The Messenger

by SaraRose

Posted to Stories on 2003-10-12 23:27:00

Sara Anderson
October 8th, 2003
Kelly Daniels
Workshop
The Messenger


Webster defines sleep as: the natural periodic suspension of consciousness during which the powers of the body are restored. Apparently, sleep is a survival tactic, something that humans learned long ago to maintain their race. Night hits. The mind rests, muscles relax, and energy is replenished. Sun rises. The eyes are sensitive to light. A chemical reaction is sent to the brain. Time to start a new day.
Sliding out my keyboard I begin clickity-click typing. Let’s see. Achluophobia, Lygophobia, Myctophobia, Nyctophobia, Scotophobia: these are the words that I prefer to justify my condition. A real explanation? Yeah, ok. I’m 23 years old and still deathly afraid of the dark. So what. It’s my little secret that only my fiancé knows, and now you. I’m sure you both find it amusing.
For me, sleep takes preparation. Sedatives would be nice. First, my room must be spotless. I’m not a compulsive cleaner or anything. Sometimes I begin to bite my nails and stare nervously at a black heap on my floor. Swear to God it is moving. Maybe it’s some rabid animal! I imagine a wolverine-like creature latching on to my leg and ripping off stands of flesh. Turn on my little tulip lamp to discover a pile of dirty laundry. Cleaning helps to avoid such paranoid episodes.
Light is crucial. My screen saver flashes images of Brandon Boyd for two hours until sleep mode kicks in. Anything that reveals dark: closets, hallways, attics must be closed or else I end up staring into the mysterious veil of darkness for hours.

I should’ve never watched “It” when I was six years old. It was an R movie and my parents would never let their little pumpkin watch such “trash.” But, there they were on a Friday night, eating popcorn, drinkin’ Budlight, and watching that bastard clown. Being the curious little one that I was, I tiptoed down the narrow staircase and peered over the old leather couch. There he was, “It” reaching out from the sewer for that poor little girl. Forever, I’ll hate dark places and the god-forsaken circus.

My apartment window overlooks an abandoned cornfield, drought hit this year. Farmers gave up. Stalks bare and dead in mid-July. The sunsets are always alive though. Venetian red collides into a blend of Cadmium orange and Indian yellow. Red. What a powerful color; a symbol of both lust and death. How effortlessly it rules the sky.
Blood. A dull gray cell, filth ridden floors, a smelly haze lingers in the heavy air; that of rotting sewer. Bars puncture the earth. There I am. In the middle of the floor. Lifeless. A gouge across my neck. Blood oozing out, creating a trail that travels the length of the dungeon. Dripping down various tunnels where it becomes solute with algae water. A man disguised in black stands and watches. Only his wicked eyes are revealed, they smile and laugh with a sick twist pleasure. Every second of this is pure orgasmic bliss for him. I succumb to fear…my limbs twitch my head jerks my body spazzes blood gushes. Evil will never let me win. Red Carnage.
I pinch myself. Snap out of it Myra! Sometimes my gruesome mind gets the better of me. Don’t know why exactly. I am not a sick person; I volunteer at the local nursing home and sponsor a little boy named Giles in Somalia.
I have the notion that evil likes to hunt people who try to stand, those who are strong. Martin Luther King died for “Freedom’s cause to change the land.” Joan de Arc led la petite armée française to victory against the mighty Brits and was burned at the stake by the oh-so-holy Catholic Church. Perhaps there is something in me that evil wants to stop…to keep me from secrets and far from truth.
Now I am definitely not strong. I mean good charity and leading hymns for old people is cool and all, my two cents for the world. But, I work in a cubicle 12 hours a day sorting through rich people’s tax papers, summing up figures, and spitting numbers out my ass. Boring. My dream was to work in the Peace Corps. The only factor that came between us was FEAR.
1:30 A.M. Six hours before work, and my screen saver just shut off. I’d get up and rattle my mouse but I’m nearing exhaustion. Die Nacht is etching at my skin. Are all the doors locked? Windows shut? The door knob creaks. What the hell is that? I wonder what is hiding around the corner, the blind spot. I rush to the living room and pick up my Mace. I stand ready. A cold breeze brushes against my face. Scream. Just scream Myra. I open my mouth, but words do not escape the corners of my lips. Darkness. All that shines is the glimmer of the moon, casting down eerie shadows. He is here tonight. Probably in the bathroom, waiting for me to sneak past. This isn’t the first time we’ve been in confrontation. He has haunted me ever since I was very young, when we first moved north. Monsieur Noir goes unseen to most eyes, to those who believe in what is tangible. But, I’ve always wanted to believe in something more. And if there is a being that is holy or supremely righteous, then there must be an inherently evil being to complete the balance.

I remember the time when I was only nine years old, when he first came to me. My family, extremely poor, lived in an old rundown trailer that had dark yellow stains running down the sides. No heat, but we fortunately had electric. I always wanted to sleep in mommy and daddy’s room. Mom was very understanding. She was a little Indian lady, under five foot and barely weighed 90 lbs. She had the most beautiful long black hair that I would place over my little nubby pigtails. Dad however, direct descendent of a Germanic tribe, was very protective over their “private room.”
Well, I got the shaft one night during a thunderstorm which severed all of the power lines within a ten mile radius. My bunk was on top, my sis once slept on the bottom bunk. She was gone by then…Anyway, I laid comatose watching miniature transparent green figures dance above my bed. The heavy rain or thunder could not dull their voices. “Myra, we are here for you…here for you.” They whispered over and over again. Out of nowhere, he appeared, their God. He arose from below, his eyes staring directly into mine. “I will never leave you. Forever I will haunt you. Never be free.” He gave me a vision of a very young girl, whose face I couldn’t quite make out.
He grabbed the girl by the arm…she was screaming for mommy.
“Mommy will never hear you again.”
She knew him from somewhere before, she had trusted him, perhaps a family friend. Tears flew from her beautiful round dark brown eyes. The man in black grabbed her arm and pulled her into a dark alley where his over-sized suburban was waiting. “Please, I want to talk to mommy!! I love my mommy!” She screamed desperately.
“Stop trying to fight back you little bitch. Think you can win? You are so weak.” and he threw her like a rag doll into the suburban.
Over the past few years, our visits have been infrequent. Tonight Monsieur has finally returned, never to break a promise. Why the visions? Why does my mind have to play such violent tricks with me?
He breathes a chilling mist on my neck. “Have you missed me?” His voice hasn’t changed, snakelike and of low frequency. “Please, my fragile one, why do your eyes swell?” It feels as though my breast plate is about to break, my hearting pounding harder every second. My lips tremble, he notices. “Don’t be afraid my petite.” He runs his needle-like finger from the crest of my upper lip to the lower drawing a perfect line of blood. “After all, I am only the messenger.”
The sun shines brightly upon an endless field of lilies. Green grass stretches for hours atop gently rolling hills. Massive cream puff clouds float in a cerulean wonderland. Hauntingly perfect. A sickening sense of déjà vu runs over me. I am probably only four or five years old, curls too long, running right over my eyes. Dancing, twirling, smelling flowers like most little girls do. Working my way through the flowers, cutting them down and stomping on a few, I finally reach my destination: A petit lagoon, a perfect kiddy size haven. Marshy grass is so comfy to sit on. Willow trees swoop down, hiding me from the rest of the world.
My visitor appears somewhat hidden in the trees, silently approaching. I glimpse at her face…what a sick trick! Why is that sick bastard doing this to me? Aria. My beautiful little sister comes running to me, smiling, and her arms wide open. We embrace, hugging for what seems like hours. I have missed her so much…I never treated her the way I should have. I should have been a real sister. Should have played Barbie with her even though I didn’t want to. She wears a bright orange sundress, the one that I remember wanting so badly. Guilt flicks me in the face. How I love her majestic brown eyes. We hold hands and begin to sing, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me…” Warmth fills me inside.
We gaze into the water together, staring at the little swarms of minnows and a couple of dancing goldfish.
“Myra, I gotta go home soon.” Her sweet angelic voice whispered.
“Sissy, stay. We can play a little more!”
“No…they are calling.”
The goldfish convulse. Minnows are belly-up. The water quickly fades to red. Aria stands and looks trancelike into the small sea of blood. I grasp her leg as tightly as my little hands allow. “Please, ARIA!! Don’t go!! I love you sissy! Please, NO!”
She walks, not by her own consciousness, but by some other force, into the sea. Please hands, grow strong. I pray aloud to God, “Lord help…I have not the strength.”
Aria continues to sink, submerged past her neck.
The lagoon is set ablaze, flowers shrivel to husks, and the sun dives into the horizon. The malicious sea dries leaving desert cracks across the barren land. Now alone with only a cold memoir, I am ready to fight.
Monsieur looks at me and hands me a lily, “For you, my petit.” Rage boils throughout my body. I run to the kitchen, he follows. I grab a knife and run towards him and imagine carving out his sick heart. Undercut, yes. I’ll use the undercut, low and deep into the chest.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! 6:00A.M. The alarm clock. A ray of light seeps through the blinds and hits Monsieur’s cloak. “See you soon love.” And he disappears, back to Hades or wherever demented messengers like to hang out. The tainted lily still sets upon my dresser, evidence of the night.

I wish life could be completely explained by scientific process. The world wouldn’t be as scary, no longer a treacherous place. Serial killers could be explained as a byproduct of an excessive amount of dominant genes or simple mutation. As far as science is concerned, I would be diagnosed as an Axis 1 schizophrenic secondary to nighttime phobia…these visions a figment of my imagination.
However, evil cannot be explained as a process. Serial killers follow no specific pattern; except they appear to be normal happy people. Ted Bundy was “well dressed and properly mannered,” educated in politics at the University of Washington, and loved to ski. Quite the handsome fellow, classmates recall.
On Halloween of ’74, seventeen-year-old Laura Aime disappeared. Not long after, on Thanksgiving Day, her body was found in the Wasatch Mountains lying dead by a river. She had been beaten in the head with a crowbar, raped, and sodomized. Bundy’s killing spree did not end there; to date he has the highest count of victims in the United States.

Reality hurts. Neither you nor I want to regard such occurrences as fact. According to the papers and my parents, Aria died along with seven other children in a fire that engulfed Loving-arms Day Care Center back in July of 1992. Some idiot left the gas stove on, everyone fell asleep due to some carbon monoxide, and the claustrophobic building was up in flames within minutes. However, a mystery remains. Only five of the seven bodies were identified. Aria Manet and little Kevin Park were proclaimed dead at the scene…but are still MISSING. As awful as it sounds, I pray that fire took her life and she safely found her way to heaven. I want to believe that only a force of nature could be strong enough to steal the life of my baby sister. Maybe I really am a paranoid schizo. Could you please just confirm the idea? No? Come on, isn’t this just a funny little story about a silly phobia?

Well, it’s 7:00 A.M. right now. Think I might call in sick today…not feeling to hot. That goddamn lily keeps sitting there, taunting me. I sit down on my bed, take a deep breath, and open my favorite quote book.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Psalm 23.
And that’s exactly it. Change does not occur as a result of standing still. Evil really deserves a good fight. A brutal massacre? I would love to see that…


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