The Devil I Know

People look at you differently when you’re good. That’s what I’ve learned. If you keep your head down, don’t speak unless spoken to, laugh at the right moments, never take up too much space—they leave you alone. Maybe even forget you exist. For a long time, I thought that was safety. Now it feels more like being erased, one quiet day at a time.

I used to take comfort in my invisibility. Now, it clings to me like the hairline crack on a porcelain plate—invisible until the light hits just right. I still function. I still smile. But I feel the fracture every time I breathe.

The morning started like all the others. My alarm didn’t need to go off. I was already awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between each raspy cough from the other side of the thin apartment wall.

Mom hadn’t been well for a long time. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, the doctor had said. Years of smoke and stress catching up to her. Some days were better than others. This wasn’t one of them.

I moved quietly, skirting the spots on the floor I knew creaked. Kettle on. Pills laid out. The chipped mug with the faded floral pattern—her favorite—already filled with yesterday’s change. Rent was late again. I knew Marc would call. He always did. The way his name lit up my phone screen never failed to make my stomach twist.

But I didn’t let myself think about it. Not yet. Not when I had to get through school first.

By the time I got there, the day had already sunk its teeth in. I walked the halls like a ghost with good grades—polite nods, faint smiles, present enough to be noticed for the right reasons, invisible enough to never invite questions.

Halgrave was a school for rich kids. The kind of place where last names mattered more than grades, and everyone had a legacy to inherit.

This school didn’t just remind me I didn’t belong. It screamed it.

I got in on a scholarship : top marks, glowing letters of recommendation, the whole bootlicking package. They smiled when they handed me the acceptance letter, like I should be grateful to walk their marble floors. Like I was lucky to breathe their air.

Ms. Grant waved at me in the hallway. I waved back.

At my locker, I adjusted the books I didn’t need, just to give my hands something to do. Then Colt appeared, like he always did between second and third period. He leaned on the locker beside mine, that easy, familiar grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

— You alive in there, Nancy? he asked, nudging my arm.

— Define “alive,” I muttered, managing a half-smile.

— Yikes, that bad, huh?

I shut the locker and slung my bag over one shoulder. We started walking toward the courtyard.

— Just the usual, I said. Mom didn’t sleep much. Her cough's getting worse. Rent’s still late. And we’re out of milk. Again.

— We’ve got milk. Come by later. Seriously. And cereal. Lucky Charms. The real deal, not the bootleg stuff.

— You know I can’t keep taking from you guys.

He gave me a look.

— You act like you weren’t practically adopted by us in third grade. My mom still asks why you don’t stay for dinner anymore.

— Because then I might never leave, I said, trying to laugh.

It came out wrong. Tight.

He didn’t push. Just led the way to our usual bench under the tree that shaded the edge of the courtyard.

We sat, watching students spill across the pavement in groups. Shrieks of laughter, flying french fries, soccer balls kicked with too much enthusiasm.

The sun filtered through the leaves above us, painting flickering shadows across Colt’s face. He squinted toward the noise, then leaned back, arms stretched across the back of the bench like he had all the time in the world.

— Remember when we used to eat our sandwiches here in fourth grade and pretend this bench was a spaceship? he said.

I laughed and corrected him.

— You mean you pretended it was a spaceship. I just went along because you promised I could be the commander.

— Which you took way too seriously, he grinned. I still have that photo of you with your tinfoil badge and that ridiculous paper helmet.

— Oh my God, Colt, no you do not.

— Swear. It’s in that shoebox in my closet. Along with our comic book attempts and those weird origami creatures we thought were cursed.

I shook my head, smiling despite myself.

— We were so strange.

— Nah, he said. We were brilliant. Still are.

His voice softened on the last part, almost like he was saying it just to remind me. Like he knew exactly how close I was to unraveling.

I looked away, scanning the crowd for nothing in particular. It was easier than letting him see my face.

— I just… I wish things didn’t feel so heavy all the time, I said quietly.

Colt leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

— I know. But you’re not carrying it alone. You never have to. Even if it feels like it. You hear me?

I nodded. Not sure if I believed it, but grateful anyway. Colt had been my best friend since forever—before braces, before crushes, before things got complicated. He’d seen me at my absolute worst, and somehow he was still here.

We sat in silence for a bit, letting the world move around us. For a few minutes, it felt like time had slowed just enough to breathe.

Then a group of girls walked by, loud and overly made-up, laughter slicing the air like knives. One of them shrieked, shoving her phone at her friends. It was Madison Jones. The worst one of them all.

— Oh my god! That’s my husband right there!

I didn’t have to look. But I did.

Across the courtyard, Kane Thorn leaned against the gym wall like he belonged to a different universe. And maybe he did. Even from here, his presence was impossible to ignore.

He was tall, broad, too sharp around the edges. His jaw was cut clean, hair always messy like he never bothered to fix it. And his eyes—cold, blue, unreadable—were the kind you felt before you saw them.

Colt followed my gaze.

— That guy looks like he just walked out of a crime novel. Or a Calvin Klein ad. Can’t decide.

— Probably both, I murmured.

— You think the rumors are true? That he’s got family in the mob or something?

I shrugged.

— I think he just wants everyone to believe they are. Makes it easier to keep people away.

— Smart move, Colt said. Still. Dude has serious main character energy.

I hummed, eyes still on Kane. There was something about the way he stood, like he was carved from stillness itself. He didn’t talk. He didn’t smile. He just watched. Everyone. Everything. Like he was waiting for something—or someone.

Colt elbowed me gently.

— Don’t tell me you’re crushing on the mystery man.

I snorted.

— Please. I don’t have time to crush. I barely have time to breathe.

The bell rang, sharp and jarring, snapping the courtyard back into motion. Colt stood and stretched, then glanced sideways at me with an apologetic grin.

— Hey, I’ve got practice after school today. Coach bumped it up ‘cause of the game next week.

I sighed, louder than I meant to.

— So I’m walking alone today, huh?

— Just today, he said, nudging my shoulder gently. You’ll survive.

Then he held out his hand, palm open and waiting.

— Lead the way, Commander Nancy Wright.

I stared at his hand for a second, then placed mine in his. Warm. Familiar. We stood like that for a beat longer than necessary, and for a second, the heaviness in my chest lifted just a little.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Classrooms, teachers, buzzing fluorescent lights—it all melted together, a stream of dull noises and scrawled notes I’d forget by morning. I drifted from period to period like someone underwater, my body present, my mind somewhere else.

By the time the final bell rang, I felt wrung out. Hollow. I walked out of the school alone, the weight of silence crawling back over me like a second skin.

Outside, the sky had dulled to a smudged gray, clouds sitting low like they might split open any minute. The pavement was still warm beneath my shoes, sticky in the way summer evenings always were. I walked with my head down, arms folded tight against myself, bag slung too heavy over one shoulder.

The streets were half-empty. A couple kids rode bikes across the sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked—sharp, repetitive. I passed the bodega on 6th, where the same bored guy sat behind the scratched plexiglass, chewing on a toothpick like it was the only thing keeping him from disappearing.

My building came into view like a bruise I couldn’t avoid. That familiar chipped paint around the entrance, the dent in the mailbox panel, the scent of mildew and burnt rice hovering in the air. I climbed the stairs two at a time, careful to avoid the third step—it creaked like a scream when you stepped on it.

I paused at the top of the stairs, fingers resting on the doorknob, not turning it yet.

It’s weird how you can dread something so familiar. Like how every time I opened that door, I already knew what I’d see. I could picture it without trying: the flickering hallway light we never replaced. The sour smell of old takeout. The sound of Mom’s cough echoing from the couch like it was stitched into the fabric of the apartment.

Still, I turned the knob.

The door opened.

Same as always—dim, stale, quiet except for the raspy wheeze from the other room. The TV was on, volume way too low to hear, some old black-and-white movie flickering across the screen in ghostly light. Mom’s silhouette was curled into the end of the couch, a blanket pulled up to her chin even though it was muggy as hell inside. Her eyes were closed. Her chest moved barely.

I stood there for a second, just watching. Trying to tell if she was asleep or just… still.

— Mom? I called softly, dropping my bag by the door.

She didn’t answer. But the blanket moved, the faintest tug upward as she inhaled through a tight chest. Relief slid down my spine like ice water.

I walked in quietly. Picked up the pill bottle that had rolled under the coffee table. Set the half-full glass of water a little closer to her side. Then I straightened the stack of mail on the counter—bills, mostly. A bright red envelope caught my eye. Final notice. I slid it to the bottom of the pile and pretended I didn’t.

She stirred when I moved into the kitchen.

— That you, baby? her voice croaked, like gravel and smoke had taken permanent residence in her throat.

— Yeah. Just me. Want some tea?

She didn’t answer right away. Then:

— If it’s not too much trouble.

It never was. But it always felt like it.

I flicked on the kettle and stood there, watching the coils turn orange. I could hear her cough again from the couch, a wet sound that made my stomach turn. I poured the hot water, dropped the tea bag in, and added honey—the last of it. Stirred quietly.

I brought it over, crouched beside the couch, and handed it to her.

— Careful, it’s hot.

She nodded and took it, her hands trembling slightly. For a moment, I thought she might smile. But it passed. Like everything else.

I sat on the floor next to her, back against the couch, knees pulled to my chest. The TV played shadows across the wall. I didn’t really watch.

— School okay? she asked after a while, her voice muffled behind the mug.

— Same as always.

— Colt still walking you home?

I smiled faintly.

— He had practice today. Said hi, though.

Mom made a sound like she might say something more, but it turned into a cough that racked through her like thunder. I turned quickly, steadying the mug before it could spill, rubbing gentle circles into her back.

At some point, she fell asleep again.

I slipped into my room quietly. The walls were too thin and the space too small and the air too thick, but at least it was mine. I kicked off my shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress springs sighing under my weight.

The second my head touched the pillow, my phone buzzed.

The screen lit up, and with it, the last shred of calm I had left burned away.

Marc.

His name glared up at me like a wound I couldn’t stop reopening. My hands started shaking before I even reached for it. I didn’t want to answer. God, I didn’t want to answer.

But I had to.

Letting it ring meant worse. Letting it ring meant he might come up. Or worse—follow through on the threats he made every time I even thought about saying no.

I picked up on the third buzz, forcing my voice into something that didn’t sound like fear.

— Hello?

His voice slithered through the speaker, slick and smug.

— Took you long enough. I almost thought you were ignoring me, sweetheart.

I swallowed hard. My throat felt tight, like it was trying to close.

— I was just putting Mom to sleep.

— Touching. You can tuck her in again later. I need you down here. Now.

My stomach clenched. I already knew what that meant.

— I’ll be right there.

I hung up before he could say anything else. My hand was still shaking when I slipped the phone under my pillow. I stood up quietly, glanced toward the living room. Mom was curled into herself on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, the empty mug close to slipping from her fingers. I whispered, just in case.

— I’m heading out. I’ll be back fast.

But she didn’t stir.

Good. I didn’t want her to.

I slipped out the door, careful not to let it creak, and padded barefoot down the narrow, carpeted stairs. The air shifted as I descended — colder, damper. Like something rotted just out of sight. His place was on the ground floor, the only unit with its own back entrance. Half-basement, really. The kind that never sees the sun.

The hallway leading to his door was lit with a flickering bulb, stained walls pulsing in and out of darkness. A strip of molding hung loose from the ceiling, casting a shadow that looked like a noose.

I knocked once. The door opened on its own.

Inside smelled like mold, cheap cologne, and something... meatier. I didn’t want to think about it. I stepped inside. The floorboards were sticky. A porno magazine sat open on the couch like company. An old TV played static in the corner, volume low, just loud enough to make the silence worse.

Marc was in the kitchen, shirtless, a beer in hand. His gut hung over his sweatpants. His smile made my skin crawl.

— There she is. My little night owl.

I stayed near the door.

— What do you need?

He chuckled, licking his lips in that slow, deliberate way that made my stomach lurch.

— Always straight to business with you. Thought you might at least say hi. You used to be sweeter.

He walked over, eyes crawling all over me like roaches. His hand brushed my shoulder as he passed. I flinched, but didn’t pull away. That only made him worse.

— Got news, sweetheart. Tomorrow, you got a client. One of the good ones.

My heart stopped.

He leaned in, his breath warm and foul.

— Real classy type. Drives a Benz, wears cufflinks, that whole thing. Says he likes ‘em quiet. Don’t mess this up. Good money in this one. And you could use it, couldn’t you?

I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust what would come out if I opened my mouth.

His hand moved lower, fingers grazing my waist like a warning.

— Smile, baby. C’mon. Gimme a spin.

I stood still.

His grip tightened.

— I said, spin.

I turned slowly, stomach twisting.

His eyes lingered as I turned. Every inch he scanned felt like it was being peeled.

— That’s what I like, he said, voice low. A girl who knows her place.

He stepped back, taking another swig of his beer, belching without flinching. Then he pointed at me with the bottle like he was making a toast.

— You know, I’m real fuckin’ generous lettin’ you stay here. Anyone else? They’d’ve tossed you out on the street the minute rent was late. You think the world’s gonna carry you just ‘cause you bat your eyes? Hell no.

He laughed.

— But me? I’m a fuckin’ saint. I let you pay the rent your way. Fair’s fair, right?

I didn’t answer. Just stood there, bare toes curling against the sticky floor.

He moved closer again, breath heavy with beer and something metallic, like blood that’s dried and gone sour.

— Don’t give me that look. You should be thanking me. Most chicks’d kill for a setup like this. You don’t even gotta suck off some random crackhead in an alley who wouldn't even pay you in the end. You come to me and I provide you your clients.

He smirked like he expected gratitude. I kept my face blank.

— Damn, you’re lucky I like you, he said, tilting his head. If you were some dumb bitch from down the block, I’d let the boys take a turn. But you? You got manners. I respect that.

He reached out, stroked a strand of hair behind my ear. I flinched, again. His expression tightened.

— You should smile more. Clients like that shit. And I don’t wanna hear no crying tomorrow, you hear me? No drama, no moods. Just be sweet. Quiet. That’s all he wants. You do that, and maybe next month, I knock fifty off your total. Sound good?

I nodded, throat tight.

— I’ll be ready.

He smiled wide, all gums and yellow teeth.

— Damn right you will. I’ll send you the address and the time you have to be there. Don’t keep him waiting.

He slapped my ass as I turned to go. I bit my cheek so hard I tasted blood.

Back in the hallway, the cold hit me like a wave. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I reached the stairs and let it out in one sharp exhale. My legs felt like jelly. My throat burned.

When I locked my bedroom door behind me, I pressed my forehead to the cheap wood just to stay upright. I wanted to scream, to smash every bottle in Marc’s apartment, to lay the whole filthy system bare for the world to see.

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed.

Marc again. He finally sent the address.

I tapped the message open, and my eyes landed on the location.

An old, abandoned office building on the outskirts of town. Windows boarded up. No signage. The kind of place you cross the street to avoid.

I just stood there, breathing, hoping I could hold myself together for one more night. For Mom.

To be continued...