How is one to seem normal in a world that is anything but? In what way can someone feel pleasure without first feeling pain? Does there exist a description of either that doesn’t hold the same weight as the other? I cannot think of anything fair in this life. Often, and in the history of our kind, the nativity of us is the cause of our demise. What we think is right is most likely wrong, and what is right is unattainable. It’s very seldom that someone achieves the so sought-after goal of being a saint while setting a righteous example. And when they do, they are glorified to such an extent that the title loses all meaning in the eyes of others. So much so that these people often question their existence to a point that it has no meaning. Once they come to this conclusion, there is nothing but fear. They ask themselves: what is the point in living? This is when depression hits like a force that is unbeknownst to humans, even though so many of us suffer from it; we don’t understand it. This is when people fold and evil takes hold. Whether that be any vice, person or solution. I find it sad that people cannot survive otherwise, and I suffer the same fate.
I was never glorified to any extent but have always been known for being a person with a conscience. Those around me often confided in me for answers, and if I didn’t have them, I always tried my hardest to console them. This usually did the trick. It has always been like this since I was a child. People could relate to me and rely on me. But this burden did not come without a sinking weight. I was often kept up at night worrying for other people or about their problems. I tell myself that I am not responsible for the outcome of people’s lives, but the past haunts me. It seeps into my dreams like blood through a bandage. I wake up and relive old memories as well as memories that never happened, at least in this reality. I wish there was someone that could listen to me talk about my darkest worries and secrets. I have a few friends that would do the same for me, but I am not open enough to share these thoughts. So, it is my fault.
I have lived in the Midwest my whole life. I don’t care to say where in specific or even the state. I just want a record of my findings to have a setting. I feel as if as I write this down, there is some weight lifted off me. I have carried too much for too long and it is time that I tell the true nature of what I have discovered. Not from my conversations with people but from intellectual interactions with another entity entirely. I have many meaningful discussions with people close to me, and I always know what to say in return to their quandaries. It’s a gift that I didn’t ask for, but people don’t get to choose their talents. Though, I’ve wondered, if every human born could choose a gift, would they be so different from each other?
I’m an introvert but often indulge in the company of like-minded individuals. People who don’t know me think I’m a recluse. I find the term archaic. What people don’t see is I like to surround myself with those who feel like friends. I don’t go searching for these people, they often find their way to me. I don’t know how or why, but it happens. People tend to find each other anyway. In any outing I usually meet at least one new acquaintance and when conversation ensues, it usually lasts a good bit.
The truth I want to tell is one that changed my life. If it is for worse or for better, I try not to know. All that I know is that something profound has happened to me, or rather, I’ve stumbled across something profound. Something imaginary and alive. Almost in my backyard. I need to figure out how to tell it best. I have some notes, but they don’t mean much to me when I look at them. The excitement and strangeness I felt at first is not portrayed in the notes. I just need the right words and setting for you, who is reading this, to understand what it is that has happened.
My house is seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Though it is a five-minute drive to town, the wilderness that surrounds the area makes it seem as if there is no way out. No where can you turn and not see a dense army of trees watching you. I know very well what is beyond the trees in any direction, but it is a humbling feeling if you are not accustomed to it. I’ve had visitors that have been audibly disturbed by the overgrowth. Some making jests about what horrors may linger within the forest-projecting their own fears. For me, the trees are peaceful and are my comfort. Though I love my neighbors, it would feel invasive to see them through their windows or even on their decks, minding their own. People deserve and desire privacy. If anyone says otherwise, they are lying.
I often take walks into the foliage and denser parts of the woods. I buried my dog not too far past the frontlines of the trees. He always loved that spot. Sometimes, when depressed, I will walk our old walk we used to take together and visit old memories. It may seem sad, but it usually brings me happiness. I’ve contemplated adopting another pup, but for now I am more focused on what lies ahead.
Not a few weeks ago I was on my usual hike, a few hours before the sun would sink behind the trees. I was greeted by the familiar scent and thickness of the air. I loved it. Dead basswood leaves littered the ground and with each step I could hear them, screaming in agony as they crumpled beneath my boots. I was breathing hard but not out of tiredness. The autumn air was infecting my lungs and I felt at peace. The sound of birds, critters and insects were all around me.
I couldn’t begin to understand why someone could not appreciate nature. Maybe if someone was not accustomed to it. Even still, to ignore the force that lets us live and breathe is a mistake. I like to pay my dues to nature, but I also like to see what else I can discover from it. It was this curiosity, on my daily hikes, that led me to discover the meaning of human nature itself.
I knew most the trees on this path, and this one looked different. Not like it was dying, but glowing. It had a radiance. I fixated on it. The evening was dwindling but this light was different from the twilight. I didn’t want to approach. I wanted to continue with my walk and return home before sundown. Then the tree grew more fascinating. It felt as if I couldn’t move away, I had to get closer. This tree had to have been here before, but I didn’t recognize it. Then I was consumed. Not by the tree but by knowledge. Collective thoughts from people I knew, and those I didn’t but would know in due time. I wanted to pull away, I wanted to stop it, but I demanded more.
I woke up in bed a new man. I had a great feeling. It was one of those days where you wake up knowing you will have a good day. Nothing that happened to you could or would change your mood throughout the waking hours of the day. I knew today that I would fall asleep with a smile. I sat up and checked the time on my phone that lived plugged in on top of my nightstand during the nights. It was morning. I thought I ought to make something to eat but then a realization came over me: I could not for the life of me remember going to bed.
Though I fancied myself a drink in the evenings and sometimes lost track of time, I had never experienced a lapse in memory such as this. I laughed audibly, as my mood was so high, I could barely think seriously. There must be some memory of how I found my way to bed the previous night. My brain felt scattered. I thought about it a bit more. I had gone on my walk last evening, and everything was as it should be. I passed through the frontlines of the forest, the leaves, the air, the trees.
It was then that I remembered the tree. That was my lest memory of yesterday’s eve. The tree was so luminous, but at that time, it was nearing dark. I tried to plant a memory of myself walking back home in my brain, but it was artificial. I could not, for the life of me, remember the trek back. I laughed again. I often asked myself how long in life I would make it before I had symptoms of senility. I was hoping to go a bit longer, at least make it over half a century. I was also in the clothes I wore the day before. Was I really that exhausted? I could never sleep comfortable in day clothes. Always stripped down before bed. I had somehow plugged in my phone, and my boots were at the edge of the bed as per usual. When I stood up my phone chimed. A message from Steve confirming lunch at the Diner. I had forgotten about the day’s plans as well.
It was always a seven-minute drive from my house to the only Diner in town. I left with ten minutes to spare and arriving three minutes before our noon agreement. I pulled into one of many open parking spots. This one was closest to the entrance without being a handicap-reserved spot. Though thinking again about my failing memory, I joked to myself about deserving one of these spots. I glanced to my right; it was Steve’s Civic. A newer model. The plates were not from this state, in fact, not even close to this state. It was his car, but he shared it with his girlfriend. Steve wasn’t from here, but he made the journey from his hometown to the middle of no-where for a girl about six months ago and has yet to change the plates.
They seem happy, and I have met them as a couple on multiple occasions. Though I met Steve first in the store on what was probably one of his first days in town. I was glad to be his first acquaintance and especially so after the discovery that we shared many interests. Steve, being about ten years my junior spoke as though he had the wisdom of someone ten years my senior. A bright and honest man. Since our introduction we’ve met a few times for drinks and a few times for lunch. Lydia, his girlfriend, invited me to their tiny one-bedroom apartment for dinner and drinks and games not too recently, and it was the most fun I think I have had in a decade. For myself it was heartwarming to see and enjoy a young couple in love. I never had the luxury myself. As of lately, Steve and I have been enjoying each other’s company at least once a week at the diner. He often extends invitation to their place for dinner, leading with the notion that Lydia was most fond of our time together and wants to repeat it. I often decline and promise him that I will find time soon. Truth is, I think that they should invest in relationships with others closer in age to themselves. But I am always flattered. I don’t think they have many friends here.
When I sat down across from Steve, he was halfway through his burger. My usual order: two pancakes and cup of coffee, were already served. He must have been here for fifteen minutes already. Steve was enjoying his burger so much so that he had yet to realize my presence at the table. A few more bites and he switched his gaze from the burger to me and made an acknowledging “mmm” sound while struggling to swallow the last bite he had taken. A few seconds later he apologized,
“Sorry.”
I shook my head, seeing again how much he was enjoying his meal. I wanted to tell him to continue, but I think the gesture said enough. He wiped his hands with a napkin while visibly cleaning every crevice of his mouth with his tongue before finally clearing his throat. He then took an exaggerated swig of his glass of water while I began slicing into my regular order of two stacked pancakes drizzled with butter and syrup. Finally, he spoke.
“So.” He exclaimed.
Now savoring the first bite of my meal, I again raised a brow in hopes he would continue without me having to prompt him. I was inexplicably hungry and the pancakes that I enjoyed at least once a week tasted brand new. I made a mental note to leave an extra tip this time. This food today, tasted amazing. I snapped out of my daydream and came to. Steve was talking and had been for a while. I could tell because he was telling a story that was post climax and he was in the middle of explanation as to why he was so precautious of some people that he had met in town. Before he could finish his story, I spoke aloud,
“Congratulations.”
Steve stopped mid-sentence, maybe even mid word, and with the most confused face,
“What?”
Now I was confused, then he dropped his face, looking at his plate and gave a short scoff.
“Oh, you saw the ring. Thank you, I proposed last night. Best night of my life.”
I was now more confused, still wondering why I uttered the word, but Steve went on,
“I was so excited to tell you, I got here early, started in on my burger, and forgot all about it.”
Steve spoke as if he had the confidence of one hundred men.
“I still can’t believe it; I woke up this morning and even forgot myself until I took a piss and saw the ring on my finger.”
“No.”
I was struggling for words, to speak normally.
“I mean yes, congratulations, but when I said it, I meant congratulations on the kid…”
Steve’s face was unreadable, then he sat back and let out a hearty laugh.
“You’re pretty fucking funny for an old man, but we decided to wait a few years before trying. I mean, I just put the ring on. Don’t get me wrong, I want kids, and more than a few, but in due time.”
Steve chuckled again after sipping his water. I sat and watched. I had to say something before he did. I could feel my face was blank, and it was only a matter of time before he took notice. It was also a matter of time before he found out Lydia was pregnant. I hadn’t even seen the ring on his finger. But I knew Lydia was pregnant, and I knew the face of the child. I just didn’t know how.
“A little presumptuous out of me so I apologize. However, I know you both, and I know both of you would make fine parents.” I said with a fake smile.
“No worries.” Steve replied, then continued.
“Lyd wants kids. I do too, just not now. Not soon. We hardly get by as is.”
I was finishing my last bite as Steve spoke, and almost choked when he finished.
“Well, I’m sure when the time is right, it will happen.” I lied.
We chatted for a quarter hour more then decided to set off. Steve invited me over again in celebration of his new engagement. I felt obligated to say yes but wanted so badly to say no. This time I couldn’t. I agreed to be at his place at 7 P.M. the following evening for dinner and drinks. We departed and when I arrived home, I felt sick and tired. Not from my meal, but from what I knew. I had been surer of this truth than of my own name. Still, I didn’t understand how. I didn’t want this day to get any weirder, so I decided on a nap. As I dozed off, I hoped my mind back to normal.
I woke up in pain feeling the onset of a migraine, a feeling I knew too well. With the blinds pulled down over my window, they looked backlit and made a grim tint in the room. It was either late evening or early dawn. I assumed it was the former. There was no way I slept until the morning. I swept my nightstand with my hand, searching for my phone and eventually found it. I pulled it in front of my face, and it lit up from the motion, blinding me and making the pain in my head surge. Not worth it just to check the fucking time. After my eyes focused my assumption had been confirmed. It was late in the evening, half past seven. I’d slept most the day away which meant I would have to sedate myself tonight either with a good bit of gin or the sleeping pills I recently was prescribed for my minor insomnia. The idea of combining the two quickly came and went as my doctor strictly advised against it. I settled on the gin and figured I would pop a few ibuprofens if the pain persisted.
I got up, started toward the kitchen to fix my drink when I heard my start to vibrate on my nightstand. Nobody ever called me and especially not this late. I turned back expecting to see a number and location on the screen from which I knew no one from.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t a random number. It was Steve. Weird that he was calling now. I didn’t want to answer. Not for any reason other than the fact that I felt my head would explode at the sound of another person’s voice bellowing into my ear. The migraine was in full effect now. Something inside of me was telling me not to answer. I should just wait for a voice message or text. Now a conflict arose in me almost as if someone was thinking for me. I had had enough of the pain in my brain and the spontaneous internal debate made it all the worse, so I made my decision and answered the phone call. When I did so, there was terror.
“She’s gone.” Steve was audibly shaking.
I hadn’t said a word yet.
“Lydia’s gone.”
Still not saying a word I could hear him whimpering. It sounded as if he was across the room from his phone. My head was now nearly killing me.
“Steve, I’m here. Now say again, where is Lydia?”
Silence. The whimpers stopped and I had thought for a second that the call had dropped, or Steve had hung up.
“GONE!”
My heart froze for countless seconds. This voice was not Steve’s. It couldn’t be. It was so familiar, but it was not his. I could hear it echoing in my mind, amongst the pain of the migraine, the reverb bouncing off every open trench in my brain. There was still silence on the call. My head was hurting but I finally and quietly but also sternly inquired,
“Steve, what do you mean she’s gone?”
Almost instantly the whimpering began again, this time sounding close. Almost in a whisper, I heard Steve reply,
“She’s dead.”
The cause of death is still undetermined. It was as if her body just stopped working. All vital and non-vital organs had ceased their functionality seemingly at once. Publicly, examiners expressed that she had no prior illness or disease. Nothing made sense. No one could have predicted her death. After her instant passing, Lydia was a modern phenomenon in this small town. You couldn’t have a conversation with anyone that excluded the incident if you went anywhere. Word spread like a cancerous cell growth through town. Infecting each street with gossip. Some thought it was a virus born in their town and borne by air. Some thought the boyfriend Steve was at fault in some way, as it was an easy blame to place on him while easing their anxious minds. It was like this for a while after Lydia’s death. Pandemonium in a small town the size of a colony of ants in regards to the world. Throughout all this disarray, what personally haunted me, was the revelation that Lydia was with child.
It’s been six months since Lydia’s passing, Steve is now living with me. He often tells me he sees her during the night and she speaks to him about their unborn child. Everything about the situation makes me sick, and I wish often that I didn’t offer him housing. It’s such a selfish, thought but I’m only human. He can’t survive on his own now, financially or emotionally. I tell myself it’s only right. I can barely sleep myself. The thing that haunts me most is our meeting back then. The one at the diner. That day when my mind was so cloudy, but I knew for certain Lydia was carrying life inside of her. Why could I foresee this but not the tragedy that was so much more imminent? I feel at fault. If I had been transparent that day during lunch with Steve, would things have turned out any differently? Would he have thought I was crazy? I was so sure of it then, but it was only after the death that it became real. I must be crazy.
Eight months now after the tragedy, I was cooking an egg for breakfast. Steve meandered out of the dark hallway that conjoined the kitchen and the rest of my house. It was eight in the morning and Steve had never woken up before noon in the time he had spent here. He didn’t like the morning hours, as him and Lydia used to spend most of them together. He looked fucked up. Not inebriated but miserable. I asked him if he wanted to eat. He said no. I told him it was good to see him up right now. He didn’t respond. I asked myself if I should even dare to open my mouth again and decided against it. Steve’s ignorance annoyed me in the moment, but I again put myself in his position (as I often do) and tried to recreate a semblance of what he was feeling. It had almost been a year, but do you ever truly get over something so sad? While I was in my head, he had turned his gaze upwards and towards me. When I took notice, he was waiting for me, then he spoke.
He said had had another dream of Lydia, and she was here. Not in her natural form but in the form of a spirit. Something unimaginable but so real that he awoke with hope this time instead of despair. I often felt that Steve rambled like a schizophrenic, but this time he seemed to make sense. He said that Lydia was here with us, but not how we thought. She was close by and also watching. Steve was smiling now. I offered him some food again, but he turned around and walked out the back door. I abandoned my breakfast and followed him instinctually. He was halfway across the field by the time I was outside. When I got to the edge of the field, he was well withing the frontline of the trees. I would have lost him if it weren’t for the radiant light that trailed, his silhouette black in the middle of the flash.
I had started to jog, but Steve’s presence was getting further away. I walked this route every day, but the woods around me seemed almost unrecognizable. The light I was blindly running towards was growing ever brighter, while Steve was disappearing in front of me. This was all so weird, but it felt familiar. Then I remembered. I had been here before.
Steve was gone and the light was ever so bright. It consumed me and I fell to my knees. It was then that I remembered what I had forgotten before: the light.
When I stumbled upon the same tree eight months ago, I saw a light, this terrifying light. Without voice or words, it cursed me. I had no feeling or sense. It was there and it was evil. It had no form or face. I cried out to the light asking why I was a victim. The response I got inexplicably, was that I was no victim but was damned to begin with. It was written by fate that I would die soon. I pleaded with the Demon, and it did not falter, but rather retorted, saying my fate was already decided. I cried out to God but there was no response. I felt lost. If this thing before me was real, then I knew there is no God. And why would God care for me? Plenty have died over time, and plenty die every day. More painful deaths than I would. Who was I to question my own death?
But then I was given a choice. To save myself by sacrifice of another life. I chose sacrifice.
I spoke not another word to the Demon then, and it was only now that I remember. I knew what I had done. I should be dead. Even now as I write this, I feel myself growing weaker. I am dying still and there is no saving me. I am haunted by every moment of my life, and I will die knowing it was for nothing. If there is anything beyond death for me, I fear it.