I Accidentally Summoned a Demon and I Named him Fred

People always talk about childhood friendships—sleepovers, playground secrets, names they never forget.

For me, it’s just… blank.

Like someone erased it.

What I do remember is my mother’s face.

That tight, worried frown she wore like it was permanent. The way her eyes searched mine, like she was always trying to figure out what I wasn’t saying.

“Who did you play with at recess?”

Her voice was never angry. That would’ve been easier to handle.

“...Nobody.”

She was disappointed again.

I don’t even remember what I did most days. Just the creak of the swing set. Waiting for the bell to ring so I could pretend I had somewhere to be.

High school was supposed to be different.

It wasn’t.

A Catholic school, my mom said, like that would fix something. Like structure and scripture could fill whatever was missing in me.

I didn’t understand any of it at first.

Not until that Sunday morning when she dragged me out of bed and into a church that smelled like old wood and something heavy I couldn’t name.

Guilt, maybe.

The words carved into the walls stuck with me longer than they should have. So did the silence between prayers.

And her.

My “best friend.”

The one I kept around so my mom wouldn’t worry.

The one who smiled at me in front of others and tore me apart the second I wasn’t looking.

I heard the whispers. I always did.

Still, I followed her.

Through crowded hallways. Past laughing groups of people who never noticed me. Into gyms packed with noise and lights and energy I couldn’t match.

I kept walking faster, trying not to lose her.

Because being alone was worse.

Or at least… I thought it was.

I remember the feeling more than anything else.

That constant ache.

Like I was something extra. Something unnecessary.

Like I didn’t belong anywhere.

And then…

None of it mattered anymore.

Not the lies.

Not the pretending.

Nothing mattered when the sky went gray, and the priest’s voice faded into the wind.

When the last handful of dirt hit the coffin with a hollow, final sound.

When my mother was gone.

There’s no one left to pretend for.

No one left to lie to.

That’s funny.

Because now it feels like lying is the only thing I’m good at.

I don’t remember how I ended up on that bridge.

I don’t remember climbing the railing.

Or how long I stood there.

But I remember his voice.

Clear. Amused.

Too close.

A sharp, crackling laugh cut through the air.

“I told you to flip when you jumped.”

And that’s when I realized…

I wasn’t alone anymore.