The Demons–A (Mostly) True Story

‘Not again!’ he thought as he jutted awake. The demons had come for him again. He didn’t want them to, but they had.

Fear now gripped him tightly as the demons began flowing through his mind, laughing, mocking, dancing like fallen angels to some unheard melody. Silently he stepped out of his room into the darkness of the hallway, careful not to wake his parents. Without making a sound, he crept into the kitchen. Like a ghost. A perfectly silent ghost–one that feared the demons.

He quickly found his favorite blade, a smart, small, razor-sharp little steak knife–perfect for cutting. He reflected on how he should buy his own knife as he returned to his room. He entered it and felt his soul scream. It was the only way, he told himself, for if he didn’t, they would never leave him be.

And, as if some cycle of life and death, or perhaps just death, it all happened again, always in the same way. First he relived the rape, his worst wound. The incestuous, consensual rape. He had only been six. It wasn’t his fault! …Right? He had said okay, he recalled as he felt his pulse begin to quicken, tears welling up in his eyes. He hadn’t really wanted to, but he figured his brother didn’t need to know that, so he just said yes. And then he had liked it. He had liked it! He was disgusted with himself. He was straight! He wasn’t incestuous! He could still taste and feel and hear and see it, just as if he was right there all over again, and over and over…

He opened his eye and realized he was shuddering uncontrollably and perspiring. He was also shedding tears without realizing it.

It had been his own brother. He shuddered again at the thought. He still loved his brother. But not in that way… Never! That was why he had never told anyone. It would’ve killed what remained of his family. He couldn’t do that to his mother, no… or his brother. He could handle his burdens on his own. All he needed was his knife.

He then flashed forward. Fifth and sixth grades. Oh, what those little bastards had done to him. He had had no friends. Only enemies. Only those who hated him. He was so afraid of people at the end of sixth that he took homeschool for seventh grade, or at least his first year of it. Terribly sociophobic, he became a raging insomniac and started cutting himself, tentatively at first, then deeper.
Yes, he revisited all his memories: his parents’ divorce, his brother being either abusive or in jail for months at a time, the rape the lack of friends…

Then his thoughts changed, like a moth to the flame, to the rest of the world. The people and their terrible problems. Violence. War. Famine. Poverty. Disease. Genocide. Terrorism. Corporational and governmental corruption. The media. Narrowmindedness. Racism. Division. Hatred. Fear. Rape. Greed. Pain. Everywhere.

It all came at him like an avalanche of corpses, striking with the rage of a thousand dead souls. He thought he felt all the world’s pain compacted into a single moment. Somewhere, a young woman, maybe twenty, was wondering where she would get her next fix as she patted and sang to the starving, kicking baby in her stomach. Both would soon be dead. Gunfire rang out in some Middle Eastern village, far removed from the woman and her dying baby. Hezbollah again. The villagers had grown familiar with this incident. Another attack, like yesterday and the week before that and the… Only this time they wouldn’t leave anyone alive.

So he cut. He cut for his mother and her two failure sons and her second failing marriage. He cut for his brother, sleeping in some car in the cold and trying not to concentrate on his own flaws. He cut for his father, faking a life with another woman other than the one he used to love. He cut for his country, with its corrpution and money and gluttony and greed. He cut for his world, bleeding, crying, in pain as he was now. His blood was a river of empathy, and at the same time, apathy. More rage and pain surfaced. He cut again and again, deeper and deeper. Each time he felt the demons back away just a little more. He cried himself to sleep like that, knife in hand, blood streaming from his eyes where he had wiped them with his red hands.

And that was how his parents found him this morning, cold, dead, alone, and sorry for the rest of us.

By Metalblade

Don't ask me that, I don't remember last week...