I caressed her small body in my arms. I could feel her shallow, rapid breathing. Her pulse racing and skipping beats before finally slowing; cheeks draining of color. Her eyes met mine as the sparkle faded and she tried to speak, to tell me something. I cupped her cheek in my hand and told her to hush, I knew. Whatever it was she was going to say, I knew. I loved her too, and no, I was not mad at her. I told her to close her eyes and melt into the warmth of my body. I told her I was sorry for not believing her.

For the last week the school had been complaining of her drawings, they were concerned something was going on at home. I had told them—insisted—that it was just her way of dealing with the divorce. She was finding an outlet through her crayons, it was nothing to be concerned about. Her nightmares, the late nights, the crying, the sudden mood swings, the cold stares – it would pass. It was just the divorce, wasn’t it? This was real life, after all. 

Her pulse was weak and thready and her fingers were cold and waxy. I wanted to hold her tighter, but I was afraid it would only cause her pain. She had a gash on the left side of her forehead. Her hair was matted to the wound, the blood partially dried but oozing from one side. I brushed her hair away from her face so I could look at her one last time while her heart was still beating. 

There was a part of me, admittedly, that was relieved. Relieved to lose my child? No, of course not. I was relieved to lose the evil that possessed her. I could still feel the panic I felt as I watched her calmly step off the curb into the street, turning back to meet my eyes before the truck slammed into her. Her eyes a solid black, boring into me. Who would believe me? I hadn’t even believed her. 

She was so still now. Small puffs of air made their way out of her open mouth and her tiny hand rested in mine, the fingers curled around my thumb. Suddenly, her grasp tightened and her eyelids fluttered and flashed her ink-colored eyes, not a spec of white showed. She inhaled sharply—death rattled in her throat—and as she exhaled her last breath, I heard a raspy voice float through the air: “I’ll be back.”