𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐀||

I sigh harshly, staring at the computer screen before me, its bright light illuminating the entire room. It's way past midnight, and I've been vacillating between the blank document in front of me and scrolling through Pinterest for inspiration.

I aspire to be an author. Writing has been my refuge for as long as I can remember, though my parents remain blissfully unaware of the kind of stories I craft—usually spicy romance. If they ever found out, they'd probably stage a full-blown exorcism. I only share my poetry with them, carefully curated pieces that I deem sufficiently wholesome.

Right now, I'm trying to write a novel worthy of publication. Becoming a published author has always been my dream. I've already chosen my pen name, June, to keep my true identity hidden from my parents. They wouldn't understand the worlds I create or the passion I pour into every character and scene. But June can write freely, without judgment or fear of discovery.

I glance back at the screen, the cursor blinking in quiet mockery. My thoughts are tangled, and ideas are elusive. The pressure to produce something brilliant is overwhelming, yet exhilarating. I take a deep breath, channeling the characters that dance in my mind, the stories begging to be told.

This is my sanctuary, the place where I can be myself without pretense. In this quiet hour, when the world is asleep, I find my voice and let it flow onto the page. June will be my shield, my alter ego who dares to dream and defy expectations.

But for now, I need to get at least a few hours of sleep before my long car ride home tomorrow. I finished all my testing earlier today, and I was thrilled to be done with it. A part of me is ready to go home, to see my parents and sleep in my bed again, but another part of me dreads being in that house, trapped within those four walls.

I close my laptop and stretch, feeling the fatigue settle into my bones. Maybe once I'm home, my mind will find the clarity to form proper sentences and build a whole new world—one where June can be free.

With that hopeful thought, I slide into bed, pulling the covers up and letting my eyes close. The quiet hum of the night wraps around me, and I imagine June's world taking shape, full of vibrant characters and endless possibilities. Tomorrow, I'll face the reality of home, but tonight, I can dream of the stories yet to be written.

* * * * 

"Honey, you're finally home!" I hear my mom screech as I step out of my car. Plastering a fake smile on my lips, I turn towards her and my father. We live out in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas. My father owns a ranch, breeding horses and cattle to sell. As he's gotten older, he's hired a few farm helpers to keep everything running smoothly.

My parents' home is exactly what you'd imagine when you think of a ranch house. It's a charming modern farmhouse with a pristine white exterior, accented by black trim and a dark roof. Three dormer windows punctuate the upper level, adding architectural interest and flooding the interior with natural light. A spacious front porch, supported by robust wooden columns, stretches across the front of the house. Comfortable outdoor furniture, including rocking chairs and a porch swing, make it perfect for relaxation and social gatherings. The porch is surrounded by well-tended flower beds filled with vibrant blooms and lush greenery, enhancing the home's inviting curb appeal. A warm wooden front door with glass panels sits beneath a welcoming sign, further emphasizing the home's hospitable ambiance. Elegant lantern-style light fixtures hang from the porch ceiling, providing a cozy and inviting glow in the evening.

"We missed you, sweetie," my dad says, pulling me into a tight hug. A few of the farm helpers walk up to the driveway, curious about the commotion. "Listen here, boys," my father calls out, his voice firm, "my daughter is off-limits. No one and I mean no one, will look her way or even think about her, do you understand me? Or I'll get my rifle after you, preacher or not."

The farmhands nod quickly, exchanging glances and muttering agreements. I roll my eyes but keep the smile on my face, knowing better than to contradict my father in front of his workers.

"It's good to see you too, Dad," I say, pulling back from his embrace and stepping up to hug my mom. She smells like lavender and vanilla, the familiar scent instantly bringing back memories of my childhood.

"Let's get your bags inside," she says, her voice softening as she leads me toward the house. "I made your favorite pie."

As I walk through the front door, the house wraps me in its warmth and nostalgia. Despite my complicated feelings about being home, there's a comfort in the familiar surroundings. The polished wooden floors, the cozy furniture, the family photos lining the walls—all reminders of the life I left behind for college and the dreams I'm still chasing.

But tonight, I'll put those dreams on hold. Tonight, I'm just Jeniva Davis, the preacher's daughter, back home for the summer. And for now, that will have to be enough.

"So, what's college like? You don't have any boyfriends now, do you?" my father asks. I glance over my shoulder at him, a disgusted look on my face.

"Ew, no Dad, boys in college are disgusting," I remark, shaking my head at the thought of dating one of them.

"Good," he says, nodding in approval. "Before you even start dating someone, I have to meet him first, and I gotta ask God if he's good enough for you."

My father and mother firmly believe that God speaks to them. To most people, that sounds borderline insane, but I grew up in a Pentecostal church where divine communication is the norm. There, the Holy Spirit speaks through people in a language called tongues, and God heals through the laying on of hands. While I'm not an atheist, I don't buy into that aspect of our faith.

As we step into the house, the familiar scent of my mother's cooking greets me. The walls are adorned with religious symbols and family photos, each one a testament to the life I've led under their roof. Despite the warmth of the home, there's an underlying tension, a constant reminder of the expectations placed upon me.

"College is good," I say, trying to steer the conversation away from my non-existent love life. "Busy, but good. Lots of studying, making new friends, you know."

"That's nice, sweetie," my mom says, smiling as she sets a freshly baked pie on the kitchen table. "We just want you to stay focused on your studies and your faith."

I nod, forcing a smile. "Of course, Mom."

In reality, my college life is a world apart from what they imagine. It's a place where I can explore my passions and be myself, away from their scrutinizing eyes and rigid beliefs. But here, in this house, I play the role of the dutiful daughter, hiding my true thoughts and dreams behind a carefully crafted facade.

"So, any interesting classes this semester?" my dad asks, taking a seat at the table.

"Yeah, a few," I reply, sitting down as well. "I'm really enjoying my creative writing course. It's challenging, but I love it."

"Creative writing, huh?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "Just remember to keep it clean and wholesome, alright?"

"Of course, Dad," I say, my smile feeling even more forced. In my mind, June's world—my pen name and escape—beckons, a sanctuary where I can be free from their watchful eyes.

For now, I'll endure their probing questions and overbearing concern. I'll play the part they expect of me, all the while dreaming of the day I can truly live my own life, unbound by their limitations.

"Have you been going to any parties? Drinking?" my mom asks, her eyes stern.

"Of course not, Mom. You know me. I'm always studying, trying to write, or reading. I'm honestly a pretty boring human being," I reply, rolling my eyes at my own life. How can a person be so boring?

"You are not boring, sweetie. Remember what God says—don't talk bad about yourself, speak life. Always remember that," she says as she places a plate of apple pie in front of me. The smell wafts up, cozy and sweet, and I can't help but groan with delight. It smells like home.

"I know, Mom, I know," I say softly. Bowing my head, I mumble a quick prayer before digging into the pie. The first bite melts in my mouth, the perfect blend of cinnamon and apple, and for a moment, I forget about the tension and expectations.

"How are your classes?" my dad asks, leaning back in his chair and watching me with a mix of curiosity and pride.

"They're good," I say between bites. "Challenging but in a good way. I'm really enjoying my creative writing course."

"That's nice, sweetie," my mom chimes in. "Just make sure you're not writing anything... inappropriate."

I nod, forcing a smile. "Of course not, Mom. It's all perfectly wholesome."

In reality, my writing is anything but. The spicy romances I craft are my rebellion, my secret escape from the confines of this life. But they don't need to know that. Here, in this house, I play the part of the dutiful daughter, the perfect student, the devout believer.

As we continue to chat, my mind drifts to the stories waiting to be written, the characters that dance in my imagination. They are my sanctuary, my freedom. One day, I'll break free from these expectations and live the life I've always dreamed of.

For now, I'll endure the questions and the overbearing concern, savoring the small comforts of home while dreaming of the world that awaits me beyond these four walls.

𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐄||

There has to be someone I can take refuge in. Drifting through the endless sea of human spirits, a wave of frustration washes over me. For a demon, finding a soul to possess requires the perfect match, a rare connection that bridges the gap between our realms. But somehow, in this vast ocean of humanity, no one fits me. Most demons have multiple matches, giving them ample opportunities to escape the torments of hell and extend their stay on Earth. But not me.

"Goddamnit!" I roar, my voice echoing through the void. I halt in my place, scanning the swirling mass of souls around me. Each one is either already possessed or incompatible with my essence. The thought of returning to hell sends a shudder through me. The searing flames, the unending agony, the screams of the damned—every second there is a torture I cannot bear to endure again.

"I don't want to go back," I groan, the desperation seeping into my voice. Hell is a place of eternal suffering, where time stretches endlessly and every moment is filled with pain and despair. I have known nothing but torment in that infernal pit, a place devoid of mercy or hope. My existence there is a continuous cycle of punishment, a relentless assault on my very being. The prospect of returning fills me with dread.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her spirit. She draws me closer, an irresistible pull that I cannot ignore. Her aura stands out in the crowd, a beacon of light amidst the darkness. As I approach, I observe her, watching as she talks to her parents. Her voice is soft yet firm, her presence commanding yet gentle.

I can't help but admire her. I've never seen a spirit so perfectly attuned to mine. She is unique, with heterochromia—one eye a warm doe brown, the other an icy blue. Her aura is captivating, a blend of strength and vulnerability. She's beautiful, and she's all for me.

Her spirit radiates a resilience that calls to me, a fire that burns brightly despite the world around her. I can see the depth of her emotions, the complexity of her thoughts. She is not just another human; she is extraordinary, a soul with layers upon layers waiting to be uncovered.

Standing next to her, I feel an unprecedented connection. I sense the resonance of our energies aligning perfectly, a harmonious symphony of spirit and essence. Her uniqueness is intoxicating, a combination of beauty and strength that draws me in like a moth to a flame. Her heterochromia eyes are windows to her soul, one a warm, inviting brown that speaks of earth and steadiness, the other an icy blue, sharp and piercing, reflecting the depths of her inner world.

In her presence, I find a solace I have never known. There is a calmness about her, a sense of peace that contrasts sharply with the chaos of my existence. She is the sanctuary I have been seeking, the refuge that can keep me from the horrors of hell.

With a determined smirk, I make my decision. She's the one. The perfect match. My refuge. I will do whatever it takes to stay with her, to escape the infernal torment that awaits me. She will be mine, and through her, I will find my freedom. As I merge with her spirit, I feel a sense of belonging, a connection that transcends the boundaries of our worlds.

Jeniva Davis, you are my salvation. You are my escape from the fires of hell. And I will protect you, cherish you, and through you, live the life I have always yearned for. In your world, I will find my redemption, and in your spirit, I will find my peace.

I'm gonna asking questions at the end of each chapter, so here's today's question. 

What is one thing you'd like to know about me?