You are sitting on an old rickety chair in an old abandoned room in an old abandoned house that used to be a home. You are staring in front of you at the lone window in the room.

It's covered with musty two by fours that have been nailed over it, obstructing the view of the outside world.

All you can think, as you sit on that chair, hands clasped together and waiting, is that this has gone on too long.

You don't know why she made the deal.

You don't even know what the deal was for. She made it before you even came into the picture, but you kind of hate her for it. You hate her because it wasn't worth it, whatever it was. Nothing could be worth this.

And now she was just prolonging it, dragging it out as long as she can, like a few more days (weeks, months now) will change anything.

You are three and have fallen and have scraped your knee.

She comes and smiles at you. She puts a bandage on it, your favorites. They have Bug's Bunny on them.

Later that day you want it off. You try to peel it away slowly and start crying at the stinging sensation.

She comes again. She smiles (she is always smiling) and tells you 'it's better to do it quick, once it's over you'll feel all better'

She rips it off your knee and you scream because it hurts, but she is right. It stops, and you feel better.

You want to give her the same advice she once gave you.

You want to tell her it's just like a band-aid. Peeling it off slowly is just going to cause her more pain.

But you don't. You know you won't be able take the look she'll give you if you do. You can't decide whether it will be betrayed, or disappointed, (horrified maybe, that's how you feel) but either way, you know you won't say anything.

You also know that her plan won't work.

The plan that she had apparently had ever since she made the deal. You hadn't known about it. You hadn't known about any of this.

She thinks her plan will work. That it will save her. That it will change what's going to happen.

It won't.

You know it won't.

She knows it won't.

And yet she keeps it up. She checks the salt lines every few minutes, in fact, she's doing that now, in the other room. You can hear her shuffling, speaking to herself. A habit of hers.

You are five and sitting in the back seat.

She is speaking, you don't hear what she says, but you are listening intently. You love to listen to her.

When you think to ask her why she talks with herself, she will answer: 'Silence is boring. Whenever you don't have anyone to talk with, you just have to make do with yourself''

You consider this great wisdom, and resolve to follow it. You don't get the chance. You are never by yourself. She is always with you, and you are happy with this.

You now know that her thinking out loud is a terrible habit. One that she picked up when you weren't old enough to talk, and hasn't been able to break since.

She would speak for two in the solitude of miles of lonely road, carry the conversation over hazy afternoons when the beaten up radio in the car you grew up in only spewed static.

When you started being able to respond, she didn't let go of the habit. And you didn't mind, even after you learned that usually there was a requirement for two to participate in a conversation.

Now her running dialogue has changed.

It's turned to pleading. To praying. To bargaining and wishing.

You are five and giving her a speech about the merits of the new Barbie doll. You plead, and beg, and threaten to hold your breath until you are blue, but she refuses to buy it for you.

You say she must not love you because she won't buy you this toy. She tells you that she does love you, she also says 'don't put any stock in words. Speaking to fill the silence is fine for a comfort, but when you need something done you don't whine about it, you go and you do it')

The next day when you and her stop to buy new cloths at a department store, you sneak away for a moment.

When you leave the store, you do so with a new doll.

She notices. (she always notices)

She smiles. (she always smiles)

You sit and look out the cracks in the boarded up window, out at the sunny street.

As her last defense, she picked out a house sitting across the way from a playground. You feel like that was not the best decision she could have made, but then you remember what brought them here in the first place. You see a swing set shifting in the wind.

You wish you could go out there. You want to leave her and never look back. Those thoughts make you feel guilty. You feel even guiltier when you don't stop thinking them.

It needs to end.

You know it needs to end. She isn't going to survive. It's just a matter of when she is going to go out.

There's a crash from the room next to you. The sounds of hysterical sobbing come drifting though the thin walls.

You still can tell whether the sobbing is better, or worse, than when she laughs.

You know what she would want you to do. If she was how she used to be. (happy, strong, the person you trusted) But she wasn't how she used to be, and that just fuels the fire of your smoldering anger, at her, at the deal she made, at the sunny day that doesn't dare enter the old house.

You are eight.

You are in a cemetery.

There is a boy your age lying on the ground in front of you.

He has blood running down the side of his face. There is more of it on the knife in your hands.

She finds you there. You haven't moved since the boy stopped doing so.

She smiles down at you (the same way she always does) and tells you she is proud.

He was a monster (he wasn't though, he was only turning into one, it made him drink it's blood, but he wasn't one, not yet) she tells you that you did the right thing (it didn't feel right, but you believe her, because you always believe her) and she picks you up and carry's you to the car. You drive away as she explains why you had to do it.

It was over for that boy. He was dead already.

You did the right thing.

You could end it. (do the right thing)

You know you could end it. (it wouldn't be hard)

It's outside. Waiting. You can't see it but you know it's there. (it has been there this entire time, it's not leaving until this is over)

She knows that it's there too.

She won't sleep anymore because of it. (you don't sleep anymore because she won't stop talking)

You used to love her talking. (used to fall asleep to the sound of it and have sweet dreams)

You know it needs to end.

You know everything she has taught you. (she tried so hard to teach you)

(we kill monsters because someone has to)(never give your real name, we don't want to be tracked down) (you can't go to school because we have a ghost to burn. Which do you think is more important, Naptime with Ms. Pillsbury, or saving someone's life?)(you aren't like other children, you're better than them. when they say those tings to you it's because they're jealous)(sometimes you scare me)(don't eat things you find on the floor) (keep your knives sharp, don't give me that look! A dull knife means a dead hunter) (monsters don't deserve pity, and all the mercy you can afford them is a quick death. and that's what we give them) (Journey is the best band there is. and don't you let anyone tell you otherwise) (I love you. I will always love you) (no, Santa isn't real, yes, you still get presents) (you use fire on windigos, and silver on ghouls, don't mix the two up again) (put the key in the ignition and turn it, that's righ -Keep Your Foot on the brakes!)

You are nine and she has woken you up in the early hours of the morning and driven you to an old house across from a park.

She tells you to go inside and you do.

It is rundown and there are plants growing in between the floorboards.

She shows you a room with a lone window and tells you it's your's. The room has a chair, so you sit down.

You hear her working around the house. The familiar sound of shifting salt and hissing spray paint go's together with her humming.

You know that she is making the house safe, but you don't know why.

You figure it out when it get's dark outside and you hear barking.

She is still sobbing. (you have decided you prefer the laughing. When she laughs you can pretend that you don't hear the sharp desperate, hopeless edge it has, and imagine she just thinks something is really funny)

She hasn't fed you in a while. (you know they aren't out of food, you don't think they will ever run out, she has just forgotten, or no longer cares)

You don't want to venture out of your room, so you go hungry. (it's easy to forget the hunger if you concentrates on the sobbing, but you prefers the feel of the hunger than the sounds of the sobbing anyway)

You know what you have to do.

And there's no point in dragging it out. (you now understand why she's being doing just that)

But you don't prolong the inevitable. (it's just like a band-aid)

You are ten and have been living in an old abandoned house for far too long.

In the end all it takes is the brushing of one hand across a windowsill.

You leave your room.

She knows what you've done. (she always knows)

She is standing, staring at you. (you want her to thank you, but she doesn't)

She doesn't say anything. (you wish that she would)

She smiles. (she's always smiling. right now you wish that she wouldn't)

You don't say anything.

You walk over and kiss her on the cheek. (just like you had always seen other girls kiss their mothers goodbye, the same way you had always told yourself you would do when you said goodbye to her, but you never had, because she never left you alone)

Once that is done, you leave.

The screams follow you down the street.

You did the right thing.

(it doesn't feel right)