Don't Believe Him

“No!” you yell, waving your knife at him again. 

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Use your light, your familiar says. It can reveal the truth. 

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With a growl, you bring the small orb of light that had been floating a little above you into your hands and power your power into it, willing it to grow. To grow and glow bright enough to cast away the fog and the illusions and the lies. 

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The man takes a step towards you, “Stop, child. Please. I love you,” he says, but it’s too late. The light is pulling the power from you now, fed by your own will and encouraged by the familiar in the back of your mind. 

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The orb of white light is bigger than your head, and you see the man squinting at the sight of it, shielding his eyes. You know, you should also feel the need to hide from it, but it is your own power. You can see better than you ever have. The man’s arms aren’t the buff built arms of your father. They are slim and lanky. Too long for a human hand. His eyes are set on the surface of something like an octopus and where his mouth should be tentacles writhe.

 

“Go!” you yell, and your familiar yells with you. When you thrust your hands out in front of you, it feels like he does it with you, and hit with that beam of light, the monster screams, its skin blisters and burns and boils, and it disintegrates to ashes. 

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You don’t wait another moment. You turn tail and run, hop back into your boat, and head home.

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The End