Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-29791712-20160102212103

This is my most recent short story that I have written. I would love to receive some feedback before posting it on the main site. Thank you.

I had long forgotten about it. When it made its return, its presence innervated my mind with the singular thought that I believed my soul was safe from its involvement in my life. Every breath I inhaled and exhaled, my lungs sensed its cool and enervating air as if it stood only inches away from my nostrils and mouth. My skin tingled with anxiety, causing instant panic to rise within my nerves.

I always remembered it disturbing me during my long and wakeful nights as a child, so it was no surprise it arose during nightfall. What I dread most about its reunion with myself was the fact that I remained only moments away from allowing my waves of dreams to sweep me away in one huge gulp of tiredness. That day I never experienced such exhaustion, and when I fell on top of my bed before going to sleep, I expected a relaxing and silenced slump to take over me.

But then arrived that surreal intuition my body developed in order to adapt to its homecoming. Every nerve in my body enhanced with alert, and the hairs on my forearms and legs saluted up as if searching for the nefarious thing that advanced to deliver terror to my world. I knew even before my eyes fully opened that it returned. Even as I convinced myself that it wasn’t true, and that I dealt with that problem during my childhood, still my instinct proved consistent of warning me of something horrific.

I gingerly opened my eyes with dubious motion, wishing upon the heavens that my mind only trapped me in some delusion of dream. As much as I tried to conceal the true fright fluxing inside my body, my limbs and chest resisted to keep themselves in control. I felt like the young boy I was all those years ago, being dragged away from blissfulness in order to be bullied and tormented by some ominous apparition.

What more can I define it as than just some ghastly spirit or tortured ghost? The word “demon” seems too demented for it, even though it contain its own…wicked characteristics. But I imagine a demon, or some type of hellish devil, to feel murderous and radical. I picture someone who finds pleasure in torturing their victim, and plays with their prey’s mind as if edging them to insanity.

But this ghost scarcely lays a finger on my skin, let alone bulges at my body with ravenous claws or fangs. The spirit renders not a feeling of pure panic and rambunctious emotions, but rather an apprehensive hunch that makes you question your safety. Its entrance catches you by surprise, and leaves you breathless with astonishment. You feel the presence of some formidable and prodigious entity that sucks away all of your vitality, yet no danger or damage awaits you.

My eyes opened to the welcoming darkness, but even within this thick layer of nothingness, its appearance snatched all of my attention in a single glance. Light from the luminous moon outside spilled from the tiny gaps of my window’s curtains, and this white ray of color only contributed to its definition.

The thing stood firm next to my closet, and this single feature caught me by surprise. As a child, I always located the thing peering tentatively from inside of my closet, as if bashful for some reason. I found it to be very secretive back then, but never ruminated too much about this bizarre detail because I was busy dealing with its eerie presence. But as I thought about it at the moment, I found it unusual that the thing would suddenly break away from its shell of shyness. All my life I associated it with only glaring at me behind closed doors.

It contained no definite shape. As a child, I often spotted it as a blob of shadows all compiled together in a very disorganize figure. An aura of some violate outline used to cover the thing all the time, and on top of those curved violet lines I would sometimes notice a very tenuous, but exact, crimson shade that attracted the eyes like magnets to metal. In an instant my vision zoomed through all other distractions just to stare at that profound ruddy color. It seemed futile to try to escape the thing’s tempting seduction. I began to tremble, but I had long since overcame my fear of the thing. Living my entire childhood with its strangely presence forced me to adjust to this irrational lifestyle. The universe of paranormal events and out-of-the-ordinary creatures introduced themselves to me at an age where I appeared vulnerable, yet I managed to somehow surpass that epoch of doubt and terror without any mental damage. Maybe it had to do with the fact that my violator rarely tormented me, still I believe others in my situation would have reacted differently.

Without a second to miss, the thing limped towards my direction. This also never occurred before in my entire life. It always remained motionless the plethora of times I glimpsed at it as a child. I never imagined it to be mobile, let alone crawl at such velocity. Even though it maundered towards me with weak mobility, it still swerved pass my closet with exceptional speed.

I kicked backwards as it placed a hand on my bed. I convinced myself not to shriek in panic, but oh did I desire to unleash all of my frustration in just one single yelp of salvation. I felt hostile at that moment, and this situation sparked a new level of bewilderment. I refused to rely on previous methods on how to deal with the figure’s perfidious presence. This entire time I thought I mapped out the thing’s motives, but I realized my predictions were worthless to begin with.

My lips quivered as the thing slithered at the edge of my bed. Its inky and dense figure climbed closer to my direction. The walls surrounding me began feeling too compact. My entire room manifested to a dimension of nightmares leaking alive from the ceiling above. Everything remained silent expect for the sound of my heart ramming against my body, and the noise of my uncontrollable breathing.

A more formative shape transformed the bundle of shadows at that moment. As it inched closer to the corner of my bed, where I remained, regular arms and legs jointed themselves together with the body of shadows. I soon saw a face morph from a ball of darkness, and around the face that ruby light I mentioned earlier shone away with a more lucid illumination. This only aroused me than exacerbated my fear.

I no longer felt that reclining and victimizing touch inside me, but instead the alteration of its figure mitigated my worries. My breathing eased up, and for once the thing’s appearance offered no level of terror. The only thing that remained however, was that questionable itch in my head, but that was reasonable due to my circumstance.

“Can you be my friend, now?” the thing asked. Its voice leaped out from its mouth with a pre-pubescent tone. It sounded friendly and innocent. The more time I spent with this thing, the more it intrigued me.

“What…do you mean?” I asked back, confused out of my mind. I struggled to interpret and understand my situation. Everything about it puzzled me.

“Before, you never wanted to be my friend,” the thing said. We both laid only a couple of inches away from one another. My body was no longer tensed, and I dropped my shoulder with some reassurance that no danger awaited me. I tried to understand and empathized with what the shadow said, but I came up with nothing in mind. I should also add that despite my placid mood at the moment, I still stayed intact with my doubt about the thing.

“Do you remember?” it questioned me. I still couldn’t differentiate the voice from either a boy or a girl. Both tones seemed possible. “When you were younger, and I used to spy on you…”

Well, at least he admits its weird tendencies, I thought. “Um…yeah I do remember the last thing you said. But, I can’t really come up with anything about you befriending me. What do you mean by that?”

“You don’t remember? That’s all I ever wanted, but I think you were too young to understand.” It reached out its hand. “But I think you’re old enough to know what to do. Please, be my friend.”

I gazed cautiously at the approaching hand, the little needles of anxiety stabbing at my neck and palms. Now I knew how questioning the choice seemed, and in a sense I realized the danger that could join if I accepted the child laying before me. But its inviting and persuasive color of red seemed to have tried to pull my fingers and hands with an imaginative string wrapped around my skin like some animate puppet.

As my mind battled to reminisce on what exactly the apparition talked about, I also fought to prevent myself from making a regrettable mistake. After what seemed like a century of wavering between my options, I arrived to a conclusion that best proved my assertiveness.

“I’m…sorry,” I simply whispered. It broke my heart, in a way, because this figure wasn’t any ordinary ghost or soul. I grew some sentimental connection with it, despite the odd provenance of our relationship. Not only that, but as a child I perplexed at the belief that even with its lugubrious presentation, and the way it scared me, I felt this unconditional love towards it. Not love in a romantic or caring sense, but love in a way that I found it difficult to isolate myself from it.

“I cannot do that right now. I- I need more time to think.” At the end of my sentence, I prepared myself for whatever outcome awaited my decision.

“I understand,” the thing said, still surprising me it was able to communicate with others. “I will return when you feel you have made your choice.”

Its presence left in the flash of a second. White and ghastly air took its place as it disappeared from sight. A cold and hollow breeze flew pass me, blowing into my face and body. Numerous questions and thoughts bounced inside my mind, leaving my ponderous head restless with excitement and a lust to discover the mystery to what just surpass me.

But soon, the exhaustion I felt earlier came back to sooth my mind, and before I knew it, I fell into a deep sleep.

I should explain the origin of how I came to meet and fear this ghost. It all began when I first moved inside my new home in New Jersey. I previously lived in New York for the first five years of my life, but my parents decided to move out of state after the unfortunate death of my unborn brother. He died immediately right after my mother gave birth to him.

The tragic event left my parents heart-broken, but soon their minds forgot about the incident once they settled inside our new house. It offered us a new beginning, and to peel away the scars that the spontaneous death left my parents.

His departure never really affected me since I was so young to understand the terrible event that just happened. I did expect to have someone else in the house, since my mother repeatedly reminded me that I was going to be an older brother. But kids are so apathetic when they’re young, yet they’re also very sensitive at the same time.

Anyways, I looked forward to moving inside a new home, especially since my new house doubled in size compared to the shitty apartment I lived in New York. This time the house contained two floors, and a basement as well as a garage. Death seemed to revolve around us at the time, since the only way we were able to afford such a luxurious house happened to be because the owner was days away of passing away. The man, Steward Lexington, was so generous enough to reward us Hispanic folks a discount for the home. My father worked for a jewelry branch Steward was in charge of, and they became close buddies once my dad emigrated from Ecuador.

For the first couple of weeks, everything seemed fine around the house. We organized and rearranged the house in my parent’s vision, and slowly as the weeks drifted by, we added in our own decorations to truly claim this house our home. I came to adore my new home. Back in New York, calamity was waiting to be broken free at every corner of every street. In New Jersey, I felt some security where we stationed at.

That sense of protection was soon molested once I came in contact with it.

I think all of these ghost stories and spiritual movies involving demonic beings fail miserably to portray the true effect such an apparition renders. It always irks me when I see in film, or on fictional short-stories, the language they use in order to enrich whatever fantasy they created in order to offer the reader or viewer a more “horrifying” feeling. Don’t even get me started on such lackluster projects like Paranormal Activity, and all those other bogus “home-video” projects.

Nobody, no director, no novelist, no script-writer, will ever, ever, understand the true feeling when someone comes face to face with such entities. Even I viewed myself as a lucky little boy when I confronted the spirit of my house. I knew the true destruction the thing could cause if it desired to do, yet I never came to terms why it always restricted itself from diving at me with full force. Why censor your true potential?

Yet still, the thing accomplish the task of stimulating my nerves with anxiousness precisely. It never failed to bounce my heart all the way to my mouth, or to nearly make me piss myself. But to me, true terror isn’t something with a wretched or hideous face. True terror isn’t some monstrous animal with a voraciousness to devour your skin and bones alive. These all fall into the category of instinctual fear, or in a more blunt term, “typical fear.” We’ve come to adapt to the fact that large and dangerous animals will hurt us, and we have a natural liking to attracted faces and features.

To me, true terror is when you face the unknown. Not knowing might as well be something out of our visceral thoughts as well, but the ignorance of something you trust and love containing some infection or curse is something that—personality to me—prevents oneself from feeling protected. It’s when you thought your whole life that this one place will never betray or harm you, yet you find out later that your sanctuary wasn’t as inviolable as you perceived it to be.

True terror is living with that rabid beast or malicious entity. It’s knowing that any second now, that thing can come and haunt your dreams or soul, yet you have no idea when it will strike. You’re clueless to its actions and incentives.

These were just the handful of doleful frights I had to face during my younger years living inside that home, yet there remained a copious amount of other features and terrors that I don’t think mere words or phrases can define what I felt or lived through.

I awoke one night as a child, startled for some reason. I twitched on top of my bed as if jumper cables electrocuted my back. From the clock on top of my night stand I saw that the time was four in the morning on the dot. My vision blurred as I tried to concentrate on other features of my room. I searched with my eyes desperately for my Nintendo Game Boy in order to play it at the moment. Whenever I felt a bit scared during late weekend nights like the one in this story, I always relied on my games to bring me comfort.

A shriek of pure madness and agony emitted from the walls of my room. My entire room vibrated at the pitch and volume of the horrendous screech. My ears stung with pain at the arrival of such an atrocious howl. All at once my body shivered with insanity, and I, myself, began to scream with the noise as if trying to compete who can shout louder.

Tears streamed down my eyes the longer the yells of hell lingered on, and the longer I continued to cry as well. It was a shout like no other I ever listened to in my life. Not only did it nearly snap my eardrums by its intensity, but its wave of sound abused my skin and stomach with a feeling of nausea. I felt disgusted and sick with myself, and I prevented my eyes from opening since the world around me span like an endless cycle of hell.

My throat ached by how aggressive I yelled. Soon after a dense pressure pushed me down from my limbs, and something or someone locked a tenacious grip around my wrist and ankles. I endeavored to release myself from this restrain, but the power of the hold restricted me from moving a single inch. This caused me to cry even louder, and to stagger my body with brutal force. I pumped my head and stomach up and down as I tried to emancipate myself. The more my attempts failed, however, the weaker I became.

The shout of doomed withdraw away from the walls, but now pinched closer to my ears. It sounded like an infant crying. It contained that obnoxiously loud pitch a baby has whenever it shouts out of hunger or fear. Images of blood and eviscerated ligaments filled my mind. A boiling and burning sweat poured out from my half-naked body, and torched my skin by how hot the water stung.

Finally, after what seemed like a perpetual state of endless screams and torture, my parents barged into my room with their own faint shouts of mercy. They rushed towards me, and took hold of my head and buttocks. But, according to my father, I fought back against my parents. They later told me—since I have no recollection of some of the events that occurred this night—that I almost bit my mother’s fingers off. They said I behaved like some ferocious creature.

Eventually, once my mother and father cuddle and calmed me away with their soothing songs, I collapse right on top of their arms and bodies. The next morning I woke up next to the both of them in their bed, my throat in egregious pain—this being the only echo of a memory I had to remind me of what happened the night before.

My folks later told me that what I experienced was something known as a Night Terror. They said that children, especially kids my age, experience this little episode of horror in their lives. My father, months later, also spoke to me that it could have been something known as sleep paralysis, but that would be nearly impossible since he recalled me moving my body with raging force.

I found both of their explanation to be complete bullshit. I knew what I went through that night, and it wasn’t some psychological incident. Even though my memory is impaired of what exactly passed through that night, I still remember most of the vital points. What especially stuck to my mind were those videos and flashing visions of blood and acrid skin that caused me to nearly vomit.

This was my first encounter of the ghost dwelling inside my home. That first introduction was the worst the spirit’s ever done to me. Either that, or that experience belittles everything else, since all the other future events fall short to deliver as much tremor as that first encounter did. Maybe its purpose was to prepare me for its constant approach, and to raise the level of tolerance for it so that way I wouldn’t be that intimidated whenever it made its welcoming.

But I found pride living through that night, and also living through my childhood with its presence always creeping up on me when I least expected it. I knew how utterly unusual my life turned out after that moment, and somehow I accepted this state of living with complete reassurance. Now don’t get me wrong, I never asked or begged for this type of living arrangement. But I somehow knew that there was nothing I could do to prevent the thing from sneaking into my life and mind.

This began this ridiculous, but in a way faithful, connection with this spirit. It mostly visited me during long nights when I failed to go to sleep. The thing had a tendency to huddle near my closet door, close to my shoes, and just keep an eye on me most of the time. When this first started to occur, I struggled to release a cry for aid. I remembered the destruction the thing caused me, yet my mouth stayed sewed shut for some reason.

And also, I should mention once more, its desirable and beautiful glow of red. It attracted my pupils the way food makes a stomach grumble. The more I stared at its dazzling light, the more my eyes drooled with a hunger to glare at it closer and closer. It lured any person to a state of hypnosis. The glow of its color abated any doubts or apprehension about its presence, and increased your affinity towards it in a strangely fashion.

It rarely made contact with me whenever I left my room. Anywhere around the house, I felt its gleaming eyes looming over my shadow like a pair of cameras, yet it kept its distance most of the time. Even the few moments my parents left me alone inside the living room or kitchen, the thing only slightly crept out from its concealment.

Whenever I spent time with my parents, the thing showed more signs of being timorous than ever. This was when I began somehow sympathizing with the thing. A part of my soul, the more childish and innocent part, mourned for it. After that single, unforgettable night, it never tried to haunt or terrorize me in any way. Sure the thing contained a habit of eerily staring at me, but beyond that, it never laid a finger on me.

As I matured during my younger years, I became accustomed to seeing it around my life. It’s funny, I just perceived it as part of the house—like some house pet more or less. Maybe once or twice a month it bothered to dig its way out of whatever dimension it originated from, and came to catch up on me. And when this happened, I just shrugged my shoulder just like any other encounter. Humans adapt too easily sometimes, it’s terrifying.

The more it met up with me, the more I realized its humanistic qualities. Its bashfulness, the way the thing magnifies its true colors whenever strangers come along, and all of these other characteristics. Of course when I noticed all of these personalities, my only natural thought was to care for the damn thing, or at least feel some emotion other than dismay. It’s weird to say, but at times I honestly felt bad for the thing.

Time passed, and as I grew older, I started seeing the ghost less and less. At first this change in my life impacted me in a way I least expected it. At times I felt out of place living inside my home, and this feeling of unease sprawled inside my belly. I never imagined my life would feel different once the spirit left my sight.

But as I stated before, humans adapt way too quickly. School work, friends, family, and all of these other factors joined my life that made my mind avoid the topic of the ghost. The memory of it still remained attach to my brain like some permanent leech, but whenever I did think about my moments with the spirit—and this happened rarely—I couldn’t help but to feel faded away from all the horrendous memories. I never felt nostalgia about the thing, and since the human mind exceeds in erasing all of the bad and abusive moments from the past, those frightening moments barely left a scratch on my future. The only lively and deep scar the thing left me was that first night…

Years later, eighteen years old, I found myself rewinding back in time. I found myself revisiting an old friend.

And it was about time I greeted this old pal of mines with open arms. A need to discover and unravel the origin of this spirit took over my motives, and I knew the only way to do so was to come to it this time.

And as I promised, a couple of days later, after long hours of ruminating about my decision, I made my choice.

I picked the perfect timing to proceed with my advancements. For one, I decided to contact the spirit during a weekend night, and I also chose a time where my parents left out of town for the night. It seemed as if faith was trying to help me progress with making ends meet with the apparition.

My room, obviously, was the best destination to begin this ritual. I knew the ghost anticipated my arrival, or better to say my calling, because that entire evening I felt its aura tailing me around as I pondered on how I planned to proceed with things. I also realized that it develop to a point where it no longer felt the need to be shameful or taciturn. Even when I was around my parents I heard faraway whispers from the ghost. I had no idea whether it did this to gain attention, or to make me aware of its presence.

Either way, the message was clear: This was happening tonight.

I simply laid on my bed waiting patiently with the lights off, the curtains drawn, and my room a pool of pure blackness. The more tenebrous my room remained, the better. I felt as if despite the spirit’s peak in audaciousness, I knew it felt more “at home” being surrounded by the welcoming and cozy darkness. I tried not to let the layers of darkness agitate me more than I was at the moment, but I yearned—but struggled—to keep my composure.

Out emerge from the closet door the spirit of my childhood. Its red and purple light nearly blinded me. Its powerfulness seemed compatible to the sun’s ultra rays by how dark it remained in my room. I shielded my eyes momentarily before gazing back at the spirit.

It still maintained its bodily figure from the last time I spoke to it. The first few seconds of our reunion left me contemplating if I should abandon the damn thing by the sudden fear that overtook me. Then I remembered that I wasn’t the same immature boy I was all those years ago, and neither was the ghost that stood in front of me.

“Will you be my friend?” the thing asked, its words spewing out from its muted lips the way air seeps out from a thin opening. The thing contained no mouth, but just an emotionless shadowy head. Still, I felt its vision glaring at me with full attention.

“Yes, I will,” I simply said, staring dead ahead of me. “But, there are certain things I don’t quite understand. I need to know who you are, and why you came to me always. Why me? Why did you haunt me so vividly that first night? Why did you never bother my parents?” The more I spoke, the more I felt my sentences shrinking lower and lower with meaning until they became hollow monologues. I strived to maintain stability, yet the situation left me belittling myself.

“Because, you are the only one in this house, in this world, who understands me,” the thing whispered, and strolled closer to me. It took its time making its approached, and I sat perplexed and paralyzed.

“Because,” it continued, its voice booming out from its vocal cords with more definition. “You are the only one who can save me from the hell I was trapped in.” The thing hovered its arms over its chest, and stomped closer to me like a drunken mummy. The spirit’s luscious and lusty shine of red tingled and heightened my senses of joy and appreciation the way drugs makes one impulsive. I felt my eyes dilate as the thing slid closer to me. A massive ear to ear grin crept up my lips without my consent.

“You have the position to reel me away from the place I’m trapped in, Henry,” the thing spoke my name. “I’ve been waiting for this moment all of my life.” It finally reached the edge of my bed. I sat with my legs crossed only a mere foot away from the ghost. It stood still, which caught me completely off guard. It seemed in deep thought, and lowered its head with hesitation.

“The reason why I never bothered your parents,” the thing spoke. “Was because they left me. They never bothered with me ever again. Mom soon forgot about me, and dad always never cared about me. I even think dad was content to lose me. I hated them.”

“What do you mean-“ I began, but was soon interrupted by the ghost tackling on top of my chest. I fell back on my bed with an impact so petulant the mattress took all the air out of my lungs. I gasped in agony and in desperation to restore oxygen in my lungs. Wild and colorful lights filled my vision. I gazed upon stars and the apparition’s insolent face. It still glimpsed at me with an emotionless expression, yet I felt at the tips of my soul the anger and wrathfulness that busted out from its inner being.

“And now,” the thing hissed, “I can reclaim what is rightfully mine. You ask why I haunted you that very first night. Well it’s because that was my first failed attempt of taking over your body. Now years have passed, I’ve studied your every move and habit, I’ve observe the person you truly are, and not only that, but I’ve grown to a stronger and smarter demon. Now it’s time I snatch away what makes you human, and place you into the wasteland our parents left me in.”

I shoved and struggled to free myself from its corpulent weight on top of me, but my feeble efforts only tired me than helped me escape. The demon—I now have every right to claim it such a thing—let out a roar that caused an earthquake all over my room. I laid moaning for an evacuation as the spirit proceeded to grasp and hook its demonic claws against my wrist and ankles—just like all those years ago. Soon all the blood stopped flowing to my hands and feet, and my limbs began numbing themselves due to lack of blood flow and oxygen.

Even when I opened my mouth, and forced my lungs to inhale all the air around me, I just couldn’t gain any breath. The apparition leaned its ebony head closer to my face. For one instant, my cheeks and forehead felt a thick and moist heat radiating out from the ghost’s empty face. This caused me to suffocate, and to grumble for some fresh air.

“This is the end for you!” the ghost, my dead brother, finally shouted. A pale, leathery, and bloody head stared back at me with hollow eye sockets. The thing’s skin was whiter than the moon itself. Blood, an entire ocean of it, creased down from its balding scalp in a wave of dread, and poured down onto my mouth in order to drown me in its thick and melting liquid.

Even in the state of catastrophe I entered, my thoughts prevailed to keep me at least in some level of awareness. It dawned upon me the true terror of my situation. After all these years of wondering the true identity of the ghost, it never once crossed my mind to perceive the spirit as my deceased infant brother. What sinister, corrupted demon would drag a poor and helpless baby into the depths of what I can only believe to be hell? It’s better to say, however, what kind of God would allow for such an unspeakable action to proceed.

I cried for some salvation, but my phrases were muffled by the amount of blood swamping down upon me. The glow of red that once aroused me now innervated my entire conscious and spirit. My eyes couldn’t turn away from the demon’s hollow eyes and mouth. An oval of pure shadows and darkness filled inside the cavity of the monster’s mouth like a void of evil. I cringed back at the horrific sight, but the ghost reeled its frightening face closer and closer to my nose, to the point where I smelt its malodorous and reeking breath.

The monster screamed out from the depths of its shadowy mouth, and my eardrums shattered into pieces as I heard the demon screech right above my face. No witch or creature can ever compete by how demented and demonic my dead brother yelled. Blood spilled out from my ear holes, and the inside of my skull felt fried. My entire room collapse and crumbled down as the thing continued to annihilate my entire world of peace and sanctuary.

I was seconds away from passing out before the ghost opened its gaping mouth wide like the opening of a black hole. Its lips and snarled mouth stretched wider and wider, all while still tightening its hold on my broken wrist and ankles. I pushed away from the thing’s approaching mouth, yet there was no evading the monster’s hungry teeth.

I let out one last shriek for help before my dead brother munched down to devour me. It chomped and snapped its mouth down, consuming my unrequited soul with betrayal before brutally masticating my flesh and bones. To call the land I find myself in hell seems too much of an exaggeration. The term purgatory appears more fitting, but even then I believe there exists no such title or position for the realm my dead brother sent me in. Imagine a setting where the only thing that accompanies you are your own lingering thoughts, and the persistent darkness that folds you inside an envelope of your own demise. A perpetual loneliness and a pernicious ache in your heart are your only other companions in which there is little to nothing you can do to try to assuage those unquiet emotions.

And the only light, the only source of any mendacious hope, is your own self, and a diminutive dot of light far away in the distance. In order to reach this faint light, you must pass through an arduous journey that, towards the end of the destination, you are left relentlessly tired with all of your vitality sucked out of you, if you had any left to begin with.

And once you peer into that light, and catch a quick glimpse of what lays ahead, you’re reminded of your true and utter hell. This is the part which kills me inside every moment of my life. This part drives my conscious to the point beyond insanity. A point where all the screaming, all the pleading, all the self-abuse, all the damming to the world couldn’t even slightly provide any sufficient aid. I’m left thrashing around in my own world where nothing exists, and in the end, I feel as if all the weight in the world crashes down upon my shoulders. I feel my soul wilting away, and each second that passes by seems to shrivel my up to an iota of worthlessness.

And then, he compels me away from my nothingness.

I find myself suddenly in another dimension. I break away from whatever confinement I was left in, and I see that this entire time I’ve been inside my old closet. I roam around for a few moments, taking everything in, reminiscing back when this used to be all mine. If my eyes would allow for tears, I will sometimes feel the rush of emotions bundle inside me like a stack of cards, only to be blown and scattered away by the sinking truth of where I remain.

Then later, I start to hear floating voices off in the distance. I follow those cries of laughter and enjoyment, and try to become one with those feelings of happiness. I’ll pass through my door, out of my old room, and cross the corridor that leaves to my old living room. But before I proceed, I take my time limping through the hallway. I slide my fingers, my dark, thin, and ghastly fingers, on the walls. With my eyes, I observe every little detain of this passageway with precise coordination. I watch all of the things I took advantage of, and never offered any appreciation. This only fuels the internal fire of bereaving flaming inside the pit of my stomach.

Eventually, I step inside a halo of light, and I see three figures. At first, my vision is impaired by the brightness of the world I just stepped inside. But then, the world paints itself back into a viewable sight, and I feel this sting in my eyes that almost deceives me that I can cry once more. That fire inside my stomach overheats, and combusted inside my gut like some incendiary machinery gone haywire. A burn of both agony and dismay torches the little remains of my soul.

My parents, our mom and dad, sit and eat with the person I used to be. They converse with my old body, they hug and kiss my old face, they hold my old hand, and they look into the eyes of my old eyes. But they don’t see what remains inside those eyes. They only see the illusion he depicts them to glance at. The windows to his soul remains barricaded with impervious walls. Even I find it difficult to really see pass those eyes, and into the demon that remains inside.

My main concerns revolves around the safety of my parents. Through time, I’ll learn to cope and handle my own eternal doom. The human spirit does contain a point of snapping into insanity and disclosure, but the will I contain inside of me plans on enduring for as much as possible. And even if I collapse into that point of irrationality, at least then I will consider that my heaven. Because an insane person doesn’t know he’s insane, but is only trapped in his or her own little world. An insane person feels content to be isolated in his or her own mentality. Here, I will find my peace—quite ironically.

But until then, I ponder deeply with worry about the security of my parents. During my last few moments in the living world, with my own initial body, the demon himself disputed how much he hated my parents with such a vitriol tone. I felt the ember of his words, and how much burning passion came with each phrase. Such a speech contains the potential to move a nation. That also makes me anxious, but for a different reason entirely.

I wait and wait with patience for the day he dares lay a hand on either my mother or father. Maybe then will I achieve a point where I can no longer feel succumb to the conditions set forth in front of me, and I will break free from the restrains chained to my soul. Then and there I will face the monster head on, and charge at him with all the cantankerous hatred flowing inside of my veins.

Something occurred, however, that made me second-think what I can truly overcome…

Since the moment the demon transferred me into the hell he once remained inside, he never bother to take note of me the few moments I infiltrated the living world. Even as I gazed at him with an acrimonious and disdaining glare, the demon paid no attention to my presence. This only enraged me more, as you can imagine.

But one day, as he sat with our parents watching a movie in the living room, as I stood motionless mourning my inevitable fate, the demon took a few seconds to look right into my eyes.

This baffled me entirely, and I nearly tripped on my own two feet. I stared back with apprehension, and waited. This sudden turn of events left me dumbfounded, and my mind struggled to maintain a coherent thought. I felt hostile, even when I knew he could do nothing to harm me. In fact I should be the one with the formidable presence, since I now possess the ability he used to haunt me with. But even then, even then the bastard stomp and scorn down on me.

We gazed into each other’s eyes, and without a moment to miss, he whispered the deadly phrase that forced me into a hell worse than the one he originally planned for me. My mind twitched at the first hint of insanity.

“They’re next.” 