“Aza, stop it!”
I heard my mom getting up, and knew my window was closing, so I took a third shot of the foam and stuffed it into my mouth, gagging.
A spasm of nausea lurched through me, and I vomited, the pain in my ribs blinding, as Mom grabbed me by the arm.
There was yellow bile all over my pale blue hospital gown. A voice came from inside a speaker somewhere behind me.
“This is Nurse Wallace.”
“My daughter is vomiting. I think she drank hand sanitizer.”
I knew how disgusting I was. I knew. I knew now for sure.
I wasn’t possessed by a demon. I was the demon.
TWENTY
THE NEXT MORNING, you wake up in a hospital bed, staring up at ceiling tiles.
Gingerly, carefully, you assess your own consciousness for a moment. You wonder, Is it over?
“The hospital food didn’t look so good, so I made you some breakfast,” your mother says.
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