Daughter of the Demon (I)

Daughter of the Demon-24-She's Back

Chapter 24: She’s Back

~Jacob~

It was already Christmas Eve and Jemma still was not back. God, did she know how much she was hurting me? The pain was so intense and so hindering and I spent every second of my time worrying and wondering about her.

I dressed in a suit I’d had hanging up for a while and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked pretty good, if I didn’t say so myself. I cleaned up nice.

“And you’re sure you want to go?” Belinda asked me as she was getting me ready by the door to leave.

“Yes,” I told her for the hundredth time. “I’m sure. It feels right.”

She nodded and kissed my forehead. “You’re such a good boy.”

I sighed. “Sometimes.”

She chuckled and handed me the car keys. “Don’t crash, don’t injure yourself, and no making me worry!”

“I don’t think I can help the worrying part,” I told her.

“You’re right. It’s too natural. Just be safe.”

“I will, Belinda,” I reassured her and waved good-bye on my way out. I slid into the driver’s seat of her small, sleek black Chevy and revved the engine. I was supposed to pick up Jemma today, but she wasn’t home, and the passenger’s seat would have to remain empty. I cleared my throat and swallowed and backed out of the driveway. I had to forget about Jemma for the moment.

Apparently she had forgotten about all of us.

*****

Funerals were funerals. Sad, dismal, depressed, and filled with heavy sorrow. I immediately spotted Clara and Michael standing off to the side, clutching each other. Clara wasn’t crying. They were whispering to each other and pointing around. Close friends I guess of Clara were there in the small church of Heart, seated in the pews with tissues ready in hand. I took a seat in the back, my suit making a rustling sound that mixed in with the creak of the wood from the pew. I looked around me at the beautiful stained glass windows, and the cross high and mighty up on the wall, and at the lovely red velvet casket in the front center of the church. I saw black hair in that casket, and I knew it was Jemma’s mother. I didn’t dare go up and see her. If she looked too much like Jemma I couldn't be held responsible for freaking out.

There was muted conversation all around me. I listened to it all and yet none of it. I heard no laughter, no jokes made in an attempt to lighten the mood. It was all so sad, and I just wanted to get it over with so I could get out of that room weighing so much grief down upon me.

The big oak doors in the back opened and the preacher strode in, his white robes billowing behind him. Pastor Bruce had short brown hair and glasses he sometimes had on the tip of his nose and sometimes had protruding from his pocket. He walked with an air of holiness around him that was worth envying. It made him seem untouchable.

He strode to the front of the sanctuary and took his glasses out of his pocket, placing them on the bridge of his nose. He opened the bible and his mouth to speak. “We are here in loving memory of Linda Charlotte Knight, beloved sister of our own Clara Rose White.” That was all I heard. The doors in the back creaked again, but I didn’t want to be the person to look back and see who it was. I continued facing forward, pretending to hear what Pastor Bruce was saying but not really.

Whoever came in through the doors sat down beside me. Not right beside me, but they were the only other person on the pew with me. I was at one edge, and they sat at the other. I couldn’t help it. I turned to see who this mysterious person was and I could pretty accurately say my heart stopped for a second.