I sit on the edge of a hotel bed, with one bare foot on the bed and one dangling over the ground. The remote for the TV across the room is in my hand. I flip through the channels absentmindedly, not concentrating on any of them or the snippets of dialogue, music, and infomercials. The wavelengths infiltrating the air do nothing to distract me.

Roux isn't here. They're somewhere else in the building. I didn't care to ask where they went when we got here and they stormed off. A few minutes after we left the diner, they went pale again and stopped talking. I don't know if it was from anger or not.

I don't get it. It's like they're hot one minute and cold the next. They love me and feel genuine concern, and then they're full of hate and frustration at something they refuse to talk about. I have never known how to get them to talk about their feelings in a way that actually leads to some sort of discussion or change on my end.

This isn't shaping up to be the adventure I thought it would be. I know for a fact that Doug is doing drugs while he showers in the bathroom, Roux is nowhere to be found, I have nothing but despair in my heart, and I haven't spoken to my mother in a while. I was supposed to.

Maybe I should call her. I promised that I would keep her posted. Somehow, I'm not sure that she would want to hear anything that has happened during this trip, not even the accidental cannibalism or pervy clowns. I'm not sure that I could bring myself to talk to her without lying or breaking down in tears. Truth be told, I'm not enjoying all of this. I thought it would be fun if I was with Roux and Doug, but it's not.

I send her a text. I don't think about what I send; I type and send something like "We got to the hotel tonight and we're going to the park in the morning. Love you." I set my phone on the dresser under the TV. I turn off the screen, switch the television to a black, empty screen, and lay back on the bed to stew in everything I'm feeling.

Eventually, Roux comes back into the room with their fists shoved into the pockets of their sweatshirt. It's gray, with the logo of our old high school's band program emblazoned on the breast in bright red. The fabric absolutely dwarfs them, making it look like they're swimming in sweatshirt fleece.

"We need to talk," they say, frowning and scowling at the same time. That doesn't bode well.

I don't sit up. I'm not sure it would help with anything. "About?"

"Everything that's happening."

I'm sitting up now. My hair flops into my eyes, catches on my horns, and hits my neck in a way that makes me shudder violently and involuntarily. "Is this about the--"

"Yes, it's about the cannibalism thing. And it's about the danger I have been put in these past few days. Hell, about the danger you've been put in these past few days. We're not safe here. I think we need to go home or something. We can't keep going on like this."

"Can we talk about something else?" My heart beats a little too quickly in my chest. I feel like the earth is going to fall out from under me. I feel like the space under the bed is going to fall into a sinkhole and the magma in the Earth's crust is going to burn me to a crisp.

"Like what?"

"I... I don't know?"

"No, then."

I don't say anything. I just make a little groaning, gurgling noise while laying flat on my back.

"I don't think Doug is a good influence on you." Roux is still standing by the door. "I don't think he's a good guy in general, I mean."

"It's because he's a demon, isn't it."

"Yes? Kind of? Not necessarily? It's not the demon thing that gets me. It's the fact that he keeps putting us in danger and you keep going along with it. And I'm sick of that. Do you know how manipulative he is?"

"No more manipulative than I am."

"No, I-- You're not getting what I'm saying."

"I don't think you're judging him fairly. I don't think you're judging me fairly. And you know we can't go home because I have these stupid goddamn horns coming out of my head."

"I'm not judging you fairly? I'm not judging you at all!"

"No, you're not, and, yes you are!"

"Wow. Okay. Way to make this about you."

"Did I do that? Because I'm pretty sure that you're the one who brought me into this."

"Because it concerns you. It doesn't have to be about you. Fuck, Mikey!"

"Fuck you, Roux."

"Fuck you, Mikey!"

"Dammit! Come on!" I run my hands through my hair and flop back onto the bed. "Come on. Can we do something else? Please? I don't want to keep talking about how my dad and I are the same or whatever the fuck you're trying to say."

"Come on, Mikey! How is me saying that your shitty dad-- who we still barely know or know anything about, by the way-- keeps putting us in danger somehow-- How is that an attack on you? It's like you're not even listening to me."

"You said he's not a good person."

"He isn't! He ate human meat willingly."

"Yeah, I guess he fucking did!"

"We're people, Mikey!" Roux gestures between the two of us. It's frantic, angry, and unrestrained. They accidentally smack themself in the chest in the process and, for once, it's not funny. It's just another unnecessary wrong to add to the unspoken, unwritten list between us.

"You're human."

"So are you, Mikey, or did you forget?"

"Make up your mind, Roux, please! Am I just another demon or am I a hapless human who's constantly in danger? Is this about me or is it not? Chop chop, bitch, the clock is ticking."

"You're putting words in my mouth. You're the one making this about you! You're taking my criticism of your father as a personal attack."

"Am I?"

"You are!"

"How? Fucking-- Explain how!"

"No, because that's the thing! Ever since you started acting this way, it's only been about you. We found your dad. We went to his friends' stupid places to appease him and to appease you. I'm not the one who brought us to a place where a demon tried to kill me. I'm not the one who took us to a diner where they eat people. I ate people and I'm ninety percent sure it's inadvertently your fault! I'm not the one who keeps giving Dugmithz the shitass demon chance after chance after stupid fucking chance!

"Have you noticed, this entire time, that I've been miserable? And I'm trying to be supportive, I'm trying to be kind, but there's nothing else I can do! You keep putting me in danger! You keep putting yourself in danger for this man you barely know! I can't take this anymore! And I need you to know that if you're going to keep going with this bullshit, I'm not going with you. I'm not putting myself in danger to appease your dad! I'm out! I'm out. I'm not participating anymore. And I thought I should tell you because guess the fuck what? I care about you! Fuck! Come on, Michelle!"

Before I can say anything to defend myself or to superficially apologize, Roux leaves the room, taking one of our two key cards with them. I am left in the wreckage of all of this misery and, truth be told, I don't know how to put anything back together. Is this heartbreak? Is this what it feels like to be crushed up like a plastic cup? Is this what it feels like to be tossed away to die in someone's trash can?

And is this what Roux has been feeling the whole time? Like they're trapped in something they can't explain, and they can't leave without incurring my wrath? The thought of it is almost too much to bear.

I just want to go to bed. I think that would solve all my problems.

I can't do that, though, because Doug is still in the bathroom and I can't go to bed until I shower. It's a whole thing about my nighttime ritual; I usually can't sleep unless there's a light in the room and my hair is wet.

I groan and flop back on the bed. If I were a better person, I would think about the implications of everything happening, everything Roux said to me, and how I responded. I'm not that good of a person, though, and my mind is entirely blank. I don't know if it reflects a moral failure or not. All I know is that it's reality that I am numb.

I turn on the television for the sake of background noise. I can't take the silence, not right now, not in this state and with everything that's happening. An old grainy infomercial segues into an older, grainier infomercial that I only pay half-attention to. Someone who looks suspiciously like Doug with a shitty bushy mustache prances around in jeans, talking about the Blast To The Past Amusement Park. I can't help but turn away.

Roux is right, of course. I did make all of that about me. I took it all personally.

Doug opens the door to the bathroom. It reeks less of marijuana than I thought it would. He has also visibly taken a shower; water drips off of his body.

He looks more demonic than before. Horns erupt from his forehead like volcanos on an island, curling backward like a ram's. His teeth are sharp and his lips are naturally black, just like the sclera of his eyes. A hotel towel is wrapped around his waist, doing nothing to stop his feet from dampening the carpet.

Truth be told, I'm a little scared of him, especially right now. I know I shouldn't be. Roux and I watch horror movies all the time. I should be desensitized to this stuff. There's something about the way that his eyes shine, though. Combined with the teeth and the weird intentions and emotions in his eyes that are as dark as bottomless pits, it makes me want to shiver. It makes me want to hide under the thin hotel comforter and never come out. It makes me want to disappear or to tear the horns out of my head and bleed to death on the star-patterned carpet.

I know that's hypocritical, though. Deep down, we are the same. I think I still love and trust him. I just wish it were easier to look at him without wanting to run away.

I don't sit up when he leaves the bathroom. I just keep laying there, eyes on the ceiling, one arm across my chest. My heart is beating from all the fear. Other than that, I am the same as I was before.

"You okay, kid?" he asks, ruffling his wet hair.

I don't respond. I should, but I don't. I'm not sure why. It's like I can't bring myself to talk, shake my head, anything. My mind is working, but I can't bring myself to communicate.

When I don't respond, Doug sighs. Still naked and wrapped in his towel, sits on the edge next to me on the bed.

"So. I heard everything that just happened through the door. I'm sure everyone in this hotel did. You want to talk about it?"

I still don't respond. I don't trust myself to open my mouth. If I do, I'm afraid that locusts and ants are going to come buzzing out of me. It's like all I can produce is dust, filth, and anger.

"No? No answer? Okay. I'm just going to talk, and you can listen." He adjusts himself, turns toward me, then continues, "Look, Mikes. I've been alive a long time. I've known a lot of people. Yes, I've tempted some into breaking vows, usually ones about celibacy. I definitely haven't been perfect, and I've made a lot of contracts and even more enemies. But I've also made friends on my many, many years on Earth. I manipulate people into liking me and doing things. It's what I do. It's what we do.

"And you know what friends do? They let each other down. They fight. It's not necessarily a bad thing. In my experience, it stems from a lack of communication. So you have to communicate. You have to talk to the people you're fighting with, effectively and clearly. You have to take responsibility for the things you have done. And, let me tell you, Mikes-- you have a lot to take responsibility for. Now, I don't appreciate what Roux was saying about me, and I'm glad you stuck up for me, but you didn't have to treat them like that."

"That's great and all but are you going to take responsibility?" The words are out of my mouth before I can register that I'm talking. I'm barely aware that I'm saying anything at all.

"What do you mean, Mikes?" The concern and confusion in his voice feels fake. I can't tell if it's because he really is faking it, or if it's more of a problem with the way I perceive him.

I sit up while I speak. "I mean that you're also responsible for us going to those places where Roux and I were in danger. You ate human meat in front of us and then Roux also ate human meat! There was a dead person in the walk-in! Did you know that? You put both Roux and me in danger when you took us to that stupid clown motel. Your friends have the potential to harm. You have the potential to harm. In some cases, they actively harmed us. And yes, I'm responsible for some of this, but so are you. I'm in the shit, you're in the shit. Neither of us are clean!"

"How was I supposed to know--"

"That all your demon friends are corrupt or-- or cannibals? Oh, I don't know, maybe because they're demons?"

"Don't forget that you're a demon, too!"

"And you did that to me! It's not like I wanted this!" I look him in the eye, and the question is off my lips before I realize that I don't want the answer. "How many people have you killed?"

"None this century!"

"So you have--"

"In the past? Yes! I'm an immortal being! I was created to corrupt! I was literally born in Hell! Of course there are going to be skeletons in my closet! I'm not a perfect man, and to pretend otherwise would be a farce, a falsehood!"

"Right." I narrow my eyes at him. "You're a demon. You're a manipulator. You manipulate people. It's what you do. How am I supposed to trust you when I can't tell whether any word that comes out of your mouth is a lie or not? Is it all honeyed words?"

"You can manipulate people, too, or did you forget?" Anger emanates from him like an aura; his upper lip is curled in some sort of disgust. "Your rage is as much a weapon as my charming. You're just as manipulative. And guess what? You're a child. You're inexperienced. You're not perfect."

It stings, but it's true. Deep down, I know it is. My heart breaks a little more. I can't help but wonder, when will it finally be crushed into a fine powder? When will I become nothing but dust? When will someone remove me in a little plastic pan with a brush clipped to it?

I know the two of us look weird. I know we look stupid. We're two demon-looking rat bastards sitting in a generic hotel room. We are not perfect or good. There's a sneer on my face, curling my lips. Doug looks so furious that his eyes have started to glow.

I don't know what to do. I stand up and move away from the bed before I do something I'll regret later. I go into the bathroom and lock the door behind me, saying in a restrained, hoarse whisper that I'm going to take a shower. I need to take a second to digest everything.