I'll go home.

I looked at the dagger; at that wicked edge, at its wire-bound hilt, and smiled.

I had been a human, and I had been a demon. I was a child between worlds, but I hadn't had a choice but to take the demonic path. I'd been exiled, chased, and nearly died in the barn; to live I'd used my powers, and then I continued using them because they felt damn good to use. I could chart the line point by point, and It made sense; I thought I'd made the right choices, but apparently not.

But I still had to make choices.

I flipped the knife.

There were always choices to be made, whether you liked the outcome or not.

I flipped the knife.

The fire burned, another choice, and people screamed, another choice.

I flipped the knife.

I made a choice, the culmination of eighteen years, and drove the dagger into my heart.

I fell, blood welling up around the edges of my knife; my sister's gift.

I felt a small smile on my lips as everything merged into a single shade.

I'm sorry. . .

An image appeared in the darkness, a red door with a brass handle. I opened it, and saw my father, my step-mother, my sister.

I'm sorry. . .