Demon

By: Switzy Fangirl

I've grown up like this.

I shrugged on my backpack, eyes trained on the floor. I grabbed my books and I exited the classroom in silence, ignoring the gossip about me.

Unwanted, unneeded, worthless, and worst of all: alone.

Why won't they stop talking? Why can't they all see that I can hear them?

I've never had a family. I've never had a friend.

A tall jock bumped into me. I knew better then to speak. My books fell to the ground and I knelt down to pick them up.

"Hey Demon! Watch where you're going!" He and all his friends laughed, kicking my books away from me and continuing to walk away.

I'm alive though, and that's how I'll remain. I won't let this world's cruelty cause me to take my own life. That's what they want. If I give them what they wanted then they win and I lose. I will not lose this game. No matter how much it hurts.

Someone knelt down and began helping me pick my things up.

Someone…someone's helping me?

I stood with what I'd gathered and he handed me the rest. He smiled at me. "Why did he call you demon?"

Because that's the only name I've ever had. Because they hate me. It could be anything.

I bit my lip and nodded my thanks, still wondering why he helped me.

"Can you talk?" He asked, a bit concerned.

If I talk they attack. It's best to just keep quiet and keep going.

I nodded.

"Then why don't you?" He asked. It hit me like a ton of bricks; he doesn't go to school here. By the sound of his accent, he's also British.

I want to survive to win the game.

I took a pad of paper out of my pocket and a pen.

If I talk I won't make it out of here on my own two feet.

I wrote swiftly, showing it to him.

"Can you talk somewhere else?"

I nodded.

As long as I'm not at school.I wrote, showing him again.

"Will you come with me?" He asked.

I nodded, following him.

He's one of them. As soon as I open my mouth to talk he'll attack. Just like before. But, just in case he's not, I have to try. I have to.

We made it to the abandoned park across the street from the school and we sat. He turned to me.

"Is Demon your actual name?" He asked.

"Yes." I said weakly, eyes trained to the ground.

"What's your last name?"

I shrugged. "I don't-I don't know."

"Why do they come after you?"

Because I'm an easy target. Because I only fight back if they try and take what isn't theirs. Because I won't tell on them. Because I'm a victim. Because I'm wrong. Because I'm bad. Because if it wasn't for me being what I am I could be loved.

"Many reasons."

"Why don't you fight back?"

That question hurts. Fighting back hurts more than just taking what's dished about. But I won't let them break me. I'm just letting them think they've won.

"Fighting back hurts worse."

"Don't you have pride?!"

Of course not! I'm worthless, horrible, not even fit to be dead!

"What do I have to be proud of?" I asked quietly.

"You're grades for one; I've been told they're spectacular."

What does someone with no friends and no family do? What does someone with no home do?

"I have nothing better to do."

He sighed. "I'm going to come talk to you again tomorrow."

"If you wish." I replied.

He'll attack tomorrow. He wants it to hurt more. That's all they ever want. To make it hurt.

I walked to the library, setting my backpack down at my special table and smiling at the librarian.

She smiled back and pointed at a stack of books she'd saved for me, still talking on the phone.

I nodded my thanks and got out my homework, sitting down.

Here I'm safe. They won't hurt me when Miss Amy is around. Miss Amy stopped them last time.

Miss Amy, the librarian, is an out of towner. She doesn't know why they hate me and she doesn't want to.

I left the library at closing time after saying a quiet and quick goodbye. I was jumped just outside the old hotel. Luckily, Miss Amy let's me keep my backpack at the library so they can't sabotage my schoolwork to.

It was only one, likely the jock from earlier. He pinned me to the ground, just looking at me.

I hate it when they look at me like that. I hate it.

"You don't want to get hurt, now do you?" He cooed softly, running his fingers through my hair.

I shook my head.

"I'll make a deal with you then." He smirked. "One night, and I'll never hit you again."

Why? Why? WHY?

I wanted to cry. Why does it always come to this?

"C'mon Demon, what do you say?" He asked sweetly.

I shook my head, tears filling my eyes.

He leaned down and whispered in my ear. "To fucking bad."

No, please, please don't!

I kicked and screamed, trying to get out from under him, off the pavement, far away.

"Shut up!" He slapped me and my head snapped to the side. I went limp and started sobbing.

I hate him. I hate them. I hate everything.

His fingernail had cut me when he slapped me, and a thin line of blood was appearing on my face. I could feel it.

His fingers flew to my pants as I just lay there, helpless.

Isn't it fitting, I manage to talk to someone without being attacked, and I get raped on the side of the road. I get robbed of my virginity on the side of the road.

I sobbed harder, covering my eyes. I don't want to watch.

His pants are off to. He flips me over and I clench my fists, trying to reason with myself, to reason this away, or reason it okay.

I'll survive, I will. I'll get them all back. I will. I will make them regret ever even thinking of hurting me. I may be worthless, I may be pride less, but they don't have the right to rub it in! They don't have the right to do this to me.

He left me there when he was finished, pants around my ankles, leaking blood and semen. I didn't want to move. I wanted to lay there and die.

"Better than I thought." He smirked. "Much better." He flipped me over and looked me in my puffy, wet, scared and hurt eyes. "If you don't kill yourself, I might go for repeat."

I started crying all over again.

He simply laughed and walked away, leaving me on the side of the road.

Around midnight I forced myself to get up and pulled on my boxers and pants. I limped in the direction of the abandoned apartment complex I live in, reaching there just before two. I'll never get to school in the morning. I'm not even sure I care anymore.

He broke me. For years they've been wearing me down and now…I'm broken. I was never whole to begin with, but now I'm completely broken.

Three days of lying in bed, alone, sheets over my head. I haven't eaten, bathed, or changed my clothes since. I haven't talk, I haven't drunk, I've hardly moved.

I'm going to dry of dehydration if I don't get up. But I can't make myself get up and get water, or food, or bathe.

I'm going to die here.

And I don't care in the least. I have nothing left that's worth anything. I'm completely and utterly worthless. I'm nothing. No, I'm less than nothing. Nothing at least has a purpose. To not exist.

I closed my eyes. The end is near, I can feel it.

"Oh bloody hell!" A voice I vaguely recognize shouts. A hand grabs my bruised shoulders and begins to shake me. "Wake up for god's sake! Don't die!"

I started sobbing again. "Why?"

"You have a purpose!"

I looked at him, barely able to keep my eyes open. "What?"

"I'll tell you after I save your life."

Why are you helping me? Why do you care? You're one of them aren't you? You want me dead, don't you?

He helps me sit up and begins making me drink a glass of water. My dry throat feels better, but I still feel horrible inside.

Dirty. Used. Worthless. Broken. Broken. BROKEN.

I haven't stopped sobbing.

"Alright, now what bloody happened?" He demanded after I finished the second glass.

Don't you already know? I'm sure he blabbed to everyone in town about what he did.

"He already told everyone by now, even you, why do you want me to say it?" I demanded. "I just want to die in peace! Why can't I?!"

"Because you're not the only one you're killing." He snapped. "And 'he' hasn't told me, so you tell me!"

"He-"I stopped. "It hurts. I thought it would have stopped hurting by now."

"What hurts?" He asked in a concerned tone. "What did he do?"

"He pinned me down on the side of the road, and and, he slapped me, and I-"I couldn't do it. I couldn't say it. "I stopped fighting and he took what he came for." Sobs overtook me.

He pinned me down on the pavement and he raped me. If I don't die he'll do it again. I don't want to hurt like this anymore. I want the pain to go away.

"You're saying he raped you on the side of the road?" He asked, to clarify.

I nodded, still shaking with sobs. "He'll-he'll come back. I don't want to hurt again. I want the pain to go away."

"So you're going to let him get away with it?"

What am I supposed to do? I couldn't stop him. What can I do?

He pulled out his phone. "I'm calling a bloody ambulance. Afterwards, you're going to tell me and the police exactly who did this. And when I find that wanker I will personally cut off his dick and shove it down his throat."

His face began to fade in and out of my mind as I lost consciousness. I prayed for death.

"Doctor?" Someone asked. "Is he awake yet so we can question him?"

"He should be waking up any minute detective. Please though, be careful with him. He almost did. Dehydration, starvation, blood loss, infection, any one of them could have killed him."

A hand was clasping my own. I opened my eyes slowly and looked up at the man who had saved my life.

Thanks, but I would have preferred if you let me die.

The detective saw me and took the empty seat on my other side. I looked at her wearily.

Is she going to find some way to make this my fault?

"I'm here to take your statement." She said, face serious.

I shook my head.

You'll use it against me. Make this my fault. That's all that ever happens. It's always my fault.

"You can talk to Detective Monroe; she's on your side. You're the victim." The Brit at my side soothes.

"They'll make it my fault. They always do." I whispered, closing my eyes again. "It's always my fault. I fight back, so it's my fault. I don't fight back, so it's my fault. Different cause, same result. I'm not hanging myself."

"Unfortunately for whoever did this, there is no way to pin this on you. Self defense does not cover rape."

I glanced up at her. "There's no way to make this my fault?"

No way am I that lucky.

"If you agree to testify and tell us who it is, and their semen matches the sample in the rape kit, then yes."

"What if I don't know their name?"

She sighed. "A bit harder, but in a small town like this, we can do a line up really easy."

I gave her all the details about the jock that I could think of, at the Brit's urging. I don't know why he cares.

Why, after all these years, is someone helping me?

"Why?" I asked as soon as the door closed. "Why are you helping me? Why do you care?"

The Brit sighed. "First of all, my name is Arthur, I don't believe I told you that. As to why I care, I have business with you that cannot be handled if you are dead. Also, I really bloody hate rapists. I also hate when people go out of their way to make someone suicidal, than do shite like this to force the person over the edge. It's wrong."

"They have their reasons." I stared at the wall. "They've always had their reasons."

No one likes me, everybody hates me, I guess I should just die. The little rhyme from some movie or other popped into my head.

"What condones this?" He demanded.

"What I am. No one ever told we what that is, but I guess whatever I am, it's bad."

"No, there is nothing wrong with what you are. They don't even bloody know what you are. They just wanted to justify what they were doing. Justify that they were hurting an innocent person, for fun."

I'm not innocent. I'm worthless.

"Has anyone, in the course of your entire life, ever done something for you that made you feel wanted?"

No.

"Has anyone ever asked you about your day or how you feel?

No.

"Have you ever seen a physiatrist?"

No.

"Has anyone ever told you they loved you?"

No.

"Do you live in that abandoned apartment complex alone?"

Yes.

"Do you want love?"

Yes.

"Does just getting through the day seem like an impossible quest?"

Yes.

"You're depressed."

No I'm not. I'm realistic.

"You don't deserve it."

Yes I do.

"Say it."

"Yes I do." I whispered.

"No, say 'I don't deserve it.', say it now!"

"I deserve it."

"That's not what I said!" He looked exasperated.

"But it's what everyone else says. It's what everyone thinks."

"I don't think that."

You're lying. You think I deserve it all, just like the rest of them. You're liar. You want to make it hurt worse.

"I don't think you deserve it. I think you deserve better."

Stop lying! Stop it! It won't work! I don't believe you! It isn't working!

"I'm telling the truth."

No you're not!

"Demon, look at me." He demanded.

No.

"Look at me!"

No.

"For the love of god, look at me!"

NO!

He grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me to look at him.

"You don't deserve it." He stared me down. "You don't bloody deserve any of this."

Then why has no one stopped anything before?

"You don't believe me because no one ever cared before. I do. I care."

"No one cares." That was when my heart stopped.

I am one of his 'Imaginary Friends'. I was once a nation like him, but I never knew. I died without ever knowing love. In death, I gained a friend. I gained platonic love. But he's the only who has ever cared about me. Arthur Kirkland. England. My people all died with me, a giant bomb shattering my entire island nation into tiny pieces. Not a piece of me exists. But I'm still around. I'm like Prussia you could say, except to protect me England makes sure only he can see me. One day he says, he'll make me visible again and someone will love me the way I always wanted. Romantically.

-Thank you for reading the story of a dead nation.