God 1

Years into its dreams the God began to practice it’s awareness of the outside expanse. There was no more praise to the information, and every movement had long stopped. The god was no longer concrete, but its resounding apathy willed it into reality if only to say “let me rest”. With no more input a dementia had set onto its soul. It did not know how it had come to be, but it longed to die. The silence had become exhausting: there was no-one left to ignore. It’s dreams were painful, they could only remind it of a time when it’s belly was full.


Around 18 I started to believe that my house was haunted. Furniture would move, whispers would trickle into my bed at night, I would generally believe that things were watching me. At the time I was living with a woman who believed this just as much as I, she heard the whispers and felt the encroaching fear as it began to consume us both. I do not necessarily think this was a “ghost” or an “extra-dimensional being”, and the circumstances of our encounters were tainted with alcohol and drug abuse. But long after she stopped hearing the whispers they continued to plague me.

We originally attributed this ghost to the disgruntled neighbor who had recently killed himself in a very vicious way. This man’s lover had been forcefully keeping him in his home by sedating him with heroin, her and her brother were then cashing his social security checks to buy crack. For months no one in my building saw him. When rent time came around, the super was asked those in the building if they had heard from him in the last month or so. When the results of this inquiry turned up dry the decision was made to break into his house. What they found was a shell of a man, who looked as if he were in his 80s rather than in his 60s. Supposedly due to his shame he stabbed himself in the heart right there and then.

He lived a floor below us, and around the time that he died we started observing this wretched phenomenon. It didn’t take much convincing for us to deduce that it was his spirit keeping us awake at night.

We burned sage, asked it to leave, and slowly the presence of whatever it was started to fade away. But I kept hearing the voices. Most of the time they were just uninterpretable whispers that filled the silence of my head. But they started developing a personality in saying things like “we are never going to leave”, “I’ll be waiting”, and the all-time repeating classic of “kill your self”.

This voice came from inside, and with each repetition formed a new clarity in my ability to visualize how I should kill myself. Stabbing out my entrails, jumping in front of the train, bashing my head against the concrete until my head was caved in, drowning myself, slitting my own throat, jumping out of my window, ripping my ears off to bleed out, slamming my teeth to the back of my skull where they would dislodge my spine…

The voice took anything I had from my surroundings and used that as a tool for how I should do it. When I started to plead with it that it go away the violence came to me, and I would fear bending fences would swing back and impale me, rooms would shrink until I was crushed to death, walls would form tendrils and slowly bore into my stomach. All instigated by this voice, whispering away from my stomach.

I began to believe that this being was an inter-dimensional being that was essentially the manifestation of hate. That it found hosts where it could sustainably breed more anger and frustration and made a home. As I began to anthropomorphize this sensation its instructions became more detailed. I could see everything it wanted me to in my minds eye, and often those projections would begin to flicker into everyday life. I still remember a day when I thought that the walls of the subway train were flesh, and with each step I was siphoning blood from its mass. Each day people would read my thoughts. Sometimes these people were alien creatures that were trying to harvest my energy for their own entertainment. These aliens were often at, for they had no idea I was infected with the demon. Everyone was listening to me, but only one would talk back, describing in perfect detail what I needed to do to end this cycle. A cycle that followed me everywher, a perpetual scream that only ever got quieter.

This thing tried to reveal its name to me on numerous occasions, I do not think anyone from this world would be able to understand it. I still fear that if I knew its name I would become enveloped in its mannerisms, too satisfied with my gluttony to care for my own or anyone else’s safety. Behind that name grew the immense power of the collective fear it had fostered in me over what seemed like an eternity. In retaliation I named this beast “fuzzy”, as a mechanism to belittle the influence it had on me.

It wasn’t present all the time, in fact there were good periods where I would forget the severity of my compulsions and thoughts. Other times I would self induced ignorance through my alcoholic blackouts. As the years went on and the Fuzzy got more aggressive this route was taken more often. But it would always be waiting on the other-side, ready to pick at me when I was weak.

I reached so many points where I wanted to die, and seemed to beckon the universe to do it for me. It was at these times that the voice turned its violence outward, now its prerogative was that I kill those I love, swim in their bowels, and end my own life in a puddle of their guts. I would see it in such excruciating detail, and feel the manic rage that Fuzzy fed me. What kind of a disgusting monster would have thoughts like this? In these hours another voice would plead that I kill myself.

That voice was my own.

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