Eat My Pain
Alice least enjoys working with children. It’s difficult, tedious, and risky. A child’s realm of possibilities is still unformed, making it dangerously easy to attract unwanted outcomes.
Children exist within their mother’s energy field, meaning Alice would have to deal with her too. Worse, kids love to fantasize. Who hasn’t dreamed of magic powers in childhood? Or invented an imaginary friend? Every word from such a “client” had to be double-checked, adding unnecessary strain.
When Alice opened the door to a woman in an over-the-top black outfit, blood-red lips, and smoky blue eyelids, the witch didn’t react. Eccentric visitors were common. But the ten-year-old boy shrinking behind her made Alice tense. She opened her mouth to refuse—children weren’t her specialty—before the woman cut in sharply:
“We had an appointment. I’m Lavinia—messaged you yesterday. My cat was in the profile picture, remember?”
Alice remembered the cat.
“Come in, then.”
Maybe Lavinia was the real client, and the boy was just along for the ride. Alice studied her discreetly. Lavinia was plump, mid-forties, still striking—the kind people called “in her prime.” Her makeup was bold, almost harsh, her wrists clattered with jewelry, and she gestured wildly. The black clothes—was she in mourning? Or just dramatic? Either way, Lavinia wore it like a costume, relishing the attention. *A show-off. Now I’m her audience.*
“My husband died,” Lavinia began theatrically, dabbing dry eyes with a handkerchief.
“My condolences,” Alice replied, “but I don’t conduct séances. I find them dangerous and pointless.”
Undeterred, Lavinia shifted tactics. “Our family has… a Gift.” She leaned in, whispering dramatically. “My great-great-grandmother practiced magic, and my seventh cousin—”
*Let me guess—also a witch?* Alice bit back a smirk. Recently, every other client claimed magical ancestry. Dig deep enough, and everyone had a secret dabbler. Magic was common, but talent wasn’t inherited like eye color. You didn’t become a champion boxer just because your grandfather stepped into a ring.
“Well, our Gift passes through generations. Thankfully,”—Lavinia spat over her left shoulder, though Alice caught the flash of disappointment in her eyes—”it skipped me. But my son, Victor…” Pride ignited her gaze. “He *sees ghosts*.”
*Ghosts? Trouble.* Alice had two theories. First—and most likely—early schizophrenia. She never understood why parents took hallucinating children to psychics instead of psychiatrists. Second possibility: a true hereditary curse. Usually, that meant a demon passed down like a twisted heirloom.
“Tell her about the ghosts!” Lavinia demanded. The boy hesitated, speaking only because he had to.
“Not ghosts. Just one. My dad… visits me at night.”
Victor fell silent, glancing pleadingly at his mother. *Can we go now?* She didn’t notice, puffing up like a parent boasting straight-A grades.
*Spiritual attachment? Or grief manifesting?* Alice’s thoughts stuttered as a dark silhouette loomed behind the boy. Not his father. The creature stared unblinking at her, sending chills down her spine. Alice steadied herself. This wasn’t just a child’s fantasy. A real entity clung to him.
“You know,” Lavinia mused, “there’s never been a child on *Britain’s Psychic Battleground*! It’d be a sensation—a boy medium!”
Victor hunched, regret tightening his shoulders. *Ah. Lavinia loves spectacle more than I thought.*
“Your energy is… overwhelming. I need to examine your son alone.” Alice ushered the deluded mother out. “Take a walk. Return in an hour.”
Lavinia huffed but preened at the words “energy” and “aura.” Alone with Victor, Alice coaxed him gently—no mention of his father, just school, friends, crushes. For twenty minutes, he resisted, then thawed, pink-cheeked, defenses crumbling. No one paid him real attention anymore.
Alice closed her eyes, syncing with his voice, unraveling the truth.
***
Victor loved his father more than anyone. No one else had a dad like his. They played soldiers, skated, swam in the river. Dad taught him magic tricks. When his parents argued, Victor always sided with him—even when he forgot things or messed up. Balloons and candy floss bought forgiveness.
When school assigned *My Best Friend*, Victor wrote about Dad. His teacher pulled him aside—did he *really* have no friends? Victor kept quiet but thought, *You’re daft, Miss Higgins. I’ve got mates—Mike, Liam, Jake. But Dad’s my best.*
Then the accident. Mum wailed, tore her hair, nearly lunged into the coffin. *Bury me with him!* Evenings were wolf-howls of grief.
Victor couldn’t cry. Tears pooled inside. He remembered Dad asking him fishing that day—he’d chosen friends instead. Maybe if he’d gone…
The thought gnawed him hollow. Soon, he barely had strength to rise. Grief smothered him, black and suffocating. Two months later, Mum stopped crying, started dating Uncle Kevin from work. Victor hated him—maybe because Dad’s photos vanished.
Then Dad visited his dreams. Not horror-movie ghastly—just as Victor remembered: red-bearded, grinning, holding balloons.
“Dad! You’re alive!”
Dad just smiled.
“Was it all a mistake?”
Dad shrugged: *See for yourself.*
“I *knew* it!” Victor hugged him fiercely.
They went to the park—ate candy floss, laughed, kicked autumn leaves. For the first time in months, Victor almost felt happy.
He lived two lives now. By day: school, homework, soccer, pretending normalcy. By night: theme parks, movies, board games. Dream-Dad even taught him to fight—just in time to punch the school bully. When Victor fancied a girl, Emma, Dad helped him talk to her.
Guilt loosened its grip. Mornings grew lighter. One day, he woke without wishing a car would hit him.
***
The entity behind Victor studied Alice, testing her power. Not a demon—something older, stronger. It fed on pure, distilled sorrow.
Alice hugged the boy. “You know that’s not really your dad, don’t you?”
Months of held-back tears burst free. She held him, refilled his tea, fed him hidden sweets.
“How’d you know?” Victor whispered afterward.
“I’m a witch.”
“I kind of… figured. Seen *Men in Black*? The alien wears a skin suit—can’t move right in it. That’s how Dad felt in my dreams.”
*Observant lad.* Most grief-drunk people missed such details—the wrong cadence, stiff movements.
“Your dad’s gone. Probably reborn by now. But we’ll sort *you* out.”
Alice eyed the spirit warily. Most entities provoked emotions to feed—turning people into addicts, killers. This one thrived on a child’s sorrow.
“Don’t fret, witch. His pain’s nearly gone. I’m leaving,” the spirit said, stepping back.
“Just like that? No fight?” The exorcism chant died on her lips.
“I ate all his pain. Your world’s full of sorrow—I’ll never starve.”
The spirit left. Victor shuddered—not anger, just quiet sadness.
“I’ll miss him,” he murmured, unsure who he meant.
“Me too.” A breeze ruffled his hair. One last hug, then it vanished.
***
The doorbell shattered the moment. Lavinia barged in. “Well? Can he go on *Psychic Battleground*?”
Alice sent Victor outside. Lavinia wouldn’t accept demonic possession. She’d drag him to frauds until one took her money and lied: *Yes, your boy’s gifted.*
Alice blamed psychology: unprocessed grief, dreams as coping. *See a therapist. Stop exploiting his pain for fame.*
“He’s still grieving? I thought he didn’t understand—he never cried! Are you *sure* it’s not supernatural?”
“Trauma,” Alice stated, planting the word like a seed. “*See a doctor.*”
She’d seen that spirit once before—hovering behind a sobbing girl at a cemetery. It nodded at her then, rousing an odd warmth. Alice hadn’t worried. The girl would dream of her mother that night—combing her hair, soothing her, easing the hurt.
She still laughed when people blamed their actions on trauma. Even dark spirits could be kind, if they chose.
