Disclaimer: I don't own most of what I'm writing about. It can't get any simpler.

A/N: Just for some clarification, each chapter up 'til now has been one day, starting on Friday, November 18. It is now Thursday, November 24. Just putting that so you know...

Chapter 7 – Not So Thankful

"Wake up, Theresa! It's Thanksgiving!" Mom bounced into my room, as happy as ever.

I glared blearily up at her. "What I'd be thankful for," I mumbled sleepily, "is another few hours of sleep." Then I buried my face in my pillow again.

"Nonsense!" she sang, flinging open my curtains. "You have to help me cook! You'll need to do the dessert, the salad, and a side dish, and it's already ten o'clock! We eat at three, we don't have much time! Up!"

With a great show of moaning and groaning, I stood up and stretched. Mom left so I could change, then we went downstairs.

Again, I was assaulted by cookbooks. "All homemade, dear, no mixes," Mom said absently, glancing around. "Yes, just pick a recipe." She handed me three large cookbooks and drifted off towards the stove, which the turkey was sitting on top of.

I groaned and flipped open the first one: salads. That would be easy: lettuce slathered in Italian dressing.


"Do I smell turkey? And chocolate cake?"

It was two thirty in the afternoon, and I had not eaten all day. I was also forced to stand in a room full of turkey scents. That translated into grumpiness. You would know what you smelled if you had helped us! I thought.

Mom rounded on me. "Theresa! That was very rude! Apologize!"

"What did I say?" I hadn't said anything, had I?

"You know what you said, young lady! Now go tell your father that you're sorry!"

I met Dad as he came through the laundry room door. "I'm sorry." Then I went back to frosting the cake that I had just pulled out of the oven.

This time I was sure I wasn't dreaming. Somehow they had heard exactly what I was thinking. But I hadn't said a word. What the heck?


After we said grace and before we ate, my remaining family decided that we should name something we're thankful for.

"I'm thankful that we no longer have Satan in this house." How Mom could think of that when she had lost her son, I couldn't fathom. But she did.

Dad cleared his throat. "I am thankful that God has watched over our daughter, and that she is pure."

They both turned and looked at me. "Theresa?"

"I'm thankful for…for…" What was I thankful for? Not that the "demon" was gone, that was for sure. "I'm thankful for…all the good times," I said at last. That said something, and it didn't give anything away. It was good enough.

Mom nodded. "Let's eat."

The dishes were passed around with a bit more difficulty than usual, owing to the fact that Chris wasn't there. But, we managed. For some reason, my parents didn't seem remotely bothered by the fact that their son had just run away. All they cared was that "Satan" had left their home. It made me glad that I was atheist.

Where was the salt shaker? Oh, it was hiding behind the turkey. I leaned over the table a little…and couldn't reach. Since it was smack in the middle, nobody else could, either. I wished for the millionth time that Chris was there.

I stretched out my fingers. Then, suddenly, the shaker slid about six inches and ended up right in my hand. What on earth? I quickly pulled back. Had that salt shaker actually come to me without my touching it? That was just downright strange. My hands shook as I salted the turkey, and I ended up with way too much salt on it. Great.

"Theresa, could you pass the salt?" Dad asked.

I nodded and handed the shaker to Mom, who handed it to Dad. I was rather glad to get the thing away from me.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask them, but I didn't dare to. What about Chris, my brother? Didn't they miss him, at all? Not their demon-infested version, but the old one. He was their son! They had to miss him, at least a little bit.

I guess I had to carry the burden of missing him on my own.


"Honey, we think that you should keep a journal."

I stared at my mother. "Why?" I asked blankly.

Dad jumped in. "We've always heard that it's a good thing for a child who has been through trauma. Living with Satan is very traumatic, and we want to make sure you feel better."

"So you're going to read it?"

"Not if you don't want us to, dear."

I picked up the composition book off the coffee table. "So if I want, I can hide it somewhere? Lock it up?"

Mom pursed her lips and nodded. "If you really want to, sweetheart. It will be more enriching if you let us read it. Then we can help you with your emotions, but if you really don't want us to…" She shrugged.


Later that night, I laid in my bed and stared at the ceiling. Even though I was utterly exhausted, my thoughts refused to let me sleep, even with the help of my music. I could use that silly journal thing that Mom and Dad had given me, but I knew that they could easily read it before I woke up and know everything. And that wouldn't be good.

So, the questions continued to hum in my mind. What if I really was a mutant? What would I do? Should I run away like Chris, or should I stay and try to be what I was before?

I looked around, trying to find a way to dispel the thoughts. After a moment, I remembered that Chris's feather was under my bed. I reached under and grasped wildly.. I held it between my hands, thinking of Chris as I did. It was comforting. I could almost feel Chris, his presence, his voice, just him. I closed my eyes and relaxed. He was here with me in spirit – I knew it.