to learn how to control it after that.
She’s strong, she’s powerful. She can lift a car with her mind. She’s got good people and things in her life. She lists the things that are good. It doesn’t make her feel better.
Knowing she’s safe and human doesn’t change- or help- the feeling that she’s not.
She still retreats from people and places, flinches away from the world. Her heartrate rockets at every swiftly turned doorknob. Her palms sweat at loud footsteps on the stairs. Sometimes everything tastes of salt.
Sometimes she thinks she could make a fist and shatter the world.
She can’t do this. It’s never going to be okay. She’s never going to be okay. She hates him.
Sometimes she thinks everything she does is just an act. All that’s really left of her is bitterness and anger.
She goes back to the house. He's still there- a bottle against his lips. She grins and he snarls.
And she shows him the demon he made; shows him what she can do.
He screams and screams and screams.
AN: I'm trying to improve my writing so any concrit would be much appreciated. Thank you.