Tough

"You know I love you and that will never change," she said (her tears rivers of fire that scalded her face), "but ... after last time ... I just can't ... " "I know," he said, sullen and accepting. "I get it." "I have to draw the line somewhere and, until you get help, I can't let you move back home," she groaned on the last word in anguish; tough love was not her specialty. "I hear you, Mom," he responded, sad and careful. "I understand; I really do. And I promise I'm going to get help." She wanted to believe him, she really did; she thunked her pointed tail against the wall in a steady rhythm (something she'd always done to ground and comfort herself). "Just ... get evil again and come back to us, okay?" she whispered after a strained silence. "Love you." She hung up. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, drawing in the fresh clouds of sulphur surrounding her, she closed her glowing ember eyes for a moment and bent down to lift her pitchfork from the molten floor. "Other kids have gone to the bright side and returned better than before," she told herself, trying to hold onto anything resembling hope.