Demons

    I tell my friends that I’m a writer. Eccentric. I laugh; I smile. I tell them I’m a little crazy and we all enjoy the joke. They think I’m a little moody, I suppose, sometimes my reactions to things are a bit too carried away but I’m just a little too emotional.
It’s false. Eccentric, crazy, they are the only words I can find to relate the feelings that I experience to my friends without them thinking different of me. The truth…is so much worse. I could never tell them what I really experience. Beyond what they think of me – they wouldn’t believe me.

    To not be able to control one’s own actions is terrible. But when your own thoughts are stripped of you? Possession is the closest word I know to describe the feeling.

    At first I just feel the presence, a tingling at the back of my neck, and something deep in my mind switched on. Then my thoughts start to muddle, and my emotion swings the direction it is pointing. A drink of too-hot hot chocolate burns my tongue; I’m reminded of all the burning pains in the world. The demon on my back next makes me feel their pain. If they are to be hurting from hunger, then I am to. I sink into a depression that never belonged to me.
 
    I can feel him feeding on the raw, pure emotion, but I don’t care. I don’t care that I’m making him stronger. Much to the contrary, I’m carnally pleased at his strength. The stronger he exists in my head, the clearer and more beautiful the words I put down are.

    I hate myself for the act, but I cannot help but do it. Like a druggie looking at a drawn syringe plunger, I push without control. My health, both physical and mental, is put at risk each and every time I do, but I don’t care. The edges of my vision blur from the pain, and my thoughts speed up. The memories, still freshly tagged to emotion grow to tidal wave strength and impact, knocking the breath out of my lungs. I perspire, my hands tremble, my eyes dart, and my heart rate doubles. Nothing is as important as the keyboard underhand.

    I am in constant pain during these ordeals; this pain of true sight afforded to me by this demon. Having him constantly whispering perverse truths into my ear sets me apart from the crowd. I see the inherent hypocrisies of life when no one else cares to. The evil is so evident when my mind and eyes see the truth in this world. My soul has burn marks that will never heal. My tears bear similar witness to evil that cannot be stopped because pain is inherent in people’s interactions with each other.
 
    I wish to ignore the evils and perversities barely hidden in today’s culture like everyone else, but they are forced upon me. As soon as I care to overlook something there is an evil whispering in my ear. I can force the overlooking, I can, but it haunts me when I close my eyes.

    It’s always been the cause of my anguish. In high school I counted. Steps, tiles, the flowing lines of the wood on my desk. While my sub-conscious mind would focus on issues such as ethics and moralities, my conscious mind would count to ten again and again. He made me. When I tried to talk to others, he forced me away. When teachers would want me to focus on simpler matters in class I would be whispered answers by the infinitely more quick voice in my head. He would then drive me to pen ideas and thoughts.

    The thoughts would often impress teachers with their complexity. I would smile, laugh, and take credit, but I was always afraid. It was when I looked them in the eyes that I feared they would catch a glint of flame, and wonder, whisper about me. Never did anyone comment.
 
    My relationship with this creature has always been on of mutual distrust and hate. I am drained of life and liveliness by his abyssal manifestation, yet I loved his words. They set me apart, something I’ve been in love with for a very long time. I’ve always looked like the other students, but I’ve never thought like them. Teachers and mentors told me I approached problems from an angle different from the norm, and I knew why but I never told them. I don’t believe they ever found out about the voice in my head.

    You, reading this now. We are equivalent. I make no distinction between us. This is however, one single flaw inherent to my existence that you are blissfully untainted with: I’ve been chosen, chosen by something basely evil. I simply had to trade my soul for his company.

    The darkest secret I keep is this: I enjoy him. I enjoy every moment of pain, every bite off my soul, every darkness committed by me in this state, for one reason: He gives me my words. He gives me what I deem life, this creativity of thought and action. Without his claws and his coveting I would be nothing.

    But it’s late, and I can feel hot breath on my neck. Good night.