My life was never this miserable. I was raised mainly by my mother. A strong woman,
able to handle everything and anything that was hurled her way. Whether I hurled it, or the world
wanted to see how resilient she really was. My dad left when I was 3. My mother never resented
him, especially when he came back when I was 14. He always wanted to make up for the lost
We never knew why he left in the first place. It was just spontaneous, according to my
mother. He left again when I turned 26. My mother cried, holding me close as if I was also about
to go as well. We held a quiet funeral, just My mom, a couple of close friends and I. A couple of
years later, my mom left too. She was too heartbroken to keep going, I think.
I was in pain, so much that I might have considered moving away from the state, or
country. Just far away enough to forget it all. I stayed, thanks to a couple of friends and my
endless talks in the mirror, telling myself to keep going. It’s what my mother would have
Between my dad leaving and the ceaseless grief, I didn’t have a horrible life. I was
always an average kid. I didn’t cause trouble in school either. I don’t think I have done
something terrible so far in my life so I can’t seem to understand why I am currently suffering?
It’s not grief anymore, it’s been more than a few years since I last felt something like
that, it’s something different now. This…is something more cruel. I can go around telling people
this, but I can’t! People will think I went crazy out of grief. But I can assure everyone that I’m
not, no way I would ever want to make this up like some sort of sick joke. I know what I go
through every single day, every hour, every second.
I fear this constantly because I don’t know when He will say anything.
It’s haunting me. That voice shaking within my head, a constant ringing in my ears worse
than wailing ghosts that linger at first light. Shrill laughter that plagues my existence, taunting
me and filling me with this…this feeling I just can’t explain!
This endless torment that I constantly expect but never fails to catch me off guard. And
I’m constantly dragging my hand over my face. Constantly repressing the urge to just tear
everything up or punch the table or wall.
There are days when it’s quiet. The walls of the house my dad left me are calm, almost as
if resting. It almost tricks me into thinking that the bad days are just nightmares, frequent
nightmares. But on the bad days, constant whispers and shrieks of laughter ring through the vents
and hallways of the house.
I tried everything to get Him out. I visited priests, asked them to rid the house of this
being. When I told them what was going on, even they thought I was joking. I didn’t know what
else to do, so I decided to look through the house for some sort of cursed object or something.
I didn’t find anything, except for a desk. But all that was inside was a book and my dad’s
old notebook. I threw those out just in case they did hold something ungodly.
And I regretted it.
Soon after, He started speaking more frequently. Everything started getting worse to the
point where I just couldn’t stay home for so long. I took more hours at work, took longer walks at
Now, the days are getting colder and holidays are coming, I have no excuse to be away
from home. I can’t afford leaving, no doubt that He will follow me wherever anyways.
I walked down the hall that leads to my kitchen, maybe a glass of wine will help me
sleep. The walls are quiet, and I am hoping that it will stay that way.
But it doesn’t.
It started, a strangely familiar mumble and huffs that sound like choked laughter. I clench
the glass in my hand harder. The walls almost start shaking after I hear a wheezing echoing
through the hallway. I hold my hand over my mouth and close my eyes.
The house goes still.
And I hear the voice of my dad again.
What did the poor little grape do when it was stepped on?
I held my breath
It let out just a little wine.
The peppermint DILDO was spicy.