Wicked Demons

Trigger Warning: this story contains severe mental health issues, a person with a twisted psych/sense of morals, violence, gore, and overall dark themes. not suggested to read if you struggle with any of these themes.

Wicked Demons

By Hailey Aubrey Reign Merrick

HARM

When you spell out a number is it still considered a number? Or does it become a word? Four. 4. Numbers, words, thoughts racing around in my head in a meaningless heap. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

My eyes flutter open, but only for a second. They close again like it never happened, and the sight before me slowly becomes distant, like something from a faraway land that is now long forgotten. Open your eyes, a voice yells. Never open your eyes again yells another. The voices are in my head. Perhaps I am insane. No, I know I'm insane. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

The voices clash around like opposite sides of a war, begging for me to listen. I refuse. Instead, I lift my arm, silently trying to prove to myself that my body is my own to control. They may fight over my mind but I still control my body, it is wholly mine. From every step I take to every time my finger twitches, it is mine, not there's, it is all I have left, that and my art. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

My heart is slowly returning to a normal beat, but I know I won't stop counting. Not yet. Only when I hit one will I stop. Only whenever all of my senses have been fully roped back in, tucked tight inside of me instead of floating off into the air. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

I can not hear. White noise is the only thing rushing through me. I need it back, I need to hear the gentle screams. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind

I can not smell, though I am grateful for that. When my sense of smell returns I know what scent my nose will find permeating the air. 82. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

I can not taste, though this is no issue of the present. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

I can not see. This is what I hate the most. 75. I wish more than anything to open my eyes and see my art, to admire the object that I have spent hours upon hours creating. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind

The demons interrupt my thoughts again, their bickering growing louder. I continue to ignore them, though I know I won't be able to for much longer. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

The air feels static around me, alive with energy. I love that feeling when the air is thick, electric. It's artistic in a way, in some instances the feeling paints a picture of passion, or perhaps tension. Other times it is nervous energy, sometimes even anticipation. For me, right this second, it means satisfaction. It practically drips from my skin. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

A growing puddle slowly wraps around my foot, and for a second I wonder if satisfaction truly is dripping from my skin and pooling around my body. The warm puddle spreads to my other foot and I realize what it is.  I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

The realization gently shocks my senses back to me, though I attempt to ignore them. For now. 52. I will acknowledge them when I'm done with my counting.

Counting is something I've done since I was a kid. When emotions got too crazy, I would count backwards from a hundred. For me, the strongest emotion has always been pride. I am my own biggest fan when it comes to my artistic endeavors. Though I wish my parents were. So many artists have their parents, or at least friends who support their work. But no, I can't seem to find a single soul who feels the same joy as I do when looking at my work. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

I refuse to acknowledge my senses still, unwilling to open my eyes just yet, refusing to press play on my phone and listen to my favorite song again. I don't breathe again like I want to. Not yet. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

I won't acknowledge them yet, but I would at least use them. Just a little. My ears take in the sounds of the world racing along outside my apartment. The city is buzzing with people. Cities are like that, so overpopulated, it drives me crazy sometimes. Like right now. Which is why I'm counting. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

I stop holding my breath once my lungs burn, and smells invade my nose. I take a few steadying breaths before blocking the smells out again. They are too much. It's the only thing I can't stand about my art.  I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind

27. That's my lucky number I think as the numbers float threw my mind. Though to be fair my lucky number changes with each of my works. Yesterday my lucky number was 26. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

Still ignoring my demons, who now claw at my skin with sharp nails, begging me to listen, I reach the final countdown. But I won't give in yet. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

When my mother taught me the counting the aim was that it would calm me, settle my bones. For better or worse, it didn't work like that. As the final ten numbers, words, racing thoughts fly through my mind I do not calm. My heart races. It did not calm me. But it did ground me. The counting anchored me to my body when I worked, letting me stay in the moment and savor every second of doing what I love. My toes curl in the puddle at my feet. My excitement is so tangible I could scream. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

I reach zero and my eyes tear open, at last ready to get to work. The blood has pooled around my feet, though I already knew that. I take in a deep breath and smell the rancid air that is tinged with a sharp copper smell. Blood. I nearly flinch at the disgusting combo, I pull my nose clip from my pocket and secure it on my nose, blocking out the smells. I look around the red room again. Savoring my work. Then I started counting again. This time to a hundred. Sometimes I want to stop counting, life would probably be much simpler. But I don't. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

Finally ready to work I pull my phone out and turn on my favorite song. It plays a symphony of screams, pleas for help. Cries of pain. My favorite part is when they stop screaming for help, realizing that no one would come. Music on, senses returned, I'm as happy as can be. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

Mom taught me to count down from one hundred to calm myself. I thought to myself to count to a hundred to focus. Both keep me grounded, but counting down helps me stay calm as I work. Counting up gives me the strength and focus to clean up after myself, to finally arrange my work in the perfect way. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

Slowly I start to clean up my mess, I scrub at the floor, lifting the little dots of blood from the bright wood flooring. Most of the blood will be left here, but not the random stuff like these, the untameable spray. Often I leave it, wanting my work to be more abstract, other times I wash it all away completely, wanting the main focal point to be something else. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

Today the majority will stay, the perfect background to my art. I wish more people appreciated how much work went into this. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind.

I finish cleaning and double-check my work, making sure everything is satisfactory and up to my usual standard. This is sick. Stop. turn yourself in. the two demons scream at me, finally agreeing on something. They are always muttering about me being a monster. They have names of course but I ignore them often enough for it to not matter. Conscience. Common morals. What twisted things that crawl in my skin.  I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind. 

I get to a hundred again and smile despite the demons yelling at me for what I did. One hundred. What a satisfying number. This time when I start counting again I am not counting to steady, calm, or even focus myself. This time I am counting the different pieces to my art. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind

When I reach one hundred again I am satisfied. At the last minute, I pull my phone out to take a quick picture of my work. It's stunning. I leave the apartment, already thinking about what I should do with my next piece. No thought of the dismembered body lingers in my mind. The person was once a man, but no longer. Now he is just chunks of flesh, bones, guts. One hundred pieces to be exact. The walls were painted red with his blood to create the perfect crimson background. I killed him slowly, over days, just to make sure I didn't run out of the color before I was ready. I savored every scream. I especially loved when hysteria bubbled over him and he laughed for an hour after I cut off his fingers one by one. It all works out perfectly. I get to create more art, and the horrid city becomes a little less overpopulated. Humming along as I descend the stairs I start counting down from a hundred again. I continue counting, letting it steady my heart and ground my mind