Tuesday, July 10, 2012

When The Meds Run Out (Horror)

I hated being dependent on psychotropic medication. Every day I had to pop some pill which promised to stabilize my moods, keep me from checking doorknobs seven times, and make sleep a possibility. But that's all crap. What I really -really- hate about medication is what it represents: a thin wall of protection from reality. It's one which I visited regularly -and in which I fear I'm trapped. I've seen the other side of that wall. It isn't psychosis, but another dimension of reality. Someone says he hears voices and you assume he's delusional. I hear voices and they're another aspect of that which is.

Sometimes, "that which is" can be dangerous.

I'm not referring so much to the gray figure which first appeared in my apartment in Cranston one day amidst one of my more intense manic episodes. That type of spectre occasionally pops during stressful periods -as if to say, "ha ha jerk" or maybe give me a stupid look. I'm talking about the sudden awareness of not being alone in one's home, despite being the only one who ever enters or leaves. At 2:02 one morning, a chill swept across me as I awoke amidst tossing and pouring an iceberg-cold sweat. As a matter of fact, it swept across me several times. Strange things happen when the chill arrives. The doorknob in the living room creaks. Something brushes past the wall outside my bedroom, and in that precious brief second the woman is at my nightstand, reaching for the knife I use to cut some of my pills. The sweat grows colder, or maybe the temperature in the room itself.

One night, something changed.

The hallucination disappeared, and she stood over my bed -stoic, dispassionate, cold.


By this time, of course, I was frightened. "What the hell do you want?!", I demanded of the murderess wannabe or ghost thereof. To me, every human is a ghost. Some have finished their physical experience on Earth and others are still experiencing theirs. Such rationalizing justified my arrogance for the moment; she seemed content to stand at the side of my bed, staring down at me. While my eyes were locked onto her, unable to look away, the woman lifted the knife with both hands mouthing a mute threat. Suddenly, with the knife raised over my midsection, she plunged the cruel device downward with a quick stroke. Finally, I was able to yell -and did. She melted away as I began to overcome my paralysis.

As I awoke, I made out some odd shape on the carpet. Turning on the night stand lamp, I wasn't sure what to think or say. The object was my knife. Ruling out sleepwalking and short-term memory deficits, I tried in vain to block out the only possible conclusion. This proved impossible as my intestines began to feel as though they were on fire. The reason for the intense pain becomes clear as, to my horror, my blue blanket was now sticky, wet, and red.

The woman is present once again, knife and all. I hear any number of voices. It sounds like whispering and laughing. She's calling my name with such clarity and volume that I know she isn't human! The voices are getting louder now -much louder.  There's no sense of hope anymore. And the pain! My God -it's more than I can take. My intestines are falling out of my body at impossible angles. I don't think I can endure this.

It's growing cold.

And dark.

And I know now that I have no choice. It's time and I must go. I remain in intense pain -too much for a man to survive, yet somehow I sense it fully. I know.

I'm stepping into eternity.

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