Lana’s Demon

By X. Culletto

I first suspected she had a demon when I was twelve. I’m thirteen now, but when I was twelve, our dog Barkley started acting funny around her. At first, he followed her around everywhere—even the bathroom—instead of napping all the time on Mom’s bed. But then he started bringing her toys, licking her face. She’d yell at him to knock it off and, tail tucked, he’d retreat. But he never used to favor her like that before, so really, I have Barkley to thank for warning me about the demon.

It made me sad, but also morbidly curious. How far would the demon take it? How far would she let it? We were friends when we were little—dandelion necklaces and tap-water tea parties. But then we grew up, and Dad left and Mom went to work, and that’s when it started.

Just little things at first. She’d forget to brush her teeth and wash her hair. She’d wear clothes that were too big, and sleep too little. Then it got worse.

Going to school with her was embarrassing. She’d sit alone, greasy hair shielding her face. Her grades sucked.

Sometimes I’d get completely fed up. “Why can’t you get your life together?” I’d yell. “It’s not that hard!” Sometimes I tried to help, offering clean clothes and acne cream, but nothing. She just stared at them vacantly.

Tuesday after school, I trudged up to the bedroom and into disaster. The once-orderly room was in shambles—clothes leaked from every crevice, the floor had become a garbage swamp, something brown dripped from the bookshelf. I lost it. Throwing my backpack at the wall, I watched as it hit the mirror, shattering glass in every direction.

Drawing a breath, I picked up a piece and settled cross-legged on the unmade bed across from her. For the first time in so long, I looked into her face. It was worse than I’d thought: lips cemented in a frown, blackheads marred her nose, and her eyes—empty. It was like peering into a well that had been filled, expecting depth but finding only dry dust. She wasn’t there. I would’ve recognized even the smallest spark.

The demon had to go.

I mulled over all the ways to do it. The best was poison. It was the most accessible—right in the house. And the least invasive—no blood.

That night, before bed, Mom wanted to “talk.”

“I’m worried about you,” Mom said, stifling a yawn. “You’re not acting like yourself. I think maybe you should go see a therapist.”

I felt her bristle.  “I don’t want to see a therapist, Mom. That’s embarrassing!”

“You clearly need help—I saw what happened to your mirror.”

“But—”

“It’s not up for debate. I’m working a double shift tomorrow, so we’ll talk about it more later.” Jaw set, Mom stood her ground.

A scowl pinched her face, and she skulked away.

The timing was perfect. When Mom worked a double, usually we’d eat leftovers, but it wasn’t unheard of for me to cook. Only once did she refuse to try it, when I forgot to stir the noodles in the pot and they melded into one big lump. I wouldn’t forget this time.

“You hungry?”

She nodded, eyes staring as a zombie chewed through someone’s neck on the TV. Such a creep.

Slinking into the kitchen, I half-filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. Then I snatched the bottle of pesticide I’d hidden under the sink. The nozzle unscrewed easily, a yellow “CAUTION” warning flashing with every twist. I poured the contents into the pot.

The smell was noxious as the water began to boil. The pasta fell into the pot with little clicks.

Eight minutes later I drained the pasta, poisonous steam watering my eyes. A tiny test bite, and I nodded to myself. It was vile: the toxins had absorbed. I set about tinkering with cheese, butter, salt. When the flavor was as inconspicuous as one could hope, I spooned the yellow mishmash into a white bowl.

“Smells weird,” she said when I presented it.

“Just eat it.”

“It smells weird.”

“Eat it.”

Her eyes moistened. She was going to cry.

Grabbing a forkful, I shoved it into her mouth, forcing it down her throat. She gasped and reached for a water glass, but there wasn’t one. I forced another bite down, and now she really did begin crying. But it didn’t matter—another forkful went down. Repeated until the bowl held nothing but smears of yellow and tears.

And then I waited.

Her stomach twists itself inside out—it hurts! She writhes from the chair to the floor, knocking the bowl. Droplets of yellow scatter. The pain is searing. A savage snake thrashing in her gut, devouring her. She can’t bear it—she doesn’t want this death.

You’re nothing, the demon whispers in her mind. You deserve death.

But she doesn’t want it! Her stomach, my stomach, convulses. A stream of viscous yellow surges to the floor. Stomach heaving in waves, my eyes water and the world becomes a flaxen blur. The demon screams furiously. I stop listening.

Time passes. My body stills, and I lie spent beside the rancid yellow death. And then, another sensation—wetness on my fingers. A rhythmic lapping sound. Barkley licks my fingers. I curl them into his silky fur as he moves to my face and licks my tears. Another sound from the front door—click as it opens. Mom stands in the doorway, frozen for a moment.

“Lana!” she gasps.

And then she’s beside me, gathering me into her arms. And for the first time since Dad left, I cry. Deeply, noisily.

“Lana, sweetheart,” Mom murmurs, rocking me.

My head nestled against her shoulder, I finally say it: “Help.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

X. Culletto spends most of her time trying to create order from chaos by raising children—three of her own, and hundreds in a junior high. Lana’s Demon was inspired by experiences in coping with mental disorders.

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