My wrists ached.

And yet I continued to unleash a furious and vigorous onslaught to the punching bag. I needed the physical pain to dull out the noise in my head. Too many thoughts. Too many questions without answers. And above all, my mother’s echoing screams. The more I tried to block it, the louder they grew.

My mother… the demon. The look on her face, so surprised. She killed my father. I killed her. They called it suicide but I knew the true word.

Matricide.

Age made memories malleable, and I could no longer trust my memory of justifiable homicide. After all, demons encouraged murder, and I was half demon.

“Veronica.”

Sigmund called to me across the gym in a voice that interrupted my thoughts and demanded answers. I stopped the o...

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