Mimi's Demons

Chapter 22: The Bad Guy

The man sitting on the chintz chair in her 'room' (or more accurately: cell), had three demons. Three: one on each shoulder and one peeking through the gray cowlick on his head.

"I'm your Daddy's resident psychologist," he said, with a cheer that reminded her of still cooking caramel—it looked so tempting, but burned you worse than hot oil. "You can call me Doc or Mr. Cricket. You up for a little talk?"

Mimi closed her book on liver cancer and considered getting off her bed so she could hide under it.

"You're going to make me talk anyway."

He gave a thin-sugar-plate smile. "I can't make you talk, but it would definitely speed up the process. I'm sure we both have other things we'd rather be doing."

None of the demons hanging off him did much other than doze and swing their tails. A little glitter from the tiny one on his head made her squint to see closer, which she soon wish she hadn't: the glint had been its three, black eyes and the shift of purple, spider-like legs.

She shivered.

"Is there something in my hair?" Mr. Cricket reached up to run his fingers straight through the little demon, as though it were only a ghost.

She opened her mouth, than closed it quickly. A lie, even a little white one, might wake up the other two on his shoulders, and it was bad enough having to look this man in the face and talk without being watched and sneered at. The one on his left shoulder looked a lot like the shyer street demons she was most use to, but the one on his right was black—a terrible black, like an unlit closet in the blackest night, with shiny, bloody-red claws and hair that curled round it's head in skinny thistle spines. Looking at it made her stomach hurt.

Mimi quickly looked back to Mr. Circket's gently aged face. He was still looking at her, expecting an answer.

"Yeah," she said, softly. "We have better things to do."

He flashed his brittle-sugar smile again. "Wonderful. You and I are going to get along fine."

He asked her about her home life, when she had one, about how she'd grown up and how she was doing with friends. His face reflected nothing of the sympathy some adults would have given at certain points, such as being kicked out by her step father when her mother had fled without her or hiding from her step siblings. The whole time he kept his face in that permanent caramel cheer while the spider demon watched on and the ones on his shoulders snoozed. The whole time her fingers fiddled with the book Serena had been so kind to get for her, wanting noting else than to throw herself back into the story of the first liver surgery. Oh the tricks they had before local anesthetic.

At last, he wrapped up their conversation and thanked her for her cooperation.

"This will help us make a plan for how to help you," he said.

She scowled. "I don't need help. I was doing fine on my own."

Mr. Cricket's shoulder demons woke with a start. The street demon instantly cowered at being seen by her, but the black demon reacted like the stuffed animal man's slinky demon. It met her gaze straight on with eyes like bloody globes and curled its lips back in a toothy grimace.

Her stomach cramped hard. She doubled over, unable to hold back a moan.

"Miss? Are you alright?"

"Just go." Oh gal, she was going to throw up, she didn't want to throw up.

"What was that?"

"Just—" too late.

Mr. Cricket had made the poor choice to come closer to her to check on her state. Thus, the front of his nice suit jacket got a good splash of her mostly digested breakfast.