Eat My Sorrow
Alicia despised working with children most of all. It was difficult, tedious, and risky. A child’s realm of possibilities wasn’t yet fixed, making it dangerously easy to invite unwanted probabilities into being.
Children existed within their mothers’ auras, meaning Alicia would have to deal with them too. Worse, kids loved to fantasize. Who hadn’t dreamed of wielding magic as a child? Imagined an invisible friend? Every word from such a “client” had to be double-checked, an exhausting ordeal.
When Alicia saw the woman on her doorstep—draped in ostentatious black, lips blood-red, eyelids smeared with midnight blue—she barely flinched. Eccentric clients were common. But the ten-year-old boy cowering behind her made Alicia tense. Just as she opened her mouth to refuse, the woman cut in sharply:
“We booked. I’m Lavinia—emailed yesterday. My profile picture was of my cat, remember?”
Alicia remembered the cat.
“Come in, then.”
*Maybe the boy’s just along for the ride—no one to leave him with*, she hoped, studying Lavinia discreetly. The woman was plump, still handsome at forty-five, the kind they called “in her prime.” Her makeup was bold, borderline garish; her wrists clattered with bracelets, jingling with every extravagant gesture. The black outfit… Was it mourning? Or just for show? Either way, Lavinia wore it with poorly concealed relish. *A performer. And I’m her audience.*
“My husband died,” Lavinia announced tragically, dabbing completely dry eyes with a handkerchief.
“My condolences,” Alicia replied politely, “but I don’t conduct séances. I find them reckless and pointless.”
Undeterred, Lavinia switched tactics.
“There’s magic in our bloodline,” she whispered dramatically. “My great-great-grandmother practiced. And my seventh cousin twice removed—”
*Let me guess, she conjured spells too?* Alicia fought back a smirk. The sheer number of self-proclaimed “witches,” “sorcerers,” and “shamans” barging into her flat lately was staggering. Dig deep enough, and every family had someone who dabbled. Magic, despite superstition, was as ordinary as boxing. But did a man become a champion just because his granddad once stepped into a ring? Same with witchcraft.
“Anyway, our bloodline carries a Gift. Passed down generations. Thankfully,” Lavinia spat over her left shoulder, though Alicia caught the flicker of disappointment in her eyes, “it skipped me. But my son, Victor…” Her voice swelled with inexplicable pride. “He sees ghosts!”
*Sees ghosts? Wonderful.* Alicia had two theories. First—and most likely—early schizophrenia. Why parents dragged hallucinating children to clairvoyants instead of psychiatrists baffled her. Second: the “Gift” was real. Usually, that meant a family curse—a spirit passed down like an heirloom.
“Tell her about the ghosts!” Lavinia demanded. The boy spoke reluctantly, only because asked.
“Not ghosts. Just one. My dad visits me… every night.”
Victor trailed off, glancing helplessly at his mother. *Can we go now?* She missed the cue, puffing up like a parent brandishing a star-studded report card.
*Necrotic attachment? Or pure grief? The boy misses his dad—* Alicia’s thoughts stuttered. Behind Victor loomed a shadow. Not his father. The thing stared unblinking. Chills prickled Alicia’s skin. She forced calm. This wasn’t just grief. The boy had a hitchhiker.
“You know, I was thinking,” Lavinia mused, “they’ve never had a child on *Britain’s Psychic Challenge*! It’d be a sensation—a boy medium!”
Victor squeezed his knees, shoulders hunched, regretting every word. *Ah. Lavinia loves spectacle more than I thought.*
“Your energy is overwhelming,” Alicia lied smoothly. “And your aura’s too dense. I need to work with Victor alone.” She herded the deluded mother out. “Take an hour. Browse the shops.”
Lavinia huffed but preened at the words “energy” and “aura.” Victor stayed, stiff and silent, chewing a biscuit, answering in monosyllables. *Back off, witch.*
Alicia coaxed him gently. No mention of his father—just school, friends, crushes. Twenty minutes in, he relaxed, cheeks flushing. Adults rarely cared about his world.
She closed her eyes, tuning into his voice, unraveling the truth.
***
Victor adored his father more than anyone. No one else’s dad played soldiers, skated, or taught them card tricks. When his parents fought, Victor always sided with Dad—even when he forgot things. Balloons and candy floss bought forgiveness.
When school demanded an essay on “My Best Friend,” Victor wrote about Dad. His teacher pulled him aside: *No friends your own age?* Victor thought, *You’re an idiot. I’ve got loads. But Dad’s my favorite.*
Then the accident. Mum wailed, tore her hair, howled like a wounded dog. At the funeral, she lunged at the coffin. *Bury me with him!*
Victor couldn’t cry. The tears stayed inside. He replayed that day: Dad had asked him fishing. He’d gone with mates instead. *If I’d said yes, would he still be here?* The guilt gnawed him hollow. Soon, even getting up felt impossible. Grief smothered him—dark, suffocating.
Two months later, Mum moved on. Enter Uncle Kevin. Victor hated him on sight. The photos vanished. Dad’s memory boxed away.
Then Dad came in a dream. Ghosts in films were scary, but his dad was just… Dad. Beard, grin, holding balloons.
“Dad! You’re alive!”
Dad smiled.
“Was it all a mistake?”
Dad shrugged. *See for yourself.*
Victor hugged him tight. They walked to the park, ate candy floss, laughed. For the first time in months, he almost felt happy.
From then on, Victor lived two lives. By day: school, homework, football, pretending. By night: a world where Dad was alive. They rode roller-coasters, played table hockey. Dad even taught him to fight—useful against school bullies. When Victor fancied a girl, “Dream-Dad” helped him talk to her.
The guilt faded. Mornings got easier. One day, he woke without wishing for a speeding car.
***
The thing behind Victor watched Alicia, assessing. Not a curse, as she’d first thought. Something older. Something *hungry*. She couldn’t name it—only knew it fed on sorrow. Pure, distilled grief.
She hugged Victor. “You know it’s not your dad, don’t you?”
Months of dammed-up tears broke. He sobbed into her shoulder as she rubbed his back, poured tea, fed him secret-stash sweets.
“How’d you know?” he whispered afterward.
“I’m a witch.”
“Ever seen *Men in Black*? The alien wearing a skin-suit? Moves all wrong? That’s how Dream-Dad felt sometimes.”
*Remarkably perceptive.* Grief blinded people to such details—the stiff gait, the odd phrasing. Only the bereaved missed them.
“Your dad’s gone. Probably reborn by now. As for you…” She glared at the spirit, feigning calm. These entities provoked the emotions they craved—driving people to drink, drugs, worse. *It’s eating a child’s sorrow.*
But the spirit stepped back. “No need for spells. His pain’s almost gone. I’m leaving.”
“Just like that?”
“This world’s drowning in sorrow. I won’t starve.”
The spirit left. Victor’s face twisted—not anger, but loss.
“I’ll miss him,” he murmured.
“Me too,” whispered the breeze in his hair. One last hug, then it vanished where needed.
***
The doorbell shattered the moment. Lavinia barged in. “Well? Will he be on *Britain’s Psychic Challenge*?”
Alicia sent Victor out. Lavinia wouldn’t stomach the truth—that her son hosted a grief-eater. She’d shop him to charlatans until someone took her money and lied: *Yes, your boy’s “special.”*
Alicia blamed psychology: unresolved grief, normal dreams. *See a therapist. Stop exploiting his pain.*
“But he never cried,” Lavinia protested. “I thought he didn’t understand.”
“Trauma,” Alicia snapped. “See. A. Doctor.”
Later, she spotted the spirit at a cemetery. It lingered behind a sobbing girl, then nodded at Alicia. The witch’s chest ached. She wasn’t worried—the next night, the girl’s mother would come. Comb her hair, hold her, drink the pain.
Funny, how people blamed their damage for everything. Even dark spirits could choose light.
If they wanted.
