Too Bad to be True
Laila Browning stared at the corpse in front of her (because that's what he was now, a corpse), seeing but not taking in the dark puddle of blood seeping out from underneath his chest. She was confused in a number of ways and for a number of reasons, and huddled in the corner of the basement, her own blood coating one side of her face, she was forced to sort her mind out alone.
Point one: was she glad he was dead or not? It had been a terrible relationship – he'd toyed with her, kept her on a string like a child keeping a butterfly tied to piece of thread, sending her first one signal then another until she became desperate to make him show her he loved her. But, the rational part of her argued, what if that hadn't been him? What if all that had been the bastard demon that had worn him like a jumpsuit?
And that was point two: how had those things managed to claw their way back into her life? She'd ditched that road a long time ago – or at least, what felt like a long time ago – and things had been going fine. Well, as fine as she thought they had been, demon-possessed boyfriend aside. Five years. Five whole years she'd gone without seeing black smoke or jumping at strange noises, sleeping without a salt gun under her bed for as long as she could remember. But just like that, they'd invaded her life in the most personal way possible. How long had that creature been inside him? How long had it enjoyed squeezing her heart and soul? A sudden, terrifying thought crossed her mind, and she gagged. She wanted memories of That Night to be pure, as innocent as it truly had been… but now?
Point three: what to do next? Call Uncle Harry? Call George? Yeah, that conversation would go brilliantly. "Hey Uncle Harry, I want back in. Why? Oh, a demon wore my boyfriend for two years then ditched him right as I landed the killer blow. I just want to pummel his rancid black ass then get back to having a life again, that okay with you?" Nope. That wasn't going to happen. And yet Laila knew there was no way she could stay here. The basement alone was littered with evidence that she had killed him, not to mention the fact that there could be more demons around the town out to play a similar game with her (and she couldn't help but think of the jocks that kept hitting on her in college, even when she had been unattainable). In truth, her immediate future was very simple.
Using the wall to steady herself, Laila rose from the corner of the room and looked about for fire-starting equipment. It took her twenty minutes to find and arrange barbeque kindling around the stiffening body, and after carefully wiping any blood from the floor she fished around in his pockets for his lighter. It was shiny and smooth, gleaming up at her happily and showing her how much blood had painted her face. Ignoring it, she went to a box in the wall to disable the smoke detectors, then she flipped the lighter open and touched it to the clothes of the dead body.
The outside night was cold, but she soon forgot about that when the phone she was calling was finally answered. "Hello?"
"George?" She swallowed. "It's me, Laila."
"Laila?" He sounded older than she remembered. "What's wrong? What happened?"
She cast a glance back at the house, which looked for all the world like a normal, sleeping house. She squeezed the lighter in her fist. "I want back in."