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Oh, why not write these things down? Why not, I say? For what is real and what is not? I am suspended over what my doctor calls the “dream-reality haze.” Isn’t that convenient? After all, what would anyone that’s crazy possibly know? Even regarding our own health or emotions. Aren’t we all idiotic basket cases that need to be told what we feel and why we feel?

What does he know? He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see anything of importance. His theories are what matters to the rest of the world. Why should he care? He is getting paid for my sickness. Who is to say that I am not perfectly healthy, just under the slight influence of my medication? He gets paid to rationalize.

I will tell you, it was a great surprise when I first saw those lights. They were brilliant and beautiful. Their glow radiated from all things living and dead. I was amazed at the blindingly bright illumination, surreal and unearthly.

That sweet aura engulfed me and loved me. It made me feel safe. But, it was a lie! I have ranted and raved; it was all a lie! How could the medical staff know what it is? Were they there? No! Did they hold my hand? No!

It is still there in my mind. It’s a frozen span of time that only shows what forced me here. It was a monster, a living, breathing, treacherous demon. Now, that I waste my days here, I become more detached from what I know. I want to get it out. I fear that they may erase all that I know along with my “traumatizing memories.” Don’t you see it? Oh, please tell me you do. You must see it. To prove that I have witnessed what I have. For I know. I don’t just imagine. I don’t merely dream. I know. I didn’t ever create pipe dreams to be afraid of.

I witnessed it. Others will not testify on my behalf. They will not place themselves in the spotlight of scrutiny as I did when I saw it.

There! That light is on! I see it; it’s in the attic. I see it so clearly it terrifies me!  Oh, God! Help me! Help me . . .  Help me . . .  Help me

I watch it descend through the house, as it surely ascended from the depths of Hell. I feel it getting closer. Closer and closer. I can’t stand it. I can’t, I tell you. I can feel it discover I am here. I can feel the darkness shroud everything.

Get it out of my head, out of my mind, out of my life. I don’t want to see it anymore. I don’t want to feel it coming towards me again. It’s worse than an embrace of a dead lover, the kiss of a vampire, the stroke of good luck after death, whatever you can imagine. It is coming nearer, nearer . . .

The doctor’s diagnosis is laughable. Somehow, I have regressed and am hiding a severe trauma from my past. There is no trauma, none which he is seeking. I was not beat as a child, no molestation, and no psychological instability.

Only what I have witnessed and can’t explain to satisfy their rationalization. I knew that things didn’t exist before this. Nothing existed beyond what I am seeing now. Nothing. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, nothing.

But, I see it now. The thing says I will not see that light only the darkness which it does. I will never feel peace. I am already condemned to the hollow longing and envy of things I will never understand.

It creeps towards me; it doesn’t walk or run. It slithers slowly; it knows it will find me regardless. I may run, but not hide.

“Home sweet home . . .” It screams at me. I loved my home, but it has followed me through five moves. “Home sweet home . . .” How can I get away? How can I hide? What can I do? Me, of all people, fighting monsters.

I made a feeble attempt to inform the good doctor of what I saw. He asked if my demons had goats’ heads and cloven feet. Ha!  Foolish man. Who said morons never wear white coats? What comes for me is not human or animal. We wrestle not against flesh and blood. It is much worse. So much worse.

They are human figures, shells of what a person should look like.  Faceless, nameless, words do no justice in describing them. They are all coming for me, their arms stretched out far, so far I cannot escape.

One episode of attempted escape landed me here in the halls of insanity. This place where pitiable characters are stricken with the worst disease known, the worst imagined. One that is completely untouchable, one which cannot go into a test tube or under a microscope.

What is my disease, you ask? They are my disease, my illness, my ailment, and my lamentation for eternity. They are my reason for paranoia. Anyone would be paranoid after seeing that. I did nothing intentionally. I was forced into seeing things no human should be allowed.

Oh, I can feel it again.  Please, help me . . .  Help me . . .  Help me . . .  Help me . . .

Here they come, in my mind, choruses of hideous creatures. These dark formless shapes change with all the wild vigor of a lycanthrope. They are with all the horror of some fantastic story where mountains are really great devils with their wings folded in repose and the sea itself is merely a pool hiding a monster large enough to swallow the world.

I see them.  I have seen them, and they reside forever in my mind. The house. That abomination, the evil house where pain lives and sorrow dwells. The reflection of a friend in the eyes of a maniac.

Oh, but I most certainly am not a maniac. I know that is what you are thinking. I know because I have thought the same myself. Imagine a man, a strict and rigid Wall Street investor who purchases a historic home with a beauty that surpassed all others. On the verge of a two-million dollar cash-in. I lost it all when the house came alive.

Oh, I know. I would have thought the same thing. Now I have left the subject of my story. My sob story where I am the victim.

I would have laughed at anything like this before. Perhaps that is the reason such a cruel fate has befallen me. But, I tell you, it is true. I beg and beseech you to believe me. Don’t go to the house. For the love of all that is holy, don’t go into the house!

It is waiting for me. I think it has followed me again. Oh, I feel them coming closer. I see the light return to its former brilliance. First, the attic. Then, one by one, the three main floors come alive. All full of venom and hatred.

Suddenly I see the front door open. The creatures come in two rows. Slowly they march towards me. I know that it is my will that keeps them from coming any closer.

All that keeps me alive . . .  Home sweet home . . .  Fading and Fading . . . My will grows weaker . . . Slowly I am being torn apart . . .  The house grows stronger with every thought . . . It knows I am frightened . . .  Knows I am growing weary of the fight . . .

Oh, God, they are right beside me! They are right beside me looking at me.  Cold black voids for eyes . . . They are reaching around me . .  . Someone help me . . . Someone help me . . . Home sweet home . . .

 

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