I saw this writing prompt on Tumblr:

You’re a demon hunter whose job is to kill demons in people’s houses, one day you’re asked by a couple to get rid of the demons in their Daughters room; You arrive at the house and begin searching, however when you’re about to take the hit the girl bursts in begging you to keep them alive.

Here it is, hun.

So here’s a random story for you.

“Excuse me?” The kid’s face wasn’t exactly sad. It wasn’t the face of a terrorized 10-year-old, that’s for sure. You always know the ones with the bad demons, the demons that didn’t transition properly. They’re less likely to stare, more likely to look away, to check around. 

They look for demons in every movement you make. 

She stared at me, glasses thicker than all the bones in my bodies combined into a ball. Her tiny hands clasped patiently in front of her, fingers clenching and unclenching. 

“Yeah, kid?” I cocked the Denialator, not sure if I should turn my back on her. The mom said something about a few kid demons – you never knew what you were talking to in my field of work. They had one kid, and the embarrassing glasses matched the family photos.

“Do you have to kill them? They’re-” She paused, glancing back at the door. The little demons cowered under the bed, shaking the entire thing. Powerful little beasts.

“What are they, kid? Spit it out.” Another long pause, and then she took off her glasses. She stared at the ground, contemplating.

“He’s only nice when they’re around.” I pulled a cigarette out of my pocket and put it in my mouth, groaning. 

“Were you the one who called, kid? Or your demons?” She just stared. A low growl spread through the room. A tiny hand pushed a doll out from under the bed, mangled and rotten, and the kid picked it up. 

A small, guttural voice followed the doll. “Please don’t let him hurt us anymore.” 

…

You wouldn’t imagine how many cases I get like this. Hunting demons is as much a job in social work as anything else. Every now and then I have to testify in court, or I’m brought up on murder charges, or I’m taken off cases. You’re not supposed to hurt humans. It’s a thing.

I’ll tell you like I tell them: I hunt demons. If the shoe fits, I’ll make them wear it.

I walked out to the living room, half-expecting the mom to be isolated in the corner, cowering. The humans that hurt you, they liked to show their cards eventually. They liked to prove themselves. She stood with her back against the wall, staring blank at the television, hand wrapped in his. He was a small man, barely up to her shoulders. He made eye contact but didn’t speak, red in the face.

“Ma’am? The kid says she’s fine. Are you fine?” The woman glanced at me, and you wouldn’t see the tears if you didn’t know these types of situations. It’s more of a gloss. A sheen. 

“Yes. We’re fine,” The man answered. I nodded, cocking the Denialator. 

“Ma’am. This is never pretty. It’s a fucking mess, honestly. So I’m only gonna ask once more, and then it’s up to you.” I lit my cigarette, savoring the burn. The husband’s eyebrow raised, but he stood, chest puffed out. “Are you fine?”

The woman watched my smoke rise to the ceiling. You’d have to be in this business long enough to see the tremble on her lip. It looked like a smirk, like a small shy smile. You had to be me to see the tremble. 

I shot him.