Supernatural Non-Fiction posted November 28, 2014


Exceptional
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A short story

Evermore

by Drew Delaney

Again, shuffling movements resume in my bed. Somehow, he has returned. Why did I allow him back into my life? When will I ever learn? Fear grips me like a noose sprung around my neck in haste, and not knowing the reason. My fingers practically loosen off the knuckles from my hand. They meander their way, slowly and timidly, heading toward the other side of my bed. Nobody is there. Thank you, God! It was only a nightmare.

I took him back so many times. Each time, regret tore my insides to shreds. "Why did I come back? He promised to change, but I should have known from past experiences."

"I'll change. I'll be good to you. I'll take care of you. I'll quit drinking." I fell for those lines, like lint sticks to black suede, at least nine times. Toward the end, each time he degraded and belittled me, I mentally repeated a mantra to somehow deal with the deadly poisonous words he pelted my way.

"Guess what? You have just been nominated number one asshole of the year once again. Congratulations." It may have heartened my heart, but I desperately needed a shield.

A mad man, I have forever said. Now could this reality possibly be reversing to - a mad woman?

The years, tough and arduous with the responsibilities crouching on my shoulders, soon resulted in a disdainful toll. I did not look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but I could sense the heaviness pressing me down. My head and shoulders became difficult to carry. Neck and shoulder pains burdened me, turning into headaches with fits of depression and horrific anxiety attacks. The top part of my body curved like the roundness of the moon.

Now nearing old age with more white hair than I can pull out, more wrinkles than I can count, the haunting of the past forevermore taunts me into a decaying reality; however, I somehow have become more accustomed to an existence others might consider as being obsessive. That is, I want to just be left alone to my ways and my thoughts, and to escape friends who have now become strangers. Strangers who really cared little for me in the first place. The real me that still ticks. How could they? I do not even know myself.

Perhaps, you may ask what have I done to deserve such despondency and rejection. I must admit I have entered a shell. I'm a turtle and one that doesn't care to be bothered. When an occasion presents itself, I simply tuck my head inside this hard, safe shell. No insults or hurts bother me in here. I'm most comfortable in my own zone.

Almost certainly, the madness of this man reformed me into his preferred creation. His sculpting took precedence once he learned how easy I was to refashion and actually reproduce. He could work on my moral beliefs that suggested the woman was made for man, but he added something to that verse. Made for man to control and manipulate and make her crawl in desperation. He required someone like me to attach strings to, make me dance at his beck and call, and he became the puppeteer.

Thus, he managed to proceed with his carnal ways of drinking, and staying out half the night drinking with women, young and old alike. It didn't matter to him, and if I complained, well, it was just too bad. He was going to do as he pleased, and if I didn't like it, well, I knew what I could do. 

Although, later I came to realize anyone who allows themselves to become a puppet is not minutely admired, respected, or even desired. This man, who later saw nothing good in me, and could never be pleased, I could not satisfy, no way and no how.

The cause is of no effect now, but I mention it to establish the beginnings of what becomes of a puppet, if they don't escape in time.

The 'haunt' in my life is now the perpetrator. The executer.

He comes in the deep, dark night when I am fast asleep. He is a devil, I tell you. At times, he brings along his legion.

He masturbates lying next to me. I say it like it is. The bed shakes like a tremor when an earthquake is about to occur. My eyes are wide open. I wonder in my state of fear and unbelief whether I am going mad. The bed shakes in perfect rhythm, with no one else in it other than myself, and yet it moves convulsively.

He always adored tormenting me with that tool of his. The tool, which has been used, not for my pleasure or to satisfy me, but to persecute me with ultimate control and manipulation. His sword, sharp and deadly, propels in my innards once his pleasure reaches its peak. Blood splays across my white sheets. The time of the month is not an excuse.

Now, he disappears into the night. I weep until I fall back to sleep. Why did I allow him to upset me like that? How did he get in? No amount of locks, chains and bars can keep him out. He is stored in my memory bank, my hard drive, and he comes to haunt me when he chooses.

I am, for the time being, relieved beyond comprehension. I no longer feel his presence. Sleep will come now that I am left alone. I am so tired. The mental irritation is disturbing. The physical is completely draining. But its the prescription medications I must take for anxiety attacks that cause me to be tired endlessly. Nobody understands. Not a soul.

Guilty for sleeping in, I rise and hurry to get things in order. Why? I have been driven to near madness. It has been so for decades. Guilt gnaws at me inside and out. Why are you still in bed? You are lazy. Get up, you lazy bitch. Although alone, I feel like he is about to bawl me out about something. Never sure for what exactly, but it's as though there is something I should have done, or something I have forgotten to do. 

"But I am tired." I remember saying. "Please, don't treat me like that."

"If you don't like it, take the fuckin' door." 

How many times does a woman have to hear those same words, over and over and over again? Take the fuckin' door.

The mockery with the scowl in his face is worse than the words he spews at me. His once beautiful green eyes, just like the beauty of Lucifer's at the beginning of time, pierces like a dagger right through me. The pain fits the scowl. My heart bleeds in agony. Hatred for another exceeds their words. I wonder, what did I ever do to deserve this. I have wondered for nearly an eternity it seems.

But these days, I no longer wonder. I know the demons I have to deal with, and how they are striving to drive me mad. They are short beings, probably half my length in stature. I have power over them, because I am covered in His blood. However, that doesn't stop them from tormenting me.

They like to enter my room, and sit on my bed. I feel the weight of them as the mattress sinks in. Others walk around my bed, and attempt to jump on to my bed, but are too short to hop on. I don't see them, but I sense them simply because they apply pressure on the edges on my bed. The mattress sometimes feels like waves slapping against a small boat with the same type of motion.

When I tell them to get out, in Jesus' Name, they scatter and crawl away immediately. My one wish is that they would never come back. They are not welcome here.

I live alone. This man dwells elsewhere, but his spirit seems to haunt my home almost nightly. I had hoped he would be the one repenting for his actions. Why is my mind tortured like this? Was choosing to stay and recieve his maltreatment a sin? Will the haunting end soon, or will it continue into, 'Evermore'?

 


Recognized


Not sure if this would be categorized as stream-of-consciousness. I dip in and out purposely.
Thanks to Angelheart for this amazing picture which helps me expose how I feel at times of near insanity.

Also, thank you to those who have read my work. Any constructive criticizm is most welcome.
I don't think I am insane, but it is a good thing I got out when I did. My priest told me I should have the marriage annulled because it was not a marriage. But I have four children and nine grandchildren. I try to lay low and just trust God to get me through.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.


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