The Demon Inheritance

TEN

Until Monday, I had had to train myself in the art of swordsmanship and air. My blade was the only thing that kept me going. My Mary-less days were Hell, and I had blurred most of the events off of her death. In the point of grief I was at, I wasn't sure what I had done, or what I had seen, but I knew was that Mary was gone, and that was something I refused to believe. At least, I fought to disbelieve it. It seemed unreal. I was expecting texts from her every day. I was expecting to walk my her house and see her on the porch, waiting for me. Waiting for our daily walk in the woods. I had avoided those woods ever since Oliver came, and I wasn't going to head back anytime soon. So, I merely sat in my room, reading up on baby care for my unborn sibling, and trained to the point of exhaustion with my blade. I went beyond the point of exhaustion. Behind the weapon, I felt powerful and invincible. When, truly, I could break apart like a dropped porcelain doll at any minute.

My mother had noticed Mary Clarkson's absence. I told her that we had gotten into a fight, all the while cringing on the inside. She had quit watching the news months before (it made her cry; Mom was so sensitive), and Mary's parents weren't very open about the problem. What parent would be? After my mother had a talk with me about contemplating who my true friends were, I just went right back to fencing.

My mother never questioned the sword. All she knew is that it was as important to me as breathing.

I imagined that, for that reason, she didn't want to realize she needed to take it from me. If I got it from some place I shouldn't have, she'd make me give it back. And she didn't want that.

My sword was a coping strategy.

I'm actually thankful that she didn't ask where it came from. How am I supposed to explain that to her?

Under the rain in my fenced-in back yard, I swiped the air, swearing I had probably cut the droplets of water in half. The yard was gray with mist, and my thin yet muscular body was slick with water. My black tanktop and shorts felt tight-fitting on me because of how waterlogged they were. My bare feet slid across the mud, and my sword drove into an invisible enemy's chest. Although I moved gracefully at this point, I refused to describe myself as dancing.

Panting, I twisted the handle in my hand to where it was securely wrapped with my flesh. My curly hair was now straight and glued to my body with the wetness. I was at the point of falling, dizzy and aching. But if I took a break, I knew the grief would swallow me again. If I exhausted myself enough to sleep, the dreams would take me back to Mary. Only by luck, I wouldn't have night terrors.

I didn't come by luck much these days.

Under the one a.m. light, I lifted my head towards the sky to get water in my effort-dry throat. I gasped in the water. I hadn't slept all night. Nearly being sixteen, I felt like I had a right to physically escape the nightmares. I had plenty of time to wash and heal, even though, at this point, I carried the ache around me at all times.

I swung the sword again, heaving. How long have I been up? I ran my finger along my last name written in glowing violet letters, giving my body enough time to catch up to my will. I am straining myself. I know I should stop. But Dear Croma, it's like a drug! Or, better yet, just medicine.

Soon, summer would be here. Spring will pass quickly. There would be so much more to do than use my sword on invisible enemies. There would be so many other things to do to fill in the chunk of me that went missing with Mary. For now, I would have to suffer through rain and the lack of activities. After all, my body had to be occupied, not just my mind. There wasn't much to do in the rainy months.

You'd think that I wouldn't ever touch this blade again after Mary's death. Yet, strangely enough, it comforted me.

Slouching, I sauntered back onto my porch. On the cobblestone stairs, I rinsed my slim feet in the mist of the rain as they plummeted to the ground and exploded in all their miniature deaths. The mud dribbled off of my skin, and I was finally able to go back inside. I pulled the screen door open to a squint, squeezed through, and, of course, held my sword as I dragged it inside with me. Its sharp end hovered above the floor, dripping wetness as I hurried along the carpet. Of course, since I practically ran to my room and used my air to clean up the steps I made, I didn't make the carpet too wet.