Once upon a time, I gave my daddy a drawring. It was the bestest drawring ever! Mommy helped me colur it and make it look nice for daddy. Daddy was happy. Daddy smiled realy big and showed his sharp tooths. Daddys sharp tooths dont scare me. I think they look nice and cool and awsome. Mommy says daddys sharp tooths come from not brushing his teeth evry nite. But I want sharp tooths like daddy. I wish I cud grow up and be just like daddy. Plus also, mommy and me made cookies after and we shared them and it was good and I drinked milk and wached Barney.

THE END

by MaRIa rOSe

...

"Really freakin' cute." I turned the paper over in my hands and stared blankly at the scribbles on the back. Red, black, and pink crayon stained the yellowing page. Drawings of daddy and mommy and me.

My fangs gnawed nervously on the cig in my mouth as I stared at my mother's doodle-eyes. Green and vibrant and fake. The smoke from the drug rolled and roiled into my own violet irises and made them water and burn. I needed another light.

I dug a hand into my jacket-pocket and brought the silvery box out of the darkness. Its metallic sheen brightened in the starlight that bounced off of Marble Pond's glossy surface. With a flick of my thumb, the lighter produced a short-lived explosion of amber and blue fire. Then it steadied and breathed like a living creature, balancing precariously atop its silver stage, dancing for my amusement.

It didn't take long to find the next Marlboro. Flick. Lit. Drag.

"Oh, God," I thought aloud, spewing plumes of toxic fog as I exhaled, "I can hear them bitchin' now."

Where the hell have you been?

It'd be the same answers again. They had to know that, right? Didn't they know the pattern by now? I was out.

Where?

Nowhere.

Don't screw with me. You stink like smoke.

You stink like piss and beer, daddy-dearest. It's my friends.

I don't want you hanging around a bunch of goddamned junkies.

"Like you give a damn," I hissed through another cloud of relief, blowing the streams of gray air through the indigo night. Watched the ashes drift into the crystalline water below. Saw it taint the purity with its filth. "Like you give a shit!"

I was pissed again. Screaming. Cursing. Kicking.

The willow tree I was leaning against quickly became an outlet for my rage. My fist met it once.

"You goddamned..."

Twice. Snapping bark. Bruising fingers.

"... worthless, drunk-ass..."

Thrice. Cracking wood. Maybe bone. Knuckles purple. Gloves red with blood.

"... piece of shit!"

I punched once more and felt the roots shiver and shift beneath the earth. My hand was a bloodied, mangled mess by the time I was done. Freakin' brilliant. How're you going to explain that one to dad, huh? Tell him you were out punching trees?

I sighed in defeat, hefting my backpack over my shoulder and choking the remains of my cigarette on the singed bark of the tree. Then I stomped the ash and sparks into the dirt for extra care.

With one final look at the paper I held in my hand, I swore silently and tucked the thing away. Safely in my back-pocket.

No.

I took the thing back out and retrieved my lighter. Ignited it once more.

Not safe enough.

For a good ten seconds, I stood and watched as the flames licked away at the page, painting it black and brown and melting the ink into molten shit. Sending memories to hell.

Then I turned and began the walk back home. With any luck, mom would be waiting up for me. Not dad.

Against my better judgement, I had myself another cig before I got there. Breathe in. Burn. Breathe out.

Hell. Hopefully neither of them would be up when I got back.

...

"Where the hell have you been?"

Oh, Christ. "I was out." I tossed my bag onto the floor beside the door, closing said door as I did so.

"Where?"

"Nowhere," I answered, refusing to meet his gaze. I locked my sights on the stairs and marched for my bedroom.

"Don't screw with me," he growled. His hand clamped down on my shoulder. I flinched at the contact. Fingers squeezing. Knuckles tensing. Heart pounding. "You stink like smoke."

My throat was dry. I prayed to God that the stench of the fag I just had was gone from my mouth. "It's my friends," I insisted, barely a whisper.

"I don't want you hanging out with a bunch of goddamned junkies," he demanded.

I could feel my ears reflexively pressing against my skull as he spoke, the color in my face draining, the tears in my eyes glistening. "Yeah," I breathed.

"Are we clear, young lady?" His palm was like an anchor around my shoulder. I felt frail and weak. Ready to shatter. Glass in his hands.

"Yes, sir." I swallowed hard.

His hand came off of my body. The relief washed over me like a waterfall of ice. Cold and welcome.

I ran for my room. My only sanctuary in that hell that he called normalcy-...

"Wait."

My heart fell into my stomach. My stomach into my feet. The fear returned. Terror. True and all-too real.

"Look at me."

I didn't. Not right away.

"I said... look at me."

Go to hell. You son of a bitch. Just go to hell and leave me alone.

"Look at me, goddamn it!"

I finally did. Reluctantly. Hands shivering. Knees quivering. Ribcage about to burst beneath the weight of my hammering heart.

The ultimate life form hadn't aged a bit in the sixteen years that I'd known him. According to mom and old photo albums, that is. His quills black as midnight, like mine. Blood-red highlights. Naturally occurring. Tuft of white fur like a phantom full of knives fixed to his chest. And those freakin' eyes. Like looking into portals to hell. Scarlet and flaring like twin pools of hellfire. Empty, dead pupils black as a void. The kind of eyes that stare at you and through you and inside of you all at the same time. The kind of eyes that made me afraid to go to sleep at night.

The kind of eyes that were looking at me then.