Sometimes I see little lights and they become malicious eyes, they never blink and they stare at me, I can never glare back. I would have run once, but I clench my fists and make myself stay, closing my eyes and holding still, like a statue. I wait, but nothing happens.
Because fear only makes you run when you’re afraid of what the monsters might do to you.
What might they do to you?
It is my 20th birthday and lying down in bed is when I feel him next to me, waiting with a present of opportunity. I am all soft edges and small bones, and he is made of blades and meat grinders. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word, but it’s not polite to keep people waiting. I was raised better than that. I turn over in my bed, back to the mattress, palms up and eyes glued to the ceiling. I start soft and inviting, “Kill me,” I whisper.
He jumps right onto my throat, his weight is suffocating. I struggle a little out of instinct, but he makes my body heavy and all I can do is twitch my fingers. I am full of fear and panic, but he is a guiltless, shameless death and I am godforsaken, so I let him. I let him press down onto my windpipe and I let my breathing turn shallow, I let my eyes roll back, my heart is racing so fast and with whatever I have in my lungs, I egg him on, “Kill me.”
Slowly, oh so slowly, it gets harder and harder to breathe. The room shakes, my eyes swivel, this is taking too long. I was always impatient and nothing has changed, not even in death. I scream, “Kill me!”
The door creaks open and a little child’s skeleton shyly enters my room. He takes a seat by the door as the purple woman walks past him. She leaves her baby, a squalling little ball of white, she leaves it on the floor behind her and it wails and screams under my table but she has more important things to attend to.
I already knew I was going to hell, but it is taking too long it is taking too long it is taking too long it is taking too long
mama i don’t wanna go to hell, i don’t wanna burn, mama save me, she will bring me with her to see the eternal flames, i know i was just that evil, i was just that evil, the voice of god never visits me, not even in my dreams, before i go to bed only the demons come and god won’t save me it’s too late, mama, please!
I burst up from under his grip.
It is my 22nd birthday. I have no god and no religion, no hell and no heaven, no prayers and no incense, no sins and no virtue.
I lie down, I know he will visit me, and when I close my eyes, I can feel him leaning over me, curious-like, his hands held carefully behind his back.
I have much to tell him. “You are just chemicals and poor sleep,” I want to say, “you could have never killed me anyway.”
But I am sleepy and too lazy to be bothered getting up so I say, “There’s water and snacks downstairs,” and drift off peacefully into my dreams.
