When a billionaire wants to kill you.....

Love

Shell has been my rock, my best friend, ever since I started working for her years ago. Back then, I was clueless about the mess I was stepping into. I didn’t know the guy I was dating had a crush on her, and she thought I was cozying up to her to snoop, to figure out what she was about. That couldn’t have been further from the truth—I just needed a job, and she seemed kind, vibrant, like someone I could learn from. I was drawn to her energy, her confidence, not some ulterior motive. Years later, that guy’s long gone, a fading memory of bad choices, and Shell’s become one of the few people I trust with my whole heart. She saw me at my lowest, when the weight of writer’s block, strange entities, and the ache of loneliness threatened to break me. Every time I got discouraged, convinced I’d never find my soulmate—human or otherwise—Shell was there, picking me up, dusting me off.

“Straighten your crown, you got this,” she’d say, her voice steady and warm, cutting through my doubts. Pineapple. "Sweet on the inside, hard on the outside, and bears a crown.” It became her mantra for me, repeated every time my smile faltered or tears welled up, ready to spill. Whether I was reeling from a breakup, a sleepless night haunted by my alien/demon husband, or the frustration of a story that wouldn’t write itself, she’d say it with that knowing look, like she could see the strength I’d forgotten I had. It wasn’t just words; it was a reminder of who I am—resilient, worthy, regal in my own way. Goddess. Shell never let me wallow for long, always pulling me back to myself, helping me find my footing when the world felt unsteady.

Our friendship grew through those moments, forged in late-night talks and shared laughter over life’s absurdities. She didn’t judge me when I rambled about the entities, the crystal, or the sermon that shook me. She listened, her presence a safe harbor, even if she didn’t fully understand. Now, as I navigate this strange chapter of my life, Shell’s the one I turn to, the one I called when I needed to escape my house, to protect my family from whatever’s following me. Her words echo in my mind as I pack my bag to stay with her, a lifeline to hold onto. “Pineapple,” I whisper to myself, smiling despite the fear. Shell’s belief in me is a light in the dark, a crown I can lean on when the weight of the unknown feels too heavy. With her, I can face the puzzle of my alien/demon husband, knowing I’m not alone, knowing I’m still sweet, still strong, still wearing my crown.

Shell’s home is a whirlwind of chaos, with her kids tearing through the house like a storm, yelling, laughing, and leaving toys scattered like landmines. But that chaos is comforting, a living pulse that drowns out the eerie hums and tugs that have followed me. I settle into her space, grateful for the noise, the life, the way it pulls me out of my own head. On her porch, under the soft glow of a streetlight, I spilled everything—the alien/demon husband pressed against me, the orange crystal that fell from my head, the rapture sermon that shook me, the Bible studies that left me feeling reborn. Shell listens, her face calm, her eyes steady, no judgment slipping out, at least not aloud. She hands me a shot of Fireball, the cinnamon whiskey burning a path down my throat, grounding me in the moment. Then she passes me a blunt, the smoke curling between us as we watch the world unfold—cars rolling past, neighborhood kids biking in lazy circles, the hum of evening settling in.

She leans back in her chair, exhaling a cloud of smoke, and says, “You know, I talk to dead family members sometimes.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, like it’s just another Tuesday. “So what you’re experiencing? Not that weird to me.” I smile, a warmth spreading through my chest, not just from the Fireball. She’s trying to relate, to bridge the gap between my bizarre reality and her own, and I love her for it. Most people would push me away, label me unhinged, but Shell meets me where I am, sharing her own oddities to make mine feel less alien. It’s her way of keeping me close, of turning the focus back on herself so I don’t feel like a freak. Others would shut down, but Shell builds a connection, and it’s everything.

Her house feels perfect, a loud, messy sanctuary where I can breathe, but there’s a catch—Shell gets jealous when I dive into my dungeon crawler game instead of giving her my full attention. I’ll be glued to my computer, grinding through levels, clearing red dots like they’re my life’s mission, and she’ll shoot me a look, half-teasing, half-annoyed, like I’m cheating on her with pixels. It cracks me up, because she’s got a whole husband upstairs, waiting for her to climb into bed, yet she’s sulky when I’d rather slay virtual monsters than gossip. She gets attached, not in a s****l way, but in this deep, soul-bound way that defines us. She loves the way I love her—unconditionally, without judgment, the same way she loves me, quirks and all. It’s a friendship that holds space for our weirdness, our fears, our crowns.

As we sit there, the blunt’s glow fading, the Fireball’s heat lingering, I realize how rare this is—someone who sees me, entities and all, and doesn’t flinch. Shell’s porch is my safe haven, where the chaos of her kids drowns out the hum of my alien/demon husband, where her laughter straightens my crown. Her jealousy over the game is just her way of saying I matter, that she needs me as much as I need her. I take another shot, feeling the warmth spread, and now I’m exactly where I need to be, loved for my pineapple heart—sweet on the inside, tough on the outside, crown and all.

Over the past few months, Shell’s jealousy has festered into a cold, impenetrable wall between us, all because of my obsession with the dungeon crawler game. She’s barely speaking to me, her silence a stark contrast to the noisy chaos of her kids tearing through the house. Since I moved into her place, seeking refuge from the entity haunting me, I haven’t heard a single word from her—not a laugh, not a teasing “straighten your crown,” not even a passing comment about the weather. The absence of her voice cuts deeper than I expected, turning her chaotic home into a place of tension rather than comfort. I’ve thrown myself into the game to cope, joining a guild that’s become my lifeline, a virtual community where I’m valued for my skills, not judged for my weird experiences. I’ve made friends there, people who share my drive to clear every red dot, who strategize with me through late-night raids over chat. The game’s world is where I feel alive, where the hum of my alien/demon husband fades into the background, where I can escape the growing rift with Shell.

Shell’s husband, Jimbo, isn’t making things any easier. Every morning, he stands at my bedroom door like a creeper, his tall frame looming in the doorway, his face etched with disapproval. I’m usually still awake, eyes burning from an all-night gaming session, my headset tossed aside as the sun creeps through the curtains. I’m not his kid, and my sleep schedule—or lack of it—is none of his damn business, but his silent judgment hangs heavy in the air. It’s like he’s keeping tabs on me, as if my late nights spent slaying virtual monsters are somehow his concern. His early-morning stares make me feel like an intruder, like I’m overstaying my welcome in a house that once felt like a safe haven. I’m already wrestling with Shell’s cold shoulder, and Jimbo’s creepy presence just adds to the weight pressing down on me.

I miss Shell’s warmth, those late-night porch talks with Fireball shots and blunts, her stories about dead relatives that made my alien/demon husband seem less bizarre. I know her jealousy isn’t about the game itself—it’s about the time I’m pouring into it instead of her. She loves the way I love her, unconditionally, with that pineapple sweetness, hard exterior, and crown she always reminded me of. My focus on the game feels like a betrayal to her, a rejection of the bond we built. But I can’t stop; the guild’s camaraderie, the thrill of clearing dungeons, the sense of purpose in each victory keeps me grounded when everything else—Shell’s silence, Jimbo’s glares, the entity’s lingering hum—threatens to pull me apart. I’m torn between reaching out to mend things with Shell and diving deeper into the game, where I’m not the girl with a supernatural shadow or the friend who’s disappointed her bestie. For now, I keep playing, brushing off Jimbo’s morning visits, hoping Shell’s jealousy will thaw, hoping I can find a way to restore our connection without losing the one place where I finally feel free.

I get an unsettling feeling that Shell thinks I’m after her husband, Jimbo —a suspicion that hangs heavy in the air between us. It’s a look I’ve seen before—most women get this way around me, their eyes narrowing, their voices tightening, like I’m some siren out to steal what’s theirs. But Shell’s supposed to be different; she’s my big sister in spirit, the one who calls me “pineapple,” who tells me to straighten my crown when I’m falling apart. She should know I’d never go there, that my heart’s too loyal, too wrapped up in our friendship to even glance at Jimbo that way. His weird behavior isn’t helping, though—those creepy morning stares at my door, his silent disapproval when he catches me up all night gaming with my guild. It’s like he’s feeding her doubts, stirring the pot, and the tension in the house is thick, making every moment feel like a tightrope walk. Meanwhile, my alien/demon husband, that constant presence, has shifted from silent nods to talking in my mind, his voice clear, urgent, whispering things I can’t ignore. One night, I sense it outside, a pull so strong it’s like a magnet, drawing me out of Shell’s chaotic house and into the dark woods beyond.

As I step into the shadows of the trees, something seizes me, taking over my body like I’m a marionette on invisible strings. My voice changes, my movements feel choreographed, as if I’m acting in a play I didn’t write. Then it clicks—I know this story. It’s my story, the one I’ve been wrestling with, about Peace, Chaos, and Lucifer, the words I could never get right on the page. They’re alive now, pouring through me. I grab a white stuffed bunny, my favorite stuffie, and start cutting down tree limbs, the soft paws slicing through branches with an impossible, surreal strength. I move deeper into the woods, my voice rising, shouting at the sky about Chaos trapped with Peace, about the eternal struggle, Lucifer’s shadow weaving through it all. It’s my story, unleashed in a frenzy of motion and sound, as if the entity is using me to bring it to life.

The woods pulse with the same energy that’s been haunting me—the hum against my back, the orange crystal, the rapture sermon, the tugs in my head. I’m not just me anymore; I’m a vessel, my body moving to the rhythm of something greater. The bunny, absurd in my grip, becomes a symbol of the chaos I’m channeling, the peace I’m chasing. Shell’s jealousy, Jimbo’s creepy stares—they fade into the background as I scream into the night, my story finally breaking free. But it’s terrifying, this loss of control, this possession. Is this what my alien/demon husband wanted, to make me the living embodiment of my own tale? I don’t know if I’m writing or being written, but in the woods, with the bunny and the sky as my witnesses, I’m alive, caught in a dance between fear and freedom, chaos and peace raging within me.

As I crept back into the house, the screen door squeaked, betraying my stealth. My legs and feet were a mess—scratches crisscrossing my skin, blood seeping from cuts I didn’t recall getting. The sting of each step echoed the fog in my mind. Shell was sprawled on the couch, her eyes narrowing as they landed on me. The living room, dimly lit by a flickering lamp, felt colder than it should have.

“Where the hell have you been?” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through my daze. She didn’t move, just stared, her arms crossed like I was some stray dog dragging in trouble. I tried to explain, my voice shaky. “I woke up in the woods, Shell. I don’t know how I got there.” The words sounded insane even to me, but I knew she wouldn't believe the truth.

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You expect me to believe that? You’re freaking my kids out, you know that?” Her tone was laced with accusation, like I’d planned this to ruin her night. I glanced around—no kids. The house was quiet, no sign of her one boy and three girls who were probably at their dad’s. I pointed that out, but she just kept rambling, her words piling up like a wall between us. “You can’t keep doing this, coming in looking like… like that. It’s not okay.”

I sank into the armchair, dirt smudging the faded fabric. “I can move back with Mom,” I offered, half-hoping she’d agree. But Shell’s face softened, just for a second, before she leaned forward, her voice dropping. “No, don’t. I need you here. Please stay.” It didn’t feel like a plea for me, though—more like she needed a warm body to fill the space, someone to handle the dishes or pick up her prescriptions.

Since that night, Shell’s been different. She avoids me, her eyes sliding past mine when we’re in the same room. She only talks to me when she needs something—laundry folded, groceries grabbed, or the trash taken out. It’s like I’m a ghost she tolerates, a shadow she keeps around for convenience. I catch her watching me sometimes, her expression unreadable, like she’s waiting for me to unravel again.

I keep replaying that night, trying to piece together how I ended up in those woods. The scratches have faded to thin pink lines, but the questions haven’t. Why won’t Shell listen? Why does she act like I’m the problem when she’s the one pulling away? I stay because she asked, but the house feels less like home every day. I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve left when I had the chance—or if something’s keeping me here, something I can’t yet name.