The RV has always functioned as a sort of pocket dimension -- an untouchable bubble of buttery lighting, faded cushions, nicked countertops and carpet stains. Every imperfection a punctuation mark on my family's story. And the way it sways, rhythmic on the highway, chaotically unpredictable over rough terrain, mashes all the cozy buttons on my control panel. This is comfort. This is home.
But as the engine's drone propels us into the night, the level oscillations signaling we've hit the nearest thoroughfare, this pocket dimension is anything but comforting. It's full of loss and anger and a potentially dying teenager adding his own bloody exclamation mark to our carpet.
The greasy liquid squelches between my fingers when I unwind Terry's flannel tourniquet. His formerly white shirt sticks to his stomach and raising it grants me the first saliva-sapping glimpse of the wound, so deep I can see the salmon pink of his insides.
Since Demon Slaying lacks any semblance of a group health plan, most of us sink or swim quickly when it pertains to medical care. Mom was pre-med though, so she taught me the basics: how to stitch a cut, keep a gash from bleeding or wrap a sprain. Perrin even broke her arm once chasing down a Mid-Level in Arkansas, obliging us to take a crash course in the art of bone setting. But no Slate has ever sustained anything requiring me to sew up multiple levels of intestines and dermal tissue. This is way above my paygrade.
Chewing my bottom lip, I spare a glance for the plastic box peeking out of Dad's bag, boringly gray and suspiciously mundane considering what it holds...
No, I shouldn't. Right? It's irresponsible to mess with power I know little about. Even if it had felt incredible. Heady. Like the one time I smoked weed, but better. Because this time when the world fell away, launching me into the sky on a current of smoke, I took to the air like a superhero. No, like a god.
An electric pulse streaks from the crown of my head to the tips of my toenails at the recollection. Of towering over Naberius while his ruby eyes sparked. An ancient, High-Level Demon completely trapped by my will. The sense of power was indescribable.
And if I'm being honest, I'm dying to try it again.
My breath ratchets with indecision until the oft consulted question of WWPD? floats through my brain.
If tonight is any indication, I know exactly which choice she'd make. The selfish one. The impulsive one. So, screw it. Demonic Wards, it is.
Flipping through the box with gore-tipped digits, I'm careful not to brush the black lines for fear of activation. That's just what I need right now. To confiscate a limb instead of knitting a wound.
But which is which? They all look so similar: white rectangles covered in indecipherable pictures.
My staccato pants go from presto to prestissimo as hazy symbols swim and combine before my eyes, metaphysical representations of unlimited possibilities or fatal mistakes.
Ugh! What's the point of having excellent recall if I can't remember this one stupid thing this one stupid time?!
"How's it going back there?" Perrin calls from the cockpit.
"You do your job and I'll do mine!" I holler, volume cloaking the hysteria.
Putting a halt to my frantic pawing, I squeeze my eyes shut and fill my lungs with a stream of stagnant air. A panic attack. That's what this is. That's why I can't think.
Dad gets these sometimes. Not that he'd ever admit it. I only know because Mom told me. Because she wanted to makes sure I could coax him through them after she passed.
Dad.
My heart squeezes.
Mom.
Both lost. Both gone.
YOU ARE READING
Slate Gray
Paranormal||7X FEATURED|| For the Slates, Demon Slaying is the family business. And eighteen-year-old Perrin has fully embraced her chosen profession. But when her younger sister, fifteen-year-old Ace, unwittingly picks a doozy of a case as her first outing...
