Have you ever asked yourself what it means to be “normal?” Who decides what is ordinary or not? Such a strange thing it is. I find it interesting that this subjective concept merits such levels of obsession within ourselves. Well, after much contemplation, I think I know the answer. Do you want to know what “normal” is?
“Normal” is what everybody else is and what you are not.
You see, there is no such thing as “normal” when a demon claims you for its own. The truth of the matter is, most people are misinformed when it comes to the actual nature of the demon. These creatures don’t spend their days seeking to possess your soul. They have no more use for the insubstantial and immaterial than we do. They don’t go into the world, mindlessly rampaging with only the desire to bring suffering upon all who cross its path. They have purpose and reason. Take me for example, there was a reason it found me and kept me; like a farmer would keep livestock. The real motivations of these creatures are much more sinister. When a demon first takes hold of you, it starts preparing you. It begins with severing all bonds of love and attachment. It wants you to be alone. It wants you isolated. Those feelings of hopelessness and helplessness, that is what gives it nourishment to extract. My demon’s name was Mr. Wink. He first came to me when I was five years old; I am twenty-seven now.
My story began in a typical manner, not unlike most folk tales told from generation to generation. It started with a sleeping little boy and the Bogeyman.
I first remembered the two hazy red orbs. They hovered in the corner of my room where my dresser sat. That was where the shadows were the darkest. It would use its claws to drag itself out of the blackness, pulling its body out of a hole in the floor made from shadows. A swirling vapor that rapidly formed and reformed arose out of its emaciated, naked body. The beast approached in quick bursts of speed with a movement that was serpentine-like and lightning fast. It never fully stood but preferred to drag itself along the ground, migrating from one spot to the next. It would press against the surface it occupied and made seizure-like jerking movements with its arms, legs, and torso.
Its face was the worse. Two glowing red eyes with pinprick pupils looked out from a face devoid of any expression, much like an insect. It had an oval-shaped mouth lined with fangs of a spider instead of teeth. Pimpled over its face, countless black and round eyes blinked frantically in a chaotic, unsynchronized pattern. Barbed hairs protruded from the surrounding skin of the eyes. The largest eye sat in the center of its forehead. The penetrating stare slowly blinked, giving it the impression it was winking at me.
The mist rolled out of its body and moved like a living creature in itself, examining its environment like a predator seeking prey. Quickly, it encircled my tiny bed and surrounded my body. The monster grew closer to me. Overcome with terror, I screamed for my mommy. The black vapor poured into my mouth and pushed back all sound and silenced me. With a sudden jolt, it felt as if an invisible sheet covered my body with a powerful force pulling down on all four corners, pressing me into the mattress.
On that first night, it approached my bed, grabbed me by the throat, and held me against the wall. Its bodily mist paralyzed my movement and restrained my voice. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. Mr. Wink took one of its claw-like nails and caught a droplet of my tears as it rolled down my cheek and tasted it. He smiled. It spoke to me for the first time. It did not communicate with words or vocalization; it articulated its intent with images and feelings planted into my mind. It expressed a sense of ownership and possession. It was a proclamation that I now belonged to it. Threatening images and emotions slammed into my thoughts with a clear message that I was not to speak of him to anyone. It brought one of its single long clawed fingers to its lips and said, “shhh.”
It turned to leave, but before going, it took one of its sharp pointed nails, touched the tip to its tongue, and made two small incisions in the flesh behind my ears where they attached to my head. They were only the size of a paper cut, but it hurt terribly. In three days, it had festered into a severe, painful skin infection that took over a month to heal.
Once it faded back into the shadows, I ran into my parent’s rooms screaming in terror. Back then, my parents would soothe my fears and comfort their little boy. Once calm, they took me back into my room and showed me there was nothing to fear. There was nothing under my bed or in my closet. “It was only a scary dream,” they said. The next night, Mr. Wink came again and hissed in rage at my disclosure of his previous visit. Once again, I was pinned against the wall; its grip tightened around my throat. Images filled with emotions to inflict punishment and retribution overwhelmed me.
He released me and proceeded to do something that still haunts my dreams. He held my pet kitten up in his clawed hand and proceeded to kill him in front of me. My kitty was my best friend in the whole world, and I loved him so much. In the end, Mr. Wink grabbed my head and held my dear little one up to my face so that I could look into its eyes when it died. It then slapped my face several times with the small cat’s limp, dead body. It threw me to the ground and silently vanished into the shadows.
In the beginning, I could never predict when or how often Mr. Wink would come. It might come for several nights; one right after the other. Other times, I would not see him for months. Even in its absence, it still affected both my waking and sleeping time. All my life, I’ve endured the most terrifying and lucid dreams imaginable. I have seen everyone I have ever loved tormented and murdered countless times. I have been relentlessly pursued in foreign deserted streets by ape-like ancient creatures that held large spikes in their hands. As they approached, they crossed the metal rods over their heads in an x-shape fashion and clanked them loudly and grunted the word, “Crucify!” I have been attacked by every grotesque monster imaginable. I have been chased, stalked, and hunted. That is all I have ever known.
I quickly realized that Mr. Wink’s influence extended well beyond the supernatural and not limited to the confines of my bedroom. It made sure it severed any source of support and love in my life. Soon, things would happen. Strange and horrible things that always seem to point to me as the perpetrator. I was seen as a mean, nasty, little boy who thrived on disobedience and destruction. In school, if anything went missing, it would always be found in my possession. Animals in the neighborhood would also be found in my possession, all dead and in most cases mutilated. The most vulgar and hateful words on schoolbooks, walls, and lockers would appear. It would always be in my handwriting. My childhood was constantly stalked by invisible hands intent on driving a wedge into all relationships of closeness and attachment.
Mr. Wink’s work was eventually completed, it could now enjoy the fruits of its labor. Thinking back, it was all so clear now. The purpose of creating and subjugating a child to a life devoid of love and happiness was to create food source. The endless misery and sadness it keeps me in, that is what produces the nourishment that powers this monster and grants it the ability to move between the mystical barrier between our world and theirs.
Now I would only see Mr. Wink himself when it was time to feed. It had a name for this. I saw mental images that formed the word “milking.” It would hold its left hand above my face; palms down and fingers extended wide. The murky flesh on its palm would split open to reveal a large mouth, opening and contorting itself into funny faces as if yawning after awakening from a long nap.
The mouth would suddenly start to gag. The chokes became more intense and violent, all the while making loud and disgusting retching noises. A swollen, slimy globular mass would emerge from the mouth and fall onto my face with a sickening “plop.” It would ooze down the sides of my face, and tiny little tendrils would emerge. As always, I would frantically struggle, but the mist that flowed from its body held me tightly. The tendrils burrowed into my skin, in my neck, face, in my ears, in my nose and through the corners of my eyes.
Most people don’t know that the skin is only one of the many barriers we have. There are other barriers that separate the physical form from our spiritual self. That is where our soul lives. That is where love and joy, inspiration, and works of art come from. It is also where fear, hate, and despair reside too. Reaching those parts of you require more than just penetrating the skin. Those mystical barriers must be punctured. Those tendrils had to go deep. Deep into my spiritual body, past the ethereal membranes into the places not meant to be trespassed. Mr. Wink went deep to reach the prize he craved and lusted for. He went deep and I laid motionless and in pain, feeling my very source of life being drained away.
I was seven years old the first time I experienced being “milked.”
That has been my life. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this. Mr. Wink ruined my life. I am condemned to a life of poverty and manual labor. I can’t hold a job or make friends. Drugs and alcohol plague my days and Mr. Wink still haunts my nights. My parents gave up on me a long time ago; it was the only way for them to find some happiness in the later years of their life. They passed away holding firm to their decision that they had no son. Mr. Wink paid close attention to my parents! He attacked that relationship with a hateful ferocity. He subjugated them to the vilest and most unforgivable displays of delinquency and debauchery and made them believe it was from their highly disturbed and unsalvageable child. I never knew what it was like to have my mother and father look down upon me with pride and love. It was always with disappointment and eventually resentment. I have no one in my life today. I am abandoned. No one knows I am alive, and no one cares. I am all alone.
Today, somebody let me know I was wrong.
This morning, I opened my front door to my run-down apartment and found a small package wrapped in brown paper and held together with a string. The box looked worn and battered with no name on the package. It bothered me at first, but that didn’t keep me from picking up the mysterious object. In my kitchen, I gently pulled the ends of the twine tied around the package. The knot loosened with ease, and the paper fell away to reveal a small, antique, mahogany box. It was masterfully designed with the resemblance of a miniature treasure chest. I opened the lid to the box. Inside, on a regal, purple cushion rested a small glass jar.
The jar was made from a glossy and thick glass. The type of glass seen in old-fashioned soda bottles that swirled with brilliant emerald shades of green. The thick lid was attached to the jar by a shiny steel hinge that was fastened to a brass fixture that wrapped itself around the top of the jar and came together at a latch made from silver. Etched into the glass, were a variety of strange figures and shapes. If I were to take a guess, I would say they looked like Nordic ancient runes. Like the ones I always see on those TV shows about ancient aliens.
I laughed to myself, finding it funny.
Tied to the lid was a small piece of parchment with a handwritten note that read:
- If you know NOT your enemy, you will fail.
- If you know your enemy but NOT yourself;
- You may find victory, but at costs so very high.
- When you know yourself, you are a mighty force.
- Never will you be bound or subjugated to another’s will.
- May your enemies tremble from beneath the shadow of your wrath.
- You already have everything you will ever need.
- It is now time to fight back!
To be continued.
