Crumbling Visage

Demons

When I was a kid, there was an orchard I loved walking or cycling by. I used to see it vaguely on late evenings when I walked with my mother to the grocer's shop or when I cycled with my sister along the cobbled pathway. I remember a bright splatter of colors and scents and greens as I cycled by. I associated the place with my childhood. Another preferred place was the walk to the shop along the narrow pathway on early mornings. The shop was run by an old man who sold petty things which still are reminiscent of my childhood.

When I moved out of the place, none of it came up to me as the things I'd miss- I thought of the aura of my life and the routine centered around the place and that was what I was going to miss. Admittedly, that was what I did miss. The place I moved into next as a nine-year-old did not have the spectacles of my previous home but was still pleasant enough. When I moved out again as an eleven-year-old, I still had the petty fear of missing the normalcy of the life I was settled in, the people and the place I had grown attached to. It was with great fear that I moved into my next house, hoping for the same measure of happiness and oblivious of the demons haunting the place.

The first time I stepped into the house, I felt happy- oh, so very happy. But as the night went on this happiness merged with a strange apprehension- perhaps fabricated by an unsure part of my mind. I grew to like the place well enough- apparently duller than my previous home and blander still compared to my first home. I was indifferent really- nothing more than what I did had anything to do with liking the place rather than the place itself. Sometimes, indifference is the worst you can feel and the demons don't like being regarded with indifference. It started when I was twelve. I had an astounding ability to fall in a deep slumber early in the night and wake up on time every morning. Apparently, I did speak, laugh and move in my sleep- during those deep slumbers.

The first sign that something was off was when I began waking up at one every night. I would always awake to find the time to be around one and it was rather strange. And one day, maybe, just maybe, I heard a hushed whisper hailing me and calling my name in such soft yearning. No intentions of apparent harm or gentleness either- just a bid to notice.

And notice I did, for I met them up close. I have never seen them but I knew they were always there. When I screamed and yelled in anger- they were in me, urging me forward, when I suffered in pain-they were out there leering at me, when I laughed- they were there, smirking, when I broke down- they were still there.

I moved out at age fourteen.

I moved into a flat two stories up in the same apartment and maybe, just maybe they followed me. Because by that point I couldn't find myself to be distinct from them and maybe I did not regret having them.

They remind me of happier times and sometimes I wonder- were they always there? It feels as if they were always naturally and inherently part of me- when I was five and cycling down the cobblestoned path, when I was ten and walking through the mud-streaked path in my rainboots, when I was eleven and reading tales of wonderful fascination, when I was twelve and in pain, when I was thirteen and in anguish, when I was fourteen and bidding myself to smile and push myself. And now, when I feel like I am them. Now, it is more apparent than ever and maybe it is me plaguing the demons. Maybe the demons are the true substance of what I am.

On quiet nights, when I scramble to find a dark corner, I realize that under-the-bed is the most secluded place. And sometimes I find large, curious childlike eyes staring at me and questioning something I used to question.

Maybe demons aren't so bad- maybe they are the substance of us, stripped of appearances. The demons under our bed are not there to haunt us but to hide in apparent fear because under-the-bed is the most secluded place...