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I was always fond of the occult, the cryptic, and the macabre. Ever since my youth, I’ve always managed with no possible end to backpack my way back to when I turned seven-years old. The birthday cake in front of me on the picnic table in the backyard-its red and white frosting painting the lips, teeth and tongues of myself and the others surrounding me, the balloons-colored with streams of orange and green and polka dots colored blue and yellow, and the presents at the end. Those were always the best parts of parties, the presents, especially if you were the one receiving them. It’s a little odd for a seven-year old to ask for an Ouija Board and the complete Friday the 13th DVD set for their birthday, but I rather did enjoy Jason Voorhees a lot. I had to wait for the board, though, since my parents were those kinds of paranoid people. They were a religious couple, my fathers were, but they were more paranoid of the consequences lead on by horror films and the truth of misusage than they were on pushing things upon others (compared to my grandparents, rest all four of their souls dearly, despite their displeasure in their sons’ relationships with one another). I still see my birthmother, though, at times where she can manage a break from her ‘habits’ as dad called it.

But there were always times where, if I weren’t dreaming, she would come for visitations either drunker than a bar horse or stoned out her mind. That very day, my seventh birthday, was when I met the two friendly strangers living in the woods. Or, at least, that’s how I recollect it through my dreams. My memories, possibly. We were all in the backyard for the party-myself, my fathers, my aunt Donna, my uncles Leroy and David, Uncle Leroy’s friend Mat Doner and his son Bret, several cousins from pops’ side of the family, and a few acquaintances from my elementary school. I was sitting at the picnic bench, my face painted red and white like a circus clown from the cake’s frosting and overhearing an on-phone debate between Bret and his half-brother Connor Mackinlay about the Freddy vs Jason movie that had come out last week, when my birthmother’s sedan beeped like it hadn’t seen the sun in a couple of years ahead in the driveway out front. My fathers came to welcome her, only for them and the other adults present at the party to look directly at her or turn their heads away from her, all with a look depicting both the lack of surprise and the obvious look of disgust. Sadly, even at such a young and moldable age, I was more surprised that the sheriff hadn’t followed her over than I was over the fact she bothered showing up. Obvious to be it, my birthmother had shot herself up on the way over: her belt was still wrapped tightly around her left arm, and her needle was launched into the poorly wrapped birthday gift. Next thing I’m sure I knew I was at the woods’ edge waiting ontop a large stone by the creek while Uncle David and Mr. Doner tried to keep my birthmother and aunt Donna from knocking each other’s lights out – my dad in the dining room looking out the glass-view sliding door with the phone in his hand. The police officers pull up, and my birthmother loses her shit. She tosses the gift at the sliding door and lunges at a nearby police officer. The gun goes off and I tip over after losing my balance from the sound of its shot. I hit my head, and the first two people to check up on me were merely complete strangers.

The strangers dressed odd, and they had very odd names (though the first one kept saying the second’s real one, which always fuzzed out of my hearing whenever he did). Stranger number one: tall, and skinny. He had brown hair, but his eyes were hard to tell the color of underneath the white mask he wore. He had on a…yellow? jacket? It was sort of a yellowish brown color, really, but it did pair nicely with his black pants and gloves. The second stranger – I also couldn’t see what his face looked like. I don’t even know the color of his hair-what with the black and red sad face covering and the orange hood flipped up over his head. Masky and Hoodie. They were called simply: just that. Masky. and Hoodie. Hoodie’s name, I doubt I’ll ever know it, because the static always buzzes it out once it escapes Masky’s lips.


Then I wake up. I’m twenty-five again. I take my Prazosin, and I go to school. I go to school, I learn for my degree in engineering, and then I go home. I go home, have lunch, and then I go to therapy. I go to therapy, I head home, and I have dinner. I have dinner, and I go to bed. I go to bed, and I’m seven again. I enjoy my party, mom shows up, and I get my concussion. I see Masky and Hoodie, and then I wake up.

Then I’m twenty-five again. I knick myself shaving in the bathroom. I see the symbol bleed out. I wipe the blood, and take my Prazosin. I go to school, I learn for my degree in engineering, and then I go home. I go home, have lunch, and then I go to therapy. I go to therapy, I head home, and I have dinner. I have dinner, and I go to bed. I go to bed, and I’m seven again. I enjoy my party, mom shows up, and I get my concussion. I see Masky and Hoodie, and then I wake up.

Then I’m twenty-five again. I knick myself shaving in the bathroom. I see the symbol bleed out. I wipe the blood, and ignore my Prazosin. I go to school, I learn for my degree in engineering, and then I go home. I go home, have lunch, and then I go to therapy. I go to therapy, I head home, and I have dinner. I have dinner, and I go to bed. I go to bed, and I’m seven again. I enjoy my party, mom shows up, and I get my concussion. I see Masky and Hoodie, and then I wake up.

Then I’m twenty-five again. I knick myself shaving in the bathroom. I see the symbol bleed out. I wipe the blood, and ignore my Prazosin. I go to school, I learn for my degree in engineering, and then I go home. I skip lunch. I don’t need lunch. I go to therapy, I head home, and I have dinner. I have dinner, and I go to bed. I go to bed, and I’m seven again. I enjoy my party, mom shows up, and I get my concussion. I see Masky and Hoodie, and then I wake up.

Then I’m twenty-five again. I ignore my Prazosin. I see the symbol everywhere. I see them out my windows. I see it all. I see light. I see darkness. The static comes in. the static comes out. It gets quiet. It gets loud. When it gets loud, it means something. I listen to the static. When it’s loud, it means something. Enlightenment. Fiction is not fiction-all is real. It is real. Reality is the real fiction. Therapy? Lies. School? Rigged. I see it all. I hear it all. I know it all.


Then I’m twenty-five again…since when did I take Prazosin? And why the weird cuts?

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