Page 15 of Cuddly Demon

The fact that I chose to become an English major and reject their plans annoyed them. They raised their voices at me, and told me I wouldn't amount to much.

Becca takes a sip of water. "Have you actually seen a therapist about your overbearing family? Because last you told me, you were trying to push your emotions down and figure it out on your own. I wonder if the stress…"

I let out a sigh. "No, I never saw a professional. But the good news is that I don't need to. Onyx will help me figure things out, and he'll be there for me."

"Ugh." Becca shoots me a sympathetic look. "I hate to be the one to say it, but... you’re positive you didn't imagine this, yeah?"

"Wow," I say, a sense of irritation creeping up inside me. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Yes, I'm certain Onyx is real."

Becca holds up her hands. "Okay, okay. I believe you. It's just... weird. And I worry about you. This is uncharted territory."

"I appreciate your concern," I say, feeling slightly guilty for snapping at her. "But I know what I'm doing. And I trust Onyx."

Becca nods slowly, still looking hesitant. "Do you have any pictures?"

"He only shows himself to me and people in need. He wouldn't show up in a picture."

Becca rolls her eyes. "This gets better and better."

"You're such a hater," I groan, trying not to laugh.

"Just... be careful, okay? And keep me updated."

"Of course." I smile, feeling grateful for her support despite her doubts. "Thanks, Becca."

Onyx

Humans are such funny creatures.

Take these guys on the show that I'm watching.

(Yes, Saint gave me permission to use his Netflix account.)

(No, I'm not watching anything naughty.)

They're engaged in a competition, but they're spending half of their time teasing each other in makeup. At some moments, they appear to be friendly. The next, they're donning high heels and reading one another to filth.

"Drag queens," I muse, pulling up DuckDuckGo, which Saint informed me is a search engine that respects your privacy. Etruria didn't have search engines three thousand years ago. I bet we'd have fended off the Romans if we'd had access to these resources. "What in the world is a drag queen?"

The search engine tells me that a drag queen is a person who critiques, analyzes, and satirizes gender norms by performing gender in a way that's over the top and hilarious while often wearing fabulous makeup, wigs, and clothes. Interesting.

I turn my attention back to the show, intrigued by the colorful outfits and creative makeup. It's so different from what I've seen on Saint's campus, but I'm fascinated by it nonetheless.

"I love their makeup." I zoom in on one queen's face, totally in awe. "Goodness, I wonder how one becomes a drag queen."

Is it something you're born into?

Can you discover it later in life?

In the show, one of the drag queens is talking about their struggles with acceptance and how drag helped them find their true self. It's a touching moment, and I can't help but feel a sense of admiration for these performers.

I wonder... if I could ever do this. A burst of shyness rushes through me, and my cheeks turn from azure to pink.

I'm three thousand and twenty eight years old. That's probably way too old to unleash my inner queen. Right?

I'm so absorbed in my research that I don't notice Saint entering the room with a giant stack of books until he clears his throat.

"Hey," he says, grinning as he sits down next to me, placing the books on the coffee table. "Whatcha doing?"