All of the Dark: i (Chiaroscuro)

The story of a young man's battle with drug addiction, love, and (quite possibly) demonic possession.

i

(Chiaroscuro)

I’d like to tell you a story.

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It starts like any other story, and eventually it ends too -- it’s the middle you’ve got to watch out for.

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But we’re not there yet.

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She loved the bridge. If i can’t tell you why i chose that night, at least i can tell you why i chose that place. i have gaps in my memory, so forgive me if i don’t tell you everything. If you can’t forgive me, at least try to excuse me.

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We pulled in just behind the bridge and took the blankets out of Her car, setting up on the edge of the water so that we could watch The Sun set.

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This was usual; the rest of the night was not.

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i remember being confused about my existence. She could tell something was bothering me. They always can. She asked me what was wrong and i told Her that i was afraid. When She asked me of what i told Her myself. She didn’t understand. They never do.

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i could tell that i was beginning to worry Her by the way She was staring at me, and i frowned. She was going to say something but the sheer innocence of Her ignorant naïveté overcame me and before my brain could register the implication of what my lips were speaking i had already asked Her to marry me and She had already answered through a smile of tears.

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i didn’t have a ring, but we didn’t care.

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We had each other; the bridge.

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We made love as The Sun died and it felt as if the world had stopped and refused to resume its diurnal course until we had become one. i believe it felt this way because for us it had: Her skin and mine mouths pulling breath from lungs sighs moans and i know this is the night i got Her pregnant because i had always been so careful but that night i was so reckless.

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i held Her for all eternity until She had to be home so we went to see Her mother who knew without being told and hugged me and called me son as we all cried the tears of the joyous-nervous-angst-ridden amalgamation that was our youths combined into a possibility

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i got into my car and She leaned down to kiss me goodnight when i was overcome with an urge i had only felt once before -- i wanted to wear Her skin. She was so beautiful and Her skin was so perfect and i went from dreams of our life together to dreams of skinning Her alive and wearing Her. i wanted to take Her home; bathe Her; carry Her to bed; kiss every inch of Her body; make love to Her, slow sweet passionate love; stroke Her skin and (thebladecuttingrunningslicingthroughHerfleshthewarmsicklysweetsanguinepouringoutofHerandovermeandweareoneandShetrustsme) i could hear myself screaming inside of my head.

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i should back up, i suppose.

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i was born to two people who loved themselves more than they loved one another but who also loved drugs more than they loved themselves. They tried, i guess. i know they wanted better for me than what they had, and i know the deck was stacked, so i can't blame them for any of this. Everything that happened, everything you are about to hear, was my fault.

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Well, mine and His.

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i never learned His name. He made sure of that. Names hold power, and giving me power is something He avoided at all costs. He couldn’t risk losing His hold on me. So no, i can’t tell you His name.

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i can, however, tell you the exact moment that i invited Him in.

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i was eleven. Maybe i was twelve. Doesn’t matter. A couple of friends and i had a Ouija board we were playing with. i think one of them had gotten it for their birthday. We all pretended like we didn’t really believe in it, but we were kids. All of us were secretly hoping for something, though now i don’t really know what that something was.

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i had already lost my faith by that time, which is sad, really. i guess i just knew better. i tried, don’t get me wrong, but i just couldn’t believe in a god that allows children to be raped and murdered. i still can’t. i went through my own s**t, praying and never getting answers, but my own problems never bothered me as much as seeing others in pain. i can’t remember the girl’s name -- Cecilia something --, but i remember watching her family weeping on the news and i knew, i just knew, that god wasn’t real.

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So here we are, these kids, sitting in an attic somewhere. It was Dark and dusty and the only illumination was provided by a couple of black candles one of us had pilfered from our mother. We were taking turns asking questions, but the planchette never moved. Somebody made a comment about it being because i was wearing a rosary. i don’t even know why i was wearing it, but i always had one wrapped around my wrist. i guess i just liked the imagery. i tore it off -- beads went flying everywhere, bouncing and rolling off into The Dark -- and held the little plastic Jesus over one of the candles, a slow drip-o’-Christ mixing in with the melted wax.

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Everyone got quiet, the way only children can do when they see or hear something they know they aren’t supposed to. One of them told me to stop, but i ignored them, and that’s when…

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Nothing happened.

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No rush of unexplainable wind blowing out the candles, or sussurating voices calling from The Dark, or words suddenly and frantically spelled out across the board. Nothing. it’s not like in the movies, because in the movies they always want you to know they are there. They don’t. They’re smarter than that. Mine was, anyway.

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He just waited, silently, for ten years.

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You may be wondering how i know that’s when it happened, but i can’t give you a satisfying answer. Yes, He may have arrived the day before i noticed anything was wrong, or even the very moment that any problem first came to my attention. He could have got me at any time during those ten years, but i know better.

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i just know.

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Shortly after i turned twenty-one i started to go insane. The crazy thing is that i didn’t realize it was happening; it was more like how far gone i was just hit me all at once. But i do remember when the dreams began.

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i would wake up on a bench at a bus terminal in the middle of the night. There would be a bus parked in front of me, and its door would be open and its lights would be on, but there would be no one on it, not even the driver. i would look around and find that i was completely alone and holding a book entitled ‘Galimatias’. Before i could open it something would fall out of the sky, and an odd green gleaming would catch my eye as it landed. i would walk over to see what it was, and on the ground at my feet would be a little figure of a goat carved out of emerald. That’s when a light would start to flicker behind me, and when i turned everything would be gone, replaced by a flight of stairs heading into the ground. At the bottom of the steps there was a door with a glowing red ‘EXIT’ sign above it. i would know not go go down those stairs, not to go through that door, but i would feel something behind me -- something in The Dark --, something so terrible that i would have to escape it immediately, and the only egress was those stairs; that door. i would run -- almost leap -- down the steps, crash through the door, and come face to face with a large mirror and my own reflection staring back at me. Except something would be wrong, something about my face, and i would realize that i was wearing a mask. When i took the mask off my stomach would tighten, my head would swim, because behind the mask would be my face, the right side covered in blood and torn open like some gruesome smile. My teeth would be broken and jagged, and my right eye would be completely black except for what looked like a small white cross where the pupil should have been. Then my reflection would start to laugh.

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i would wake up covered in sweat with a burning in my throat like i was about to vomit. This happened once -- maybe twice -- a week at first, but towards the end it was every night.

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That’s when i found the Cocaine; or, more correctly, when the Cocaine found me.

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i already told you that both of my parents were addicts, and watching them had kept me sober. i never wanted to be anything like either of them. Granted, they eventually got clean and got their lives together, but i wasn’t going to go through all of that. So i avoided drugs and alcohol like the plague and worked my a*s off in school. i may not have been valedictorian, but i did graduate with honors and get a full ride through college.

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All well and good.

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Junior year at the ol’ State U things started to go wrong, and oh, how wrong they went.

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i lived off campus in a really nice apartment downtown that i could have never afforded if it weren’t for my uncle. He was the one well-to-do member of my family and the only one who supported me. When he found out there was going to be a vacancy in his building he bought me the apartment outright and paid for five years of utilities to show me how proud of me he was for getting into a good school (which also happened to be his Alma Mater). i loved it because it was the tallest building in town, and every morning i would walk up an unnecessarily large amount of flights of stairs to watch the day begin from the roof.

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Words can’t begin to describe it -- The Sun slowly rising, being born anew, seemingly from the ocean; its very existence irrefutable proof of the greatest good. it always reminded me of the things we take for granted, and how sad it is to know that we aren’t allowed to realize that we’ve taken something for granted until we no longer have the privilege of appreciating it.

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i’m not a good person, and i’m not going to preach, but i do ask this: look at everything you have, at everything you’re doing, and ask yourself if the life you lead is the life that you should be leading if you wish to retain the things that really matter to you. Do you even know what matters; what should matter? if you’re not, or you don’t, it’s not too late to change.

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But someday it will be.

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After watching The Sun come up i would head down to the little deli on the corner and grab a cup of coffee (black) and a bagel (with cream cheese) while i read the paper for a bit before my first class. That’s where i met Her, and where i felt that urge for the first time.

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it wasn’t the first time i’d come to the deli, but it was the first time i’d seen Her. She was a waitress, and She had the most beautiful skin i had ever seen.

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i was reading an article about my grandfather when she walked up. My parents had tried to hide him from me, but -- like every lie a parent tells their child -- a child always finds out the truth eventually. it was the anniversary of the day he seemingly lost his mind and killed seven people as part of what appeared to be a Satanic ritual. No history of mental illness, no warning signs, just…

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Snap.

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The worst part, in a way, is that no one would have ever known it was him if he hadn’t left his car parked at the crime scene. He drove over there, did what he did, walked back to his office and put a bullet in his head. i was fairly lost in thought about that when i heard a voice ask me what i’d like. i looked up and froze, because the only thing i’d have liked at that moment was wear her skin. Every nerve in my body was tingling and i could see it all in vivid, gory detail.

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Her nude body, spread eagle, tied to the bed face down; the freckles on Her back like dots on a map leading me to her warm pink places. i could see, feel, myself entering Her; hear her moaning as i leaned down and kissed the back of Her neck, whispering in her ear that i loved Her. i could hear Her tell me that she loved me. Then i was dragging my straight razor down Her spine. At first she didn’t seem to notice -- the blade was too sharp and it was moving too quickly. She didn’t start bucking and screaming until i started rubbing my hands just under the incision to create friction so as to separate the skin from the muscle and fat. The further under Her skin my arms reached the harder She fought, the tighter She gripped me, until it all became too much to bear and i

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Realized she was asking me what i’d like.

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i could barely breathe. i felt exhilarated and nauseous and high all at once. Somehow i managed to order, stuttering and stammering and so visibly nervous that She couldn’t help but giggle. Once She was out of sight i felt something strange about my lower half and looked town to find myself very erect and bearing a large, sticky stain on the front of my pants. i did my best to act normal until my order arrived, at which time i promptly spilled cream cheese on my lap, swore, and went to the restroom to clean up.

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i locked myself in a stall and vomited.

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It was there in that very stall that i had my first encounter with the girl who would ease my mind and soothe my soul. Her name was Cocaine, and oh, how i loved her.

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i had just finished throwing up everything in my system -- which at that point in the day amounted to a glass of water and multivitamin -- and was sitting on the floor against the wall next to the toilet paper dispenser attempting to pull myself together when i noticed something behind the toilet. Had i not had my ‘vision’ (of hallucination, or whatever you want to call it) i never would have been at an angle where it would have been visible if i had even needed to use the restroom in the first place, but thanks to the fall of a sparrow i found myself tête-à-tête with a small ziplock baggie filled with Cocaine. Somewhere around three grams, if i remember correctly.

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Suddenly i was reaching for the bag. i didn’t meant to, and i knew that i shouldn’t, but i couldn’t stop -- it was like i had lost all control of my body. All i could do was watch myself pour some onto the toilet seat and snort it, my lips sliding along the dirty porcelain. i saw a tunnel, heard a train, and then i was back in control and vomiting again. Then everything just got…

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Better.

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The sickness passed, as did the shame of the stain on my pants and the disgust that accompanied my sadistic reverie and every bad memory of an abusive childhood and all the awkward moments lonely nights fearhatepainhopeguilt and i finally knew what it felt like to be a man.

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i walked out of the bathroom and right up to Her. i apologized for my earlier nervousness and informed Her that we would be having dinner at Au Chien qui Fume at eight and that She should wear something nice. She began to say something but i held up a hand to silence Her, explaining that i would be picking Her up at quarter till and that i would have Her home before midnight. She asked me how i expected to do that without knowing Her address, and i told Her that She was about to give it to me.

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She did.

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Since i didn’t have reservations at Au Chien qui Fume (and you had to have reservations at Au Chien qui Fume) i had to call in a favor. My uncle had a table there with his name on it, and i knew that when he found out i had met a girl he would let me use it. i made it back to my apartment and was about to go see him when i found myself feeling worse than i had ever felt in my life. i sat down on my bed and tried to figure out what was wrong, and that’s when i remembered the Cocaine. i had somehow forgotten about it until that moment, and that moment became the one in which i discovered that i couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me because nothing was wrong -- i was just sober again.

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Do you remember where you were when you realized you were becoming your parents?

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i searched my pockets until i found the baggie. i didn’t remember pocketing it, but somehow i knew that i had. i ran to the bathroom and opened the bag, ready to flush it down the toilet, when it happened again. As soon as my hand tipped to pour it out something took control of me. No, not something -- Him. i watched Him  dump a pile onto the counter and cut three long lines with my straight razor, then pull a bill out of my wallet and roll it into a straw. He put one end in my nose and the other on the counter, then blew all three lines in one deep zig-zagged inhale.

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When He lifted my head i caught sight of my reflection in the medicine cabinet, but it wasn’t me -- it was the face from my dreams. i think it was His face, and i think that He knew i could see it, because He kept control just long enough to keep me from screaming. When He finally let go i collapsed into a warm pile of numb self-worth and security. When you’re on Coke, everything is fine. Well, that’s not true, because when you’re on Coke everything is actually:

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Perfect.

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i wish i could tell you what it’s like, but i can’t. If you haven’t done it then you can’t understand, and i’m not going to tell you to do it, but goddamn.

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i told you earlier that i have gaps in my memory, and they start here. i don’t know if i truly can’t remember, or if i’m just suppressing things that i don’t want to remember, but i guess it doesn’t much matter.

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i know that i talked to my uncle, that he asked me about school and congratulated me for having a date and told me i could use his table any time i needed. i remember showering and shaving and getting ready to pick Her up; doing a line before heading out the door. i know that we had a lovely dinner; that i said all the right things at all the right times and excused myself once to do a few bumps in the bathroom. i remember dropping Her off and kissing Her goodnight, and then nothing until i woke up the next morning.

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Well, almost nothing.

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i had the dream again, except this time it was different. It seemed to be the same at first, but then i noticed that the title of the book had changed. It was now called ‘Algolagnia’, and it looked like some sort of breviary. When i opened it a scorpion fell into my lap and i jumped up to swat it away, dropping the book in the process. It fell open to reveal two pages that each bore what looked like strange symbols and a single sentence. The read, verso ad recto:

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“;I AM, the surrounding of the four”

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“;It is Written, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord Thy God”

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Then, instead of a goat my straight razor fell out of the sky, landing in a pool of blood which splashed across my face. i reached down to pick it up and saw that my hands were already covered in blood. i felt my stomach go cold, and as it did I heard laughing from behind me. i turned and found myself face to face with Him. As much as i wanted to scream and run, there was a single desire which ran deeper: i needed to know His name. i knew, just knew, that if i learned His name i could make all of it stop, so i did the only thing i could think to do -- i asked.

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“Ich habe keinen Namen.

 Name ist Schall und Rauch,

 Umnebelend Himmelsglut.”

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i woke screaming, and I wasn’t alone. No, She hadn’t come home with me, but a large amount of Cocaine had. For the life of me i couldn’t tell you where it came from, but it was good. i hit a decent line and looked at my watch, which read just past noon. This meant that i was four hours late for school, and it struck me that I hadn’t even gone the day before. i went from perfect attendance straight into absenteeism, and the only thing i could think to do about it was another line.

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i’d love to tell you that i realized the error of my ways, that i flushed the powder and went on with my life, but i can’t. Things only got worse from there, because when i finally got out of bed and walked into the bathroom i found my bloody straight razor in the sink.

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Have you ever read and then re-read a sentence to find that you seemingly read it incorrectly the first time, or listened to a song for a second time and heard a different lyric or a variation to the beat? Ever heard a sound -- someone calling your name, maybe -- or seen something out of the corner of your eye, only to turn and find nothing there? It’s just your mind playing tricks on you, right? But what if it’s not -- what if the very act of examination changes the course of the world around us? What if you did read the sentence right, and only by your re-reading of it was it re-written? What if you did hear the song right? What if the voice was real, or that shape actually seen, and your conscious decision to investigate its source nihilated its existence as a possibility? How do you know that the world around you isn’t constantly reinventing itself in ways so small and imperceptible you would never even notice their happening? For example: if a stain on your carpet moved one millimeter every day, how far would it have to move before you noticed it? Five feet? Ten? By the time you did notice your brain would have accepted it as having always been there, because stains can’t just move. It would have to accept it, because if it allowed itself to believe, even for a moment, that things like this were possible it would be overwhelmed to the point of apoplexy.

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Much like the degradation of my sanity, the changes were gradual. First it was my reflection -- sometimes i saw Him, sometimes it didn’t seem to mirror my actions. Then my shadow started to move on its own. i don’t know exactly what it was doing, but it had to be doing something to attract my attention. This was one of those ‘corner-of-the-eye’ things, so i never really saw it do anything -- i just know that it was. Then it was the pattern on the wallpaper, the color or my drapes, the arrangement of the items in my drawers. Everything just changed, and suddenly my apartment wasn’t my apartment anymore.

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i know all of this didn’t happen overnight, but it really did seem that way at the time. It must have actually taken somewhere around three months, in which time i had managed to regain some semblance of normalcy. i was balancing school and Cocaine to the best of my ability, and i was seeing Her on a regular basis (though i couldn’t bring myself to sleep with her -- not that i didn’t want to, but the urges…)

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If you thought me wanting to wear Her skin was bad i have no need to go into details about any of my other fantasies. i never acted any of them out, mind you -- i just did more Coke.

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That’s called sublimation, by the way.

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And where was i getting all of this Coke? That i don’t know. All i know is that whenever i needed more i would have the dream and wake up to a bigger pile and a bloodier razor.

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F**k turning into my parents -- i had become my grandfather.

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i guess i can’t really say that i don’t know where i was getting it -- i read the paper and watch the news. Seth’s Bay isn’t a small town, but it isn’t big either. Headlines like the ones making the front page cause quite a stir, and i know that i was going somewhere at night. i needed to talk to someone, but who? i didn’t want to worry Her, and i didn’t have any friends. i never really had. i think i’m afraid of people.

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i decided to talk to my psychology professor. She knew more about the human mind than anyone i had ever known, and my uncle’s firm had even used her as an alienist on more than one occasion. Friday after class i asked her if she would answer a few questions in private. She asked me what they pertained to and i semi-reluctantly told her that they were related to the recent… incidents. i told her i thought i might know who was responsible but that i wasn’t sure enough to go to the police. She laughed, and when i asked her what was funny she explained that she also had something she wanted to talk about that should probably involve the police but that the was also unwilling to go to the police about. i told her i could keep a secret if she could, and we agreed to meet before school on Monday morning as she was going to be busy over the weekend.

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i went back to my apartment to get ready to pick Her up for dinner. i wasn’t spending more than a few hours a day there, and those were mostly spent sleeping. i tried to never be alone, because when i was alone everything always got worse. So i was either at school or with Her, and when She was at work i just got a booth and did my studying there. That night i took longer to get ready than i had intended to because, first, i couldn’t find my tie. My tie rack had always hung on the right side of the closet, but for some reason it was on the left that night. Considering everything else that had been going on this seemed trivial, so i brushed it off and went about my business. i showered, shaved, and dressed; but when it came time to put on my shoes i again found myself searching. i had always kept my wingtips under the side of the bed that i slept on, but that night they were under the opposite side. Again, trivial.

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By the time i was ready i was in such a hurry not to be late that i ran out the door and left my wallet on the little end-table by the front door where i always left it (with my keys) when i came in. Halfway down the stairs i realized this, racing back up and into my apartment, only it wasn’t my apartment anymore.

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The first thing i noticed was that the little table was on the wrong side of the hall. This, unlike the little inconsistencies that had come before it, caught my attention.

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The whole world seemed to tilt.

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i approached it slowly, as though it were a sleeping lion and that to move too quickly would disturb its slumber. When i finally reached it i picked up my wallet, except it wasn’t my wallet -- my wallet was brown, this one was black. My head swam, and i leaned against the wall to brace myself. That’s when i saw that the stripes on the wallpaper were no longer vertical but horizontal, and no longer dark blue but black.

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i had a theme: all the wood in my apartment (tables, chairs, bed, etc…) matched the hardwood floor, and all the accessories (rugs, towels, upholstery, etc…) matched the wallpaper. The theme hadn’t changed, but the colors had. All the wood, including the floor, was now a deep red; all the blue a horrid, soulless black. Not only had the colors changed, but everything in the apartment -- from the largest pieces of furniture to the smallest pieces of constituent bric-a-brac that covered my walls and filled my drawers -- had rearranged itself. Everything was on the side opposite of where it had always been.

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It was as if i had walked through a mirror.

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i collapsed into a ball in the center of the room, rocking back and forth and mumbling to myself (weighedweighedmeasuredivideweighedweighedmeasuredivide). i don’t know how long i was like that, but the phone ringing finally snapped me out of it. It was Her, concerned because i hadn’t showed up or called to tell Her i would be late. i wanted to tell Her that i was fine, that i’d only lost my wallet and that i’d be right there, but i couldn’t get any of that to come out. She knew immediately that something was wrong and told me that She was on her way, then hung up before i could protest.

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Rock, meet hard place.

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If i was there when She arrived we would be alone in my apartment, and there was no telling what i might do to Her. On the other hand, if i wasn’t there when She arrived She might call the police. As far as She knew i was a perfectly normal, law abiding college student. If i had just disappeared She might think something happened to me, especially after that last phone call. i couldn’t have that, which meant that i had to stay, which meant that i had to hide the Coke -- i wasn’t going to introduce my mistress to my wife.

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i put it, all related accoutrements, and my straight razor into a shoebox and locked them in the trunk of my car. i had barely been back inside for a minute when there was a knock at the door. i approached it and took a deep breath, but when i opened it that breath was taken from me.

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She was wearing a black dress that perfectly accentuated her curves. The sides were slit from mid-thigh down, and She had on a pair of toeless black heels that revealed toenails painted a deep red to match her lips, fingernails, and hair that was done up in an intricately braided bun. There isn’t an adjective i could use to even begin to describe how perfect She looked that night, and i will never forget it because She and my apartment were a matching set.

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She smiled at me and I fell to my knees, wrapped my arms around Her waist, buried face in Her stomach, and wept in the middle of the hallway.

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If i hadn’t thought of a convincing lie things might have gone very differently that night, but She believed me when i told Her that the stress of finals had finally gotten to me. i told Her i had run myself ragged; that i hadn’t slept for two days and that my stomach had been so sick with worry that i hadn’t eaten in two days either. i apologized profusely for Her finding me the way i was, and then She apologized to me for not noticing sooner. She asked me if there was anything She could do to help, and i asked Her to stay the night. No sex, nothing like that -- i just didn’t want to be alone. She agreed, and that night we shared a bed for the first time, Her heart beating against my back and in time with mine.

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And then i was swerving down a strange road at high speed in the middle of the night with a pain in my side like a hot coal. Losing time in my sleep was one thing -- finding that time was another.

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i didn’t know how i didn’t crash. i was able to gain control of my car and was in the process of pulling over when another vehicle peeled around the corner, its occupant firing two shots in my general direction. i had come to in the middle of a car chase, and someone was trying to kill me. i understood why He had been swerving when He let go, and i did my best to make myself a hard target to hit. dAfter a few random turns i saw a street sign i recognized, and from there i was able to ditch my pursuer -- though not before they blew out one of my tail lights.

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When i was sure i had lost him i made my way back to my apartment, got the shoebox out of the trunk, and headed upstairs. i crept inside, doing my best not to disturb Her in the hope that She was both still alive and still asleep.

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She was.

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That eased my mind somewhat, which only served to remind me of the pain in my side. i took the shoebox into the bathroom and locked the door. The first thing that caught my eye was my reflection -- the second was the blood.

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I was used to seeing Him in the mirror, but i had never seen Him afraid. That night He was afraid. His eyes weren’t meeting mine but staring at my side, and i knew that something was very wrong. When i looked down i saw a hole in my shirt and blood down the left side of my body.

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i had been shot.

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When i pulled up my shirt i thought i was going to faint. There wasn’t as much blood as i thought there would be, but the bullet was still inside of me. i could see it there, resting under my skin like leaden cancer. i don’t know how, but it had entered me at an awkward angle and just kind of stuck there. My head was reeling and i fell into the sink, barely catching myself in time to lower myself onto the toilet. i opened the shoebox and grabbed the Coke, then tore the bag open and poured some straight into the wound. The pain subsided immediately, and it did an amazing job of calming my nerves as well. Now it was time to think.

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i couldn’t go to the police, that went without saying. Sure, someone had just tried to kill me, but what had i done to provoke it? i didn’t know, but i had a good idea. i was also pretty sure that if i’d left my razor out he never would have got the first shot off. That’s when a little lightbulb clicked on: my razor.

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i looked at it, then at my side, then used it to cut the bullet out with one clean slice.

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That was the night i realized i was going to die. i mean, we all know we’re going to die, but for most the thought is a remote improbability that every waking moment is spent running from. For the first time i truly understood my parents, and i knew that i would never stop using, even if i could.

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For a while i had this quixotic notion that once He was gone i would have Her to replace the coke, but isn’t that exactly what my parents thought? They started using because they were afraid, but the drugs only intensified the fear, so they tried to placate it with companionship, but that just made them feel more alone, because then the thought of death was ever present, and not their own but their partners. Now two people have to defy death, and they go about doing this by having a kid, immortalizing themselves in miniature form. Upon doing so they find that they don’t need one another anymore, each having served the purpose the other subconsciously needed them to serve, so they separate and begin the power struggle for the kid. Since they both feel that they know what is best for the child it eventually becomes necessary for a judge to decide who is right, and in some strange turn of events he agrees with both of them, which means the kid will spend half of his time with one and half of his time with the other, and (guess what?) now each of them is alone again fifty percent of the time. All of that for nothing. But do you know what they find waiting for them after all this time? The Drugs, because The Drugs never abandon you, or lie to you, or cheat or argue or fight with you. They never try to make you feel guilty or ashamed, or blame you for all of their problems, or make you feel inadequate and that your best isn’t good enough. All they do is make you feel better, if only for a moment, and in that moment nothing else matters, so who cares about the future?

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i cleaned myself up and sealed the wound with superglue, and, believe me, i felt that through the numbness. It wasn’t like i could go to the hospital with a fresh bullet hole and a large incision. All things considered, i think i did the best that i could.

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The next morning She woke to breakfast in bed, and it wasn’t long after that that she had to go home and get ready for work. She asked me to come sit in the deli so She could keep an eye on me, and i promised Her that i would meet Her there as soon as i showered. The moment i locked the door behind Her i ran to the bathroom, put my razor to my throat, and pulled as hard as i could.

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What else could i do? It was only a matter of time before He killed Her, and i couldn’t live with that; and besides, someone was out to kill me anyway, so why shouldn’t i do it myself? i could seal my fate while unsealing Hers, and that is exactly what i did.

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Or would have done, if life was that simple. Instead my arm never moved an inch. i was frozen in place, my razor pressed so firmly to my neck it drew a faint line of blood, when my lips began to move. And then a very strange thing happened -- a voice, which was not my own, said:

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“Noli… Me… Tangere.”

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using my mouth. I didn’t know what it meant, but I know that i spoke it. He gently removed the blade from my hand, folding it up and laying it back on the counter where it belonged. Then He just stared at me for a moment -- the look on his face somewhere between contempt, love, and pity -- before saying something i did understand:

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“Cherchez la fille.”

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Which is French for “look for the girl”, which at the time meant nothing but very shortly would mean more than I ever wanted it to.

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After that He let me go about my day, which (now that suicide was out of the question) consisted of a shower and a booth at the little deli so that i could be near Her. i spent Sunday the same way, because at that point i was just trying to make it until Monday so i could talk to my professor.

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Which i did, no matter how much i wish that i hadn’t.

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Monday came, and I met my professor at -- you guessed it -- the little deli. For the life of me i can’t remember what it was called. i guess it will always be “the little deli” to me.

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She was waiting for me when i got there, and as soon as i sat down she launched into a story about arson, dead children, and demons. It poured out of her like water from a broken pipe, and she barely paused to breathe between sentences. You could tell she needed to tell someone, and she had chosen to tell me. At first this did not appear to be fate (or even extreme coincidence), but then she mentioned my grandfather’s name -- with no knowledge of our relation -- and my benighted fantoccini got that much stranger.

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You seen, not only was she a college professor, she was also a practicing child psychiatrist. One of her patients had been a little pyromaniac girl who swore that her imaginary friend was teaching her new ways to start fires. i say the girl had been one of her patients because now she was missing, her baby brother was dead, and her mother had been charged with -- get this -- arson. Their home had burned to the ground, and the fire had started in the baby’s crib. Apparently my professor was the only person other than the girl’s mother who knew the girl was a pyro, and she was inclined to believe that the girl had been the one to start the fire.

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She was also inclined to believe that the girl’s imaginary friend wasn’t so imaginary.

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What made me a believer was the fact that the “imaginary” shared a name with my grandfather, and it finally hit me that all of my problems started on the anniversary of his supposed ritual murders. My professor didn’t seem to notice how pale i must have become at hearing my name because she finished her story without a hitch. When she finally took a breath she saw that something was amiss. She asked me what was wrong, and i told her

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Everything.

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i hadn’t intended to, but deep down i needed to, and once i started i couldn’t stop. i told her about the dreams and the drugs and the fantasies; that i was losing time and finding time and going insane. To her credit she took it all fairly well, but isn’t that what she had been trained to do? When i finished she asked me what i believed, and i told her i thought i was possessed. i had been afraid to say that out loud for fear that speaking it would make it true, but i think we were well past all of that by then. She asked me if it was possible that my addiction whas the demon and that everything else was a psychosomatic manifestation of my guilt and denial, but i reminded her that the demon had caused the addiction and that to say otherwise would be to take the effect and make it the cause. She then asked me to repeat the things He had said to me. The first thing i told her was what He said when i tried to kill myself, and she told me that it was Latin for “do not touch me”. Apparently it was what Christ had said to Mary Magdalene. i couldn’t remember all of the German He had spoken in my dreams, but i remembered enough for her to know it came from “Faust”, an epic poem about a man who sold his soul to the devil. She said something else in German, which she said meant “the spirit that ever denies”. i asked her who that spirit was, but when she tried to tell me all that came out was static. i recoiled at the sound of it, and when i told her why she tried to tell me again, and again came the static. She pulled a pen out of her purse and wrote the name on a napkin. She slid it to me, but all it said was:

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i stop she help Me

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i read it out loud and she started to shake. i could hear the ice clinking around in her glass. She set it down, took a deep, shaky breath, and asked me what i knew about her ex-patients imaginary friend. When i told her that he was my grandfather she picked up her purse and walked out the door without saying another word.

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She died the following night.

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No, He didn’t kill her -- she and her family were killed in an automobile accident -- but that doesn’t mean that her death was unrelated to our conversation. Now, i know what you are thinking: how could a car accident, something unplanned and completely unpredictable, be related to dead children and demons and the legacy of a ritual killer?

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i think, and this is pure conjecture, that there are certain things, certain forces, that exist in our world, and once you are exposed to these forces, once you have even an ounce of belief in them, they make it their business to destroy you.

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i left the deli and was on my way to class when a little girl walked into the street directly in front of my car. I laid on the horn, but she was wearing headphones and was completely oblivious to her surroundings. i managed to slam on the brakes just in time, stopping maybe six inches from smearing her across the road. A car suddenly appearing in such close proximity to her being was apparently what it took to get her attention, and when she turned to look at me i found myself face to face with the most beautiful, angelic creature i had ever laid eyes on.

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She was perfect.

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The next thing i knew i was disappearing into a vision all to similar to my first, the one i had in the deli, except involving Her it involved this little girl. Somehow i knew, i just knew, that if i killed this girl He would let Her live.

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When my reverie ended I saw that she was still standing in front of my car, only now she was giving me the finger. i couldn’t understand why she would do that -- i hadn’t done anything to deserve it, and she couldn’t have been more than ten. She must have seen the look of confusion and malaise that crossed my face, because she mouthed an apology before running off.

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By then it was too late.

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Instead of going to my school i followed her to hers. i was planning on waiting there all day so i could follow her home, but something must have happened because thirty minutes later she came running out with tears in her eyes. In yet another incident in a long series of strange events which i could no longer call coincidence she made her way to -- can you guess? The little deli. She sat there for a few hours before finally wondering home, where i pulled a pen from my glove box and copied down her address.

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The girl was going to die.

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i know how disgusting this must seem, but before you judge me too harshly i want you to ask yourself what you would be willing to do to save someone you love. If you have never lost anyone then maybe you won’t understand, but when someone you love dies you lose a part of yourself that you can never get back, and nothing is ever the same. If you have ever watched a loved one deteriorate in a hospital bed, hoping and praying and making false promises to a god you no longer believe is listening, you would know that there is nothing  you wouldn’t do to if it meant that they got to live. i watched my mother die, and despite our relationship never being great there isn’t a day that goes by that i don’t wish i could talk to her one more time, to let her know that i forgive her for everything and understand that she did the best that she could; to apologize for every unkind word and argument and all the years we spent apart. i just want to be in her arms one more time, where i knew that i was safe and that i would always be her baby.

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In a way i think the worst part isn’t that i decided to kill a child, but that i decided to kill a child without thinking twice about it. It never once crossed my mind that there might have been a way to end all of this that didn’t involve me murdering a kid -- i saw an out and i took it.

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i told you earlier that i wasn’t a good person.

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That night was the first night that my apartment felt like my apartment again. Even though everything was different it all seemed right. i don’t know how to explain it. i guess the combination of finally telling someone the truth about my situation and the newfound knowledge that soon everything would be alright helmed me to feel at home in a home that for so long had been cold and unwelcoming. i was so comfortable that i fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, smiling all the way to dreamland, but that night i didn’t dream at all.

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i woke up with a large chunk of human scalp in one hand and a quarter pound of Cocaine in the other.

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i was still smiling.

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That was Tuesday morning. Nothing really happened for the rest of the week, not until Friday, but that wasn’t a bad thing. I was able to go about my business in an astoundingly usual manner for the first time in far too long. He left me alone for a few days, i had enough Blow than i knew what to do with (meaning i could finally sleep without worrying about what i might do in my sleep), and She could tell that my mood had drastically improved. i could hardly believe how much better i felt, and i was sure that my life had finally taken a turn for the better.

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Then Wednesday morning came, and the front page of the local paper informed me of my professor’s death. i have to admit that, while i was deeply saddened, i wasn’t in the least bit surprised. If anything i was -- and this makes me sound horrible, i know, but it’s true -- relieved. She was the only person who knew the truth about me and therefore the only person who could threaten my freedom, so as sad as i was (and i was sad, i really, really was) i still couldn’t stifle a little sigh of relief.

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Thursday passed without incident.

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Friday did not.

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It started in an unusual manner and only spiraled down from there, because for the first time since i did my first line i woke up before The Sun had risen.

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i had done it every day for most of my life, yet that day it seemed so foreign to me. Sure, i hadn’t been up that early in months, but it seemed as if i had never done it at all. i decided to head to the roof and watch the day break, just like old times.

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When i opened the roof access door i found something was definitely new to me: two men dressed in very nice suits.

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The first was strikingly handsome in a strangely soft, almost feminine way that i can’t properly explain. It’s like i knew he was a man, but at the same time i almost couldn’t be sure. The second man appeared French, and while he looked quite familiar i just couldn’t figure out why (though i was reminded, for whatever reason, of my second year of Philosophy -- specifically a quote: “As a being by whom values exist, I am unjustifiable.”). While i didn’t know who they were, there was one thing i was sure of -- neither of them looked like they belonged on the roof of an apartment at six o’clock in the morning (or at any other time, for that matter). Before i had a chance to try to make sense of the situation, the first man turned to me, smiled, and said:

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“Brother!”

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i started to tell him that i was not his brother, nor had i ever even seen him before, when i realized that he was not talking to me -- he was talking to Him. He tossed something to me and i instinctively caught it. When i opened my hand to see what it was i discovered a lighter, very much like a Zippo and seemingly made out of lead. One side was completely blank, but when i flipped it over i saw that the other was inlaid with what looked like a solid gold Sunwheel, eight rays curving out and around it in glorious golden splendour.

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While i was examining the lighter the men walked past me and into the stairwell. As the first man passed he put a hand on my shoulder and said:

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“You’re going to fail. But it’s okay -- I think you’re supposed to.”

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Then they were both gone, and the first rays of Sunlight washed over my face.

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That’s when He came back. He must have been upset by what the man (if he was a man) had said to Him, and He took it out on me. Suddenly i found myself in the stairwell (cutoffhersweetbuddingbreastsandfeedthemtoher), then in the hall (stuffherfavoritedollupherassandlighthereyesonfire), then back in my apartment (makelovetoherwithastraightrazorsosheneverforgetsherfirsttime), but i don’t remember how i got from one place to the other. It was like every time i blinked i would slip into Hell for moment only to open my eyes in a different place, and i couldn’t hear anything other than the same awful, grating static that had come out of my professor’s mouth when she tried to tell me His name.

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Then everything just went Dark.

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When i came to i was on the floor in my bathroom facedown in a pile of Cocaine. i had slight headache, but other than that i seemed to be alright. When i looked at my watch i saw that nearly nine hours had passed, and i remembered that i was supposed to pick Her up for dinner at five o’clock. This left me with just under two hours to get my s**t together, and, believe me, i needed it.

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i brought an ounce with me to dinner, locked safely in the glovebox, and went on to have a wonderful evening.

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After dinner She wanted to go to the bridge to watch The Sun set.

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She used to love the bridge.

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This is where my story started, but not where it ends.

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i dropped Her off, kissed Her goodnight, thought about wearing Her skin, and pulled out of Her driveway. If i had turned right at the end of Her street i could have gone back to my apartment and maybe things would have turned out quite differently, but i didn’t. Instead i turned left and headed towards the little girl’s house.

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i had watched her for the last few days and knew that she lived in a nice house on the beach with her mother and father, and i was ready to kill all three of them if it meant saving Her and getting my life back. That night i cut through some less-than-respectable neighborhoods on my way to her house, and i’ll be damned if i didn’t end up on the street i woke up on mid car chase.

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There is no such thing as coincidence. Never forget that.

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i killed my lights and put it in neutral as soon as i hit her street, then parked on the side of the road three houses down from hers. There was lighting in the distance, but the rain hadn’t started yet. i pulled the Coke out of the glovebox and dumped a pile onto the dash, then pulled out my razor and started cutting it up. When i finished i scooped it up and snorted it straight off the edge of my razor, making sure not to get too close and cut myself. i wasn’t as careful when i licked the residue off of the blade. i could taste the blood, but i never felt the cut.

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The lightning flashed in my rearview, and when i looked up i saw Him looking back at me. Then there was another flash and He was gone. Instead of putting the Coke back in the glovebox i sealed the bag and tucked in into my breast pocket, right over my heart. My razor went back into my left side pocket. The lighter was in the right.

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i got out of the car and quietly propped the door closed when the rain began to fall.

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i was walking up to her front door when the sky lit up once more, and once again a reflection caught my eye. This one was in her glass front door, and this time it wasn’t Him. It seemed that as i had been silently moving down the road a vehicle -- which was now parked directly behind me with the passenger side window down -- had been doing the same thing. i turned around in time to recognize it as she same vehicle that had chased me down a dark road in the middle of the night.

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The gunshots might have been thunder, and the muzzle flashes lightning.

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Author's Note

I am working on writing a book of eight stories that are all able to be stand alone pieces but also form a cohesive whole when read together. Wanted to take a gestalt approach. I need any and all criticism (constructive preferred, but any will do).

The word "him" is intentionally capitalized, italicized, and typed in a different font when it refers to a specific character.
The word "her" is intentionally capitalized when it refers to a specific character.
The word "i" is intentionally left lowercase when it refers to the main character.