curiouslyhigh: (Alexia - Rolling Stones)
[personal profile] curiouslyhigh
I was a child when it first appeared. Without provocation or warning, it simply Was. Perhaps I was overimaginative. Perhaps I was simply delusional, and I still am. But it's there.

You can't see it. It has no form. And you can't hear it, or smell it. In fact, all your senses are useless, but you know it's there. You can feel it like you feel another person in the room with you when you're asleep. I call it The Presence. Although you cannot see it, you know it's watching you. Glaring and smiling with needle-knife teeth. It communicates with you. Not with thought, but with the jagged, horrific feeling like it's gripped your spine with sharp, long talons and is pulling you into a form of Hell and insanity with it. All it wants is destruction and pain. All it knows is your own, tailored-to-fit agony which it will give you.

It lived, if things like that ARE alive, nearby. I would often feel it pressed against the sliding door window of my living room, staring at me. Haunting me. Waiting for me to turn around and see nothing there. It would tell me that it saw me, saw my heart pounding and my blood rushing. The Presence would never leave. In the day or night, it would grin with heavy, cold malice, and in my mind's eye I could see it's clawlike, long talons pressed against that window. It was there, and never inside. But it didn't matter. It could still find me wherever I was in the house and torment me.

It eyed my family as I silently played with my toys. It told me that my sisters were jealous of me because I was the youngest. It told me that my brother was sick before he even showed symptoms. It told me that it was the one that made him that way. My brother.

My poor brother.

It was obvious that he was ill after a while. He'd wake up and run to the bathroom at all hours of the night, and what remained of dinner was soon in the toilet, and swirling down into the septic tank. He became thin, and frail. Not like his strong, energetic, athletic self of a year previous. The worst he'd ever had before was a broken arm from falling off a bike (Something the Presence also took pride in), and now, here he was, this pale comparison of himself. Only twelve, and he looked like he'd been born weak and sickly. His eyes lost their glimmer of life, his voice lost its exuberence. The doctors said that without a doubt, he had cancer. They said it was impeding his spine, locking it up, making him stiff.

Outside the window once we got home from the doctor, the Presence voicelessly, silently cackled. It was feeding on the grief, on the anger and pain.
My sisters and I cried, my mother and father fought. My brother laid in bed, coughing and gasping for air that came to him so freely before. I couldn't retaliate. If I were to fight this thing, it would take away someone else I loved.

So it took my brother. It ATE my brother. All that sorrow and grief, all that pain and helplessness that came from him, and his situation, and OUR situation, all of it was taken in and fed this Presence. I feel the Presence now, with its needle-knife grin and its glaring, piercing gaze, laughing. Ever laughing because I still can't forgive it for what it did to my brother.

I hate it. But my hate feeds it. I want to destroy it. But longing for its destruction only makes it bigger. I'm forever locked in a perpetual hell with this THING near me. Haunting me. Stalking me. The only way it will ever be satisfied is when my family, all that I love, all that I have ever cared about or enjoyed, will be snuffed out. And then finally, when all that is gone, Me along with it.


curiouslyhigh: (Default)
Sage the Meat Popsicle

March 2016

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