The Demon Inside

This should do.You sniff the fabric to double check.

"Yep, clean enough."

You throw the flannel on over the tank-top that you woke up in, and slide on your ripped jeans.

You glance at your shoe collection by the bedroom door, and subconsciencely step into the worn-out black Vans skate shoes.
Before walking through the door you grab your phone and slide it into your back pocket.

Downstairs, your family is sitting at the dining room table waiting for your mother to serve up the five star breakfast she always prepares.

"Morning, mom!" You say in a half asleep voice. She lands a peck on the cheek in retort, too occupied with getting breakfast dished out to answer vocally.

Suddenly, that dark feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. In the corner of your eye, you think you see a figure sitting tightly in the corner of the room, within the shadow of the kitchen cupboard.

So you look over, expecting to see maybe your little brother standing in the corner, likely being punished for some childish reason.

Nothing there at all. That was weird. Almost like a feeling of de-ja-vu.
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