Torturous is Its Haunting

Torturous is Its Haunting

By Jaden Martins

Torturous is Its haunting.

Not a step can I take without feeling the chill of Its gaze upon my spine. Through the day, I sense It lurking just out of view. It is biding Its time—yes, I know. I dread that moment when It throws away all pretense, unveils Itself, and comes for my weary heart. For now, It haunts.

‘Twas not suddenly that It came upon me—It is never sudden. Days passed—weeks—as I felt the haunting grow and grow and grow until at all hours I was surrounded by Its presence—trapped. I took measures, mind you, to be rid of the thing. Not long did I take to discover Its revulsion to the sound of laughter, for in the late hours when jokes flowed freely from the mouths of good friends It would hide Itself away. A clever remedy, one that I employed to great measure, and I came to long for those few moments of respite—depend on them. Like any drug, however, my body—my mind—became tolerant. I started needing more. More comforting company, more wondrous witticisms, more ludicrous laughter to keep It at bay. Yet, each night I spent forcing It away It only came back more vicious, more horrible, and more frightening.

I have found It drains the very color of my world. Hues of gray are all I see, given respite only by a few smiles—which I treasure very dearly. The rain insists on pouring, muddying my shoes and drenching my work. It loves the rain. Something about the dreary atmosphere invigorates It—emboldens It. Surely, It can’t know how fragile my mind becomes in this weather. Oh God, am I that obvious? There are people around—do they see It too? THEY DO. I can tell from their eyes—they know my weakness. I must run—no, running would attract more attention—hide then—where? I cannot be seen. It will not let me hide—run then—NO! I mustn’t let It control me. I am safe, calm, collected. It will tear me apart—I won’t let It.

The passage of time slowly brings It form. What was once a mess of intangible vapor has solidified into a great beast cloaked in shadow. It still lacks corporeal attachment to this world—all attempts to be rid of It through physical measures have proven null and void. Lord above, how I have imagined tearing It apart, careful to be as abhorrently vile as possible. What ecstasy I’d feel to hear Its screams discord with my uncontrollable cackling. I would have It know the pain It has caused me. For every relationship It broke, I’d shatter a bone, and for every day It lost me I’d drive a nail into Its skin. By the end, It’d be more metal than creature.

In the confines of my room, when I am most terribly alone, It is dreadfully powerful. I am afraid. So, so afraid. I cannot—shall not—sleep in Its presence. But, I must. I must force myself to ignore Its wheezing in my ear—not feel Its breath against my neck. I must sleep. I must not let the weight of It pressing upon my shoulders keep me from my health. I must sleep. I must not let the dreams It show me of war, of loss, or of loneliness affect me. I MUST SLEEP.

Torturous is Its haunting.