**Eat My Sorrow**
The last thing Alice enjoyed was working with kids. It was tricky, exhausting, and downright risky. A child’s world was still a mess of untangled possibilities, and the danger of accidentally summoning some unwelcome future was far too real.
Kids lived in their mother’s emotional orbit, which meant Alice would have to deal with her too. And let’s not forget—children had *fantasies*. Who hadn’t dreamed of magic powers as a kid? Invented an imaginary friend? Every word from a pint-sized “client” had to be double-checked, and frankly, Alice was too old for the extra paperwork.
When a woman in a dramatic black ensemble, blood-red lips, and smoky blue eyelids appeared on her doorstep, Alice barely blinked. Eccentric clients were nothing new. But the terrified ten-year-old boy clinging to the woman’s coat? *That* got her attention. She opened her mouth to say she didn’t work with children—
“We have an appointment,” the woman interrupted imperiously. “I’m Lavinia. We messaged yesterday? My profile picture was a cat?”
Ah, yes. The cat.
“Right. Come in, then.”
*Maybe the problem’s hers, and she just dragged the kid along because she had no babysitter*, Alice hoped, subtly studying Lavinia. She was a well-preserved woman in her mid-forties—”in her prime,” as people politely put it. Her makeup was bold verging on garish, her wrists jangled with enough bracelets to sound like a wind chime in a storm, and she gestured like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. The black outfit? Trying too hard to be mysterious. Or maybe mourning. Either way, Lavinia wore it like a costume, relishing the drama. *A performer. Lovely. I’m about to be the unwilling audience.*
“My husband died,” Lavinia announced tragically, dabbing a handkerchief to her completely dry eyes.
“My condolences,” Alice said politely, “but I don’t do séances. Dangerous business, and frankly, a waste of time.”
Undeterred, Lavinia switched tactics.
“There’s magic in our bloodline,” she whispered dramatically. “His great-great-grandmother was a witch, and his third cousin twice removed—”
*Let me guess—also a witch?* Alice bit back a smirk. The number of self-proclaimed “hereditary witches,” “sorcerers,” and “shamans” busting down her door these days was absurd. Dig deep enough, and every family had someone who’d dabbled in rituals. Magic was as common as bad tea—but just because your granddad boxed didn’t mean *you* could take a punch. Same principle.
“Our family has *the Gift*,” Lavinia declared. “Passed down for generations. Thankfully,”—she spat over her left shoulder, though Alice caught the flicker of disappointment in her eyes—”it skipped me. But my son, Victor—” Her eyes lit up with misplaced pride. “He *sees ghosts*.”
*Oh, brilliant. Just brilliant.* Alice had a few theories. First and most likely: early-onset schizophrenia. Why parents dragged hallucinating kids to psychics instead of psychiatrists, she’d never understand. Second option: an actual family curse. Usually just a fancy name for a generational parasite.
“Tell her about the ghosts!” Lavinia demanded. Victor mumbled reluctantly, “Not ghosts. Just one ghost. Dad visits me every night…”
He trailed off, throwing his mum a *can we go now?* look. She missed it entirely, puffing up like a proud peacock—the kind who’d wave a spelling test in your face.
*Necromantic attachment? Or plain old grief? Kid misses his dad, so—* Alice’s thought stuttered. Behind Victor flickered a shadow. Not his father.
The *thing* stared straight at her. Her skin prickled, but she kept her face blank. This wasn’t just a boy with an overactive imagination. This was serious.
“You know,” Lavinia mused, “they’ve never had a *child* on *Britain’s Got Psychics*! It’d be a sensation! A boy medium!”
Victor shrank into his chair. *Yep. Lavinia loves a spectacle more than I thought.*
“Your energy’s overwhelming,” Alice lied smoothly. “I need to work with Victor alone. Take a walk. Grab a cuppa. Come back in an hour.”
Lavinia pouted but perked up at the words “energy” and “aura.” Once she was gone, Victor clammed up, hunched like a tortoise, devouring biscuits and answering in monosyllables. *Buzz off, witch lady.*
Alice took it slow. No mention of dead dads—just school, mates, girls. Twenty minutes in, he relaxed, cheeks pinkening. Adults rarely took an interest.
Alice closed her eyes, tuning into his voice, unraveling the truth.
—
More than anyone, Victor had loved his dad. No one else’s father played soldiers, taught them to rollerblade, or pulled coins from behind their ears. When his parents fought, Victor always took Dad’s side—even if he’d forgotten something *again*. Balloons and candyfloss bought forgiveness.
His school essay—*My Best Friend*—was about Dad. His teacher pulled him aside. *No friends?* Victor didn’t say it, but: *You’re daft, Miss. I’ve got loads. But best friends? That’s me and Dad.*
When the accident happened, Mum wailed, tore her hair, threatened to throw herself into the grave. Victor couldn’t cry—or rather, his tears turned inward. He replayed that day: Dad had asked him fishing. He’d said no, gone with his mates instead. *If I’d gone, would he still be here?*
The guilt ate him alive. Some days, he couldn’t get out of bed.
Then Dad appeared in his dreams. Not like movie ghosts—no moaning, no chains. Just Dad: ginger beard, holding balloons.
“You’re alive!” Victor cried.
Dad just smiled.
“Was it all a mistake?”
Dad shrugged. *See for yourself.*
It was like before: park walks, candyfloss, laughter. For the first time in months, Victor was *happy*.
He lived two lives now. School by day, Dad by night. They rode rollercoasters, watched films, played table hockey. Dad even taught him to fight—so he punched the school bully. And when he fancied a girl, dream-Dad helped him talk to her.
The guilt faded. Mornings got easier. And one day, he woke up without wanting to step into traffic.
—
The thing behind Victor studied Alice. Not a parasite, as she’d first thought. Something older. Stronger. It fed on sorrow—*pure, distilled grief*.
Alice hugged Victor. “You know that’s not your dad in the dreams, right?”
Months of trapped tears burst free. She let him cry, rubbing his back, refilling his tea, plying him with emergency biscuits.
“How’d you know?” he mumbled finally.
“I’m a witch.”
“D’you know *Men in Black*? That alien wearing a guy’s skin? Moves all wrong? That’s how Dad felt sometimes.”
*Too clever for his own good.* Grief blinded people to the little tells—the odd blink, the stiff gestures.
“Your dad’s gone, love. Probably reborn by now. But we’ll sort *you* out.”
She glared at the spirit. These things fed on emotions—turned people into addicts, killers. This one dined on a child’s sorrow. It had to go.
“Don’t fret, witch,” the spirit murmured. “His pain’s nearly gone. I was leaving anyway.”
“Just like that? No fuss?” Prayers died on her lips.
“I ate all his sorrow. Plenty more grief out there—I won’t starve.”
The spirit left. Victor’s face twisted—not anger, just quiet sadness.
“I’ll miss him,” he whispered, unsure who he was telling.
“Me too,” the spirit ruffled his hair with a phantom breeze. One last hug, then it vanished.
—
The doorbell shattered the moment. Lavinia barged in.
“Well? Is he ready for *Britain’s Got Psychics*?”
Alice sent Victor outside. Lavinia wouldn’t understand possession. She’d just shop him to charlatans until one took her money and said, *Yes, your son’s *special*.*
So Alice lied. “He’s grieving. Kids hide it. Get him a therapist. Stop dragging him to psychics—you’ll break him.”
Lavinia frowned. “I thought he didn’t care. He never cried…”
“*Trauma.* See a doctor.”
Later, Alice spotted the spirit by a weeping girl at the cemetery. It nodded at her. She didn’t worry—the girl’s mum would visit tonight, combing out her pain like tangled hair.
Funny, really. People blamed their messes on trauma, upbringing. Yet here was a darkness *choosing* to be kind.
You could be lightAnd as Alice watched the spirit fade into the twilight, she wondered if the brightest kindness sometimes wore the darkest guise.
