The Possession of Jack Marah

A suicidal man on his deathbed gets a visit from an unusual "friend".

The Possession of Jack Marah

Nobody in this world is perfect, no one lives a postcard-like life from the happiest suburban city with a smiling mother, father, two kids, and maybe even a golden retriever; they all love each other, sit at the dinner table, and talk about how great their day was. Even the most successful people in the world are still not satisfied with their lives. They are either depressed or a sociopath. The American Psycho guy had everything he ever wanted in his life. Sex, drugs, money. But it was never enough, so he took to murdering to fulfill his needs. Even though that is a movie, and a very extremely human, people are never fully able to be satisfied with their lives.  

Take Jack Marah, for example. His story begins in a small, rundown penny-paid apartment in the heart of New York City. It's smaller than a community bathroom and smells like one too. The rusty pipes inside drip on one spot of the already scratched wood flooring, causing it to bubble, with no sign of carpet anywhere. Three pieces of furniture lay to create the atmosphere of the studio apartment, a mattress on the floor, one single wooden chair, and a lamp. The kitchen, which is deserted, has nothing inside but a single, "I LOVE NYC" mug on the stovetop. No refrigerator, just one icebox from CVS with one plain Greek yogurt cup and half a drank Red Bull bobbing up and down in what used to be ice.

The bathroom has one, musty blue towel, a sad, and abused toothbrush, and one bar of Dove soap. Clothes are folded neatly to the left of the bed. One grungy window over where the bed frame would be. Two pairs of boots lie quietly at the base of the bed. The bed has only one ripped fleece blanket, also from CVS, tucked neatly across it. The entire atmosphere is just lonely. The wooden chair has one long, black coat strung across it, with the ghosts of snowflakes scattered around. The pocket of the coat holds a crushed pack of Camel Crushes. To the right of the bed, there is a Torah, a frayed iPhone charger, and two pieces of mint chewing gum. One single AC DC record lays under the bed, with no record player in sight. A leather folder thick with a screenplay lays to the right of the record.

The quiet, dirty, but peaceful room was suddenly rudely disrupted by the swinging open of the wooden door. A tall, skinny white man with sunken in green eyes came stumbling into the room, throwing his keys and his wallet in front of him, as he uses his hands to brace himself up against the floor. An oof! squeezed out of him as his brittle ribs almost crack under the pressure of his fall. Sounds of groaning and cursing erupt in the room, breaking the eerie silence. The man rolls over onto his side and gazes up at the ceiling. Spots and stars quickly made their appearance into his vision, blurring out the worn down roof. The man slowly began to regain his consciousness and made a sad effort to get off of the ground. He clamored to his feet, and waddled to the edge of his window, threw the shade open, which released a pound of dust into the air. The winter night air rushed into the room. He unbuttoned his oversized black and white flannel, with cigarette holes littered all around it. The man took a step back, forgetting the frigid night. Snowflakes began to replace the dust in the air. The man slowly began to lift up his arms.

"I'm free", he began to mutter repeatedly to himself.

His whiskey drowned breath began to make clouds in the air. His laughing became more intense, as his body began to shiver violently. Dark black chest hair was covered by a small gold Star of David pendant. His flannel intensely flapped at his side. As his eyes began to close, he notices that his screenplay is fluttering around the room, covered in snow.

"Oh s**t, oh no, no!" he exclaims, as he aggressively slams the window shut.

He runs over to the papers, as they try to escape with the wind. He gathers them up and places them gently back to their place on the ground. He smooths them down, as the title page reading Chainsmoking was almost soaking wet.  His face drops with sorrow. The pages were almost destroyed, his life nearly ripped away from him. The man carefully stacked the papers evenly against each other, grabbed the leather folder from under the bed from where they were so rudely displaced from. He gently placed the folder under the bed and sat upon the ripped blanket from CVS. He reached for a pill bottle from the side, labeled "JACK MARAH, BIPOLAR DISORDER, TAKE TWO PILLS WITH FOOD TWICE A DAY. NO MORE THAN 4 PILLS A DAY". Jack caressed the cap with his scarred thumb. He shook the bottle open and placed seven of the small, blue pills on his hand. He tossed the pills around as if he was playing with die. Tears began to well up in his eyes, as he prepared to down the pills. As his hand reached his crusted lips, a ding from his cell phone stops him in his tracks.

A text from Ellen lights up his phone and his eyes. Jack slowly begins to lower his hand with the pills and tosses them back into their bottle. He wipes a rogue tear from his cheek and sniffles his nose.

The text reads, "I had so much fun tonight with you! Hope we can do it again soon :)". The sorrowful look present on Jack's face was replaced by one that was radiant with happiness. He had loved Ellen ever since they were in middle school together. She always gave him the crust off of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He never even had to ask. She was the only thing in life that brought him true happiness. Jack began to form a response when the little gray bubble with the darker gray dots appeared. He quickly deleted his message and waited for her to finish typing. His heart was beating out of his chest. The message finally delivered, causing his heart to drop back to where it was before.

It read, "Next time, I'll bring Brad along".

Jack knew exactly who Brad was. The biggest a*****e to ever exist. He constantly ripped Ellen off her angelic pedestal, over the smallest problems. Jack had believed that they were separated, as Ellen had always reached out to Jack about his problems, and he thought that tonight was the night that he would finally confess his love for her. This had completely destroyed the microscopic amount of confidence he had left. There was no way that he could do it now, or ever. Jack clicked his phone off and tossed it to the side of his bed. He flopped backward, feeling the broken fibers of the CVS blanket under his back. There was nothing he wanted anymore. His screenplay would never take off. His passion in life was no use to him, as he couldn't make money off of it. The only person in the world that he cared about didn't give two s***s about him. His family broke off ties with him when he dropped out of med school. What else was there for him in his life.

Jack gathered himself and waddled over to his bathroom. He stared at himself in the dirty, fractured mirror. He then reached forward with his frail and opened the cabinet to his left. He grabbed the small, yellow pill bottle labeled Fentanyl. He then backed up to the wall, his eyes not breaking their gaze. Sweat began to form at his brow, and he quickly swiped it away. He closed his eyes tight and, in half a second, unscrewed the pill bottle and downed all of the contents. He swallowed hard, slouched over to his side, and laid his head on the mildewy blue towel that had made a home on the bathroom floor. Jack closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.

A freezing breeze made his arm hairs stand up on edge. Jack began to shiver violently, as he saw the light in the bathroom shift to darkness. A large cloud of smoke emerged and flooded the room. Jack shot his eyes opened and saw a huge, dark figure floating in the air. He clamored back against the wall, breathing harder than ever, his eyes widening with fear. The figure became more evident, and the smoke began to clear. He heard a scratchy voice, mumbling. The smoke cleared, and a large, black, floating figure, draped in long black robes was facing away from Jack. It had a white head, that looked exceptionally boney.

"Oh crap, oh geez!  How could I forget! If boss ever finds out I forgot about the first step, I'm going to hell so fast my head will spin off! And I just got this one".

The figure reached up and petted its head, with its even bonier hands.

"Okay, focus Cthulhu. This dude is a nobody. He won't make fun of you, cuz he's dead!"

It let out a sigh and turned around to see Jack was sitting straight up, paralyzed with fear. Cthulhu screamed, the fire in his eyes turning red. It grabbed its animal skull head with shock.

"AHHHHHH, what the hell are you doing alive! You're supposed to be dead!"

Jack began to stammer.

"This is great, this is just the thing I need", said Cthulhu, sarcastically.

It began to pace, or float, around the bathroom, muttering to itself, cursing every once in a while. Jack slowly got up to his feet and tried to flee from the bathroom. Cthulhu noticed its victim's attempt to escape, and flew over like a bat out of hell, stopping Jack in his track.

"Where do you think you're going?" Cthulhu asked, with a mocking tone.

Jack became paralyzed with fear again.

Cthulhu smiled, showing its many rows of teeth. It reached out one of his hands, and caress the side of Jack's face, who was now sputtering.

"This will only hurt.....a lot," Cthulhu said, as it dove down the mouth of Jack. Jack's body became rigid, spazzing under the pressure. His mouth widened to an inhuman-like size. Cthulhu was struggling. It seems as it had never done such a task before. It tried and tried, but did not succeed. At last, it gave up and retreated out of Jack. Jack slumped to the floor, sobbing hysterically. Cthulhu covered his face with its hands.

"Wha...what are you doing to me?!?" exclaimed Jack. "Can't you just seeing I'm trying to die in peace?".

He slumped to the ground, once again.

"I am so incredibly sorry. I was sent here to possess you, and I lied on my resume because I really needed the job, but I've never possessed a human in my time! I'm so sorry I know you just want to die and trust me, I want to too, but my dad's the number one demon possessor to ever come out of Hell, and I'm just really trying my hardest to carry on his legacy and he's put so much pressure on me to be the best possessor but I totally forgot what the first step was, which is such a rookie mistake and I'm so so so so sorry you're life is horrible too and I wish I could just let you die in peace".

"Woah, Woah, Woah, slow down. You're a demon, sent here to possess me? How did you expect me to act, just welcome you into my body willingly?"

"Yeah, and it's my first time so I'm sorry if I suck".

Cthulhu turned around, facing the wall and Jack heard sobs. Its long black robe was trembling under the whines. Jack stood up and shook his head aggressively.

"What is happening to me?" Jack said as he looked up to the mildewed roof.

Cthulhu sobbed louder. Jack slowly walked over to the figure, and cautiously placed his hand on its shoulder. It was ice cold, but he kept the hand there. Cthulhu turned around, his snout nearly missing Jack's face.

"Do you mean that?" Cthulhu said in between sobs.

"Uh sure. Yeah, I do. I don't know much about demon possession, but I feel like you're doing a great job so far. Please, just don't cry anymore".

Cthulhu turned around and wrapped its cold and frail body around Jack as hard as it could. Jack was hesitant at first, but then embrace the hug from the demon. It was the first time in a while that Jack had felt someone, or something, care that much about him. He was happy, a thing he hadn't felt in a while.

Cthulhu let go and looked into his eyes.

"Maybe this is so hard for me because you aren't ready to die. Even though I'll probably get fired, I think you should live just a couple more days", said Cthulhu, reaching into its robe. It pulled out a small glass vial, filled with a dark blue powder. Cthulhu reached its boney finger into the vial and pulled its finger to its lips.

"I really hope to never see you again, Jack".

Cthulhu took a deep breath and blew the powder into Jack's face. His eyes became heavy, and he slumped back against the wall. He felt Cthulhu whoosh away, a smile creeping against his face.

"Thank you", Jack mustered out, before his eyes closed again.

Author's Note

This was for an AP Lit assignment, please ignore any grammatical/spelling errors. Please keep in mind that I am by no means a professional writer, and this was just for fun.

Reviews

[JayG]

If you're taking AP lit you shouldn't have to ask people to ignore your grammar. You should be looking to improve it.

And since you are in AP classes, there are a few things you should know, beginning with line one:

• Nobody in this world is perfect, no one lives a postcard-like life from the happiest suburban city with a smiling mother, father, two kids, and maybe even a golden retriever; they all love each other, sit at the dinner table, and talk about how great their day was.

1. Never use comma splices. Your first six words form a complete sentence. Splicing to another sentence with a comma is a no-no. One sentence, one subject is the rule.

2. When you say, "Nobody in THIS world," you imply that on other words everyone might be happy. But you know that's not true, so why specify "this world?" All that does is slow the narrative. Fewer words to say the same thing = more impact.

3. I'm guessing that your grammar skills are up to using commas, given that you're in AP classes. So you certainly should have seen the missed comma after the word "life." My point is that you show disrespect for the reader is you don't take the time to polish the work. Never show anything but your "A" game.


4. The semicolon is NOT a super comma. They connect full sentences with a shorter hesitation than a period, or, separate elements in a list. In this case there is no reason for its use.

5. The written word is a SLOOOW medium. What we see in an eueblink's time takes pages and pages to give the reader via print. So say what needs to be said and stop. In this case, "no one lives a postcard-like life," says what you want to say, and includes everyone in the known universe. Readers know who "everyone" is. By trying to define it further you got sidetracked, and in the end, said nothing meaningful. Truly, by the end I had no idea of what you meant. Happy families don't sit at dinner talking about "how great their day was." I know that because my family was happy, and we talked about lots of other things.

Tell your story. Don't try to impress the reader with your writing. Its function is to communicate your thought to the reader, not impress them.

• Even the most successful people in the world are still not satisfied with their lives.

Unsupportable assertion. You just told the reader that there is literally no one on the planet satisfied with their life. And how do I know that's not true? I'm satisfied with mine. It offers challenges to keep me sharp, It provides happiness through my children and grandchildren, happiness through the people my writing pleases, and through the simple act of waking next to someone I love. Surely you don't think I'm alone in enjoying life?

Never lose sight of the fact that you cannot, cannot, cannot say, "You know what I mean," and expect people to know what you mean. Your intent never makes it to the page. The reader has only what the words and their placement suggest to THEM, based on THEIR background. And likely, the reader is of a different background, age group, and even gender. They live in a different area, where word meanings aren't quite the same. Lose sight of that and you lose the game.


• The bathroom has one, musty blue towel, a sad, and abused toothbrush, and one bar of Dove soap.

Think about it. To this point, 249 words have passed. Were this a standard manuscript we would be well down on page two. And what's happened in the story? Nothing. We know the man's name. How old is he? dunno. What does he do? No clue. Why is he important to the story. Dunno. Given that, Why would a reader care what the man has in his bathroom? HE'S NOT IN IT. He's asleep.

You're not working in a visual medium, so why tell the reader what could be seen were they there, when in reality, they would be looking at the man, not counting his towels. And fair is fair: it's HIS story. You're not in it or on the scene. So who cares what you notice, or think? Story is about the person living it, and what matters to them in the moment they call "now." But you're talking in overview. That's a report, not a story.

You've worked hard on this, and obviously feel it's worth sharing. But you're missing an important piece of the puzzle, which is: grammar, spelling, and things like that aside, every bit of writing technique you've been taught in your school years is nonfiction. It's meant to ready you for adulthood and employment. Professions are learned in-addition-to the general skills we're given in school. And writing fiction is as much a profession, and as filled with specialized techniques and tricks of the trade as any other.

And because no teacher mentioned that, you, like everyone else, assume that writing-is-writing, and that you have what you need. But could you write a screenplay without further training? No. How about work as a journalist? A tech writer? A stageplay? Of course not. Why then, assume that fiction, uniquely, is the only profession in the world for which we need no additional training?

My point? You have the desire and the enthusiasm. And that's great. But because the writing tools you own aren't up to the task, you're transcribeing yourself telling the story aloud. But storytelling is a performance art. The audience MUST hear the emotion in your voice. They MUST see the gestures, the expressions, and the body language, because that's what carries the emotional part of the story. But can they? Can they know how YOU would read a line before they know what it will say?

Bottom line. What you're missing is the emotion-based and character-centric writing skills the pros take for granted. And since they are the learned part of the profession, there's no reason you can't learn them, too.

Not good news, I know. But you've got LOT of company, so it's no big deal.

Here's what you need to do. First, you keep writing. That's a given, But at the same time, you need to dig into the tricks unique to our profession. The free library (not the school library) has a fiction writing section filled with the views of successful writers, publishing pros, and noteworthy teachers. Time spent there is a wise investment.

My personal suggestion is a book that's probably not found there: Debra Dixon's, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict. It's a really good first book, and the cost is reasonable. It won't make a pro of you. That's your job. But it will give you to tools you need, if it's in you. And that's the best we can ask for. For a sample of the issues involved, you might look at a few articles in my writing blog.

I wish my news was better. But given all the work you've put into this I thought you should know.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/