the official language of fucked up and static - Carly de·mon noun 1. an evil spirit; devil or fiend. 2. an evil passion or influence. 3. a person considered extremely wicked, evil, or cruel.
Carly rested her forehead against her desk, hoping the cool of it might soothe the oncoming headache. What did a dictionary even know? Who the fuck invented dictionaries anyway? Merry had said she didn't like the words they used, but there had to be a reason one word was picked over another. They could have picked (and here Carly scrolled down to 'antonyms') 'angel' or 'god'.
Her lip moved unconsciously into a small smile at that. Carly could handle being a god, she thought.
Word Origin & History informed her that demon was late 14c., from L. dæmon "spirit," from Gk. daimon (gen. daimonos) "lesser god, guiding spirit, tutelary deity," (sometimes including souls of the dead), used (with daimonion) in Christian Gk. translations and Vulgate for "god of the heathen" and "unclean spirit." And then there was more, but her head was already hurting and she sort of felt like she needed to google half the words she'd just read in that paragraph alone.
'Guiding spirit'? Nope, not that one. Carly wasn't much for guidance, either the taking of or the giving. And 'spirit' was more the domain of certain possessing bitches. And Carly didn't even know what 'tutelary' meant.
She shut the lid of her laptop harder than was required and tried to get her thoughts to straighten out. But they were unstraight things, wavy bloody things. There was a cup on the table from her coffee earlier and Carly reached out, curious, and wrapped her hand around it. She squeezed, gently at first and then more firm, until it made her hand shake a little and her forearm muscles quiver.
The cup practically exploded and Carly hissed her breath, porcelain cutting through her palm and opening a long line of flesh. For a moment there was only skin and then came the blood, mixing with the spilled coffee, and Carly jumped up from her seat and made a run for the bathroom, shoving her stinging hand under the tap and holding her wrist tightly as though they might make it stop hurting.
Was that unnatural strength? Or was that just normal strength? How hard was it to break a cup in your hand? Carly had never tried before, so any science of this was well lost. She swore under her breath, angry and upset and wanting a god damn adult person who could take responsibility for her because she was fucking sick of having to do it herself. Watching the blood pool and swirl in the sink made her think of times before, better times. Once she'd come off her bike when she was little and her dad had carried her inside and washed her knees clean of gravel with a warm washcloth. He'd kissed on top of the bandaids afterwards.
But that was a long time ago.
The blood was still seeping out of her wound and Carly unrolled a thick wad of toilet paper and pressed it against her palm, finding the first aid kit so she could steal one of the bandages from it and wrap it tightly around. It looked stupid. If she was a demon, then she was a fucking stupid demon.
For the rest of the night Carly's hand throbbed to the beat of her heart. Lying in bed, curled beneath her covers, she couldn't help but think: there has to be more than this.