The demon and I were friends from the start. True, it was a bit of a shock, finding out I shared head space with an ancient primordial force, but after a short adjustment period, I… adjusted.
It did have an effect on my life, however. Little things - like they don’t let me go to church anymore. Last Sunday at mass, the father tried to bless me with holy water and ended up setting my eyebrows on fire. So, I stay home on Sundays now. On all days, actually. At least until my eyebrows grow back. The demon says it makes me look dangerous, but we share a mind, and I know he was lying when he said it.
Though snarky and a bit melodramatic, he does his best to help out when he can. I used to wake up to reminders written on my mirror - dripping red and surrounded by feathers.
We need eggs.
Class changed to 6 o’clock.
The gesture was nice, but I got tired of finding mutilated poultry in my bathroom. Finally, I put my foot down, “Dammit Moloch, just use a marker, you don’t need to kill a chicken every time I have an appointment!”
He grumbled at first - something about ancient traditions and his demonic image - but came around after we took a trip to Staples and he discovered gel pens. He made me buy all the colors. Sensing danger, I bought sticky notes too. They’re everywhere now.
We’ve both had to make changes, but, we fit together quite comfortably in the end - bonded through a mutual love of chocolate and boys. He prowls around while I sleep (hey, exercise that I don’t have to do, score) and the rest of the time we spend binge-watching Netflix and whining about the unfairness of holy purges.
We get along quite well, nowadays, my demon and I.