Damned
Being possessed is kind of like being crazy. Well, it’s exactly like being, crazy, I guess. But not like what you’re thinking. Sure you hear voices, you see things that aren’t there. Hell, you see things that are there, but shouldn’t be. But those are all just symptoms of unbalanced brain chemistry. Something that can be treated with pills, or therapy. I’m talking real crazy. Like not being able to breathe because icy hands are squeezing your lungs. Or taking a backseat in your own body, swearing at old women and giving the finger to babies; unable to even walk away when their parents hit you with pepper spray. You’re screaming on the inside, the agony of nerve endings boiling in a chemical bath, while this thing inside of you laughs with your mouth and paws at your eyes with your own uncut finger nails and you are powerless to do anything about it.
Jesus, I’m making myself sound insane. Let me start over. My name is John.
You are probably wondering when this all started, and to be honest, I can’t really say. It didn't happen overnight, I know that. It’s the sort of thing that takes time. It was a progression. A slow transition from sane to horror. I can tell you when it really got bad though, when it started calling itself by a name.
I had applied for a car loan. My first car in a while, since I lived in the city. Everything was prepared online and all I had to do was sign the papers, pick up the check and I was set. I was sitting outside of a small office. All of the walls were glass and it had this fishbowl effect where everyone in the building could watch you. The couple before me were happily chatting with the loan officer and I felt slightly annoyed that this whole process was taking longer than necessary, just because everyone feels the need to be social in every situation.
I was perusing some magazine or article on my phone, when an ear splitting scream jolts through me. I look up and three masked men are holding what looks like shotguns, or rifles or something – big guns; and they are pushing this young woman to floor, one of them is pointing their weapon at the back of her head. Everything in the bank comes to a dead stop and about forty people, or so, fixate on the center of the room, myself included.
“We all know what this is. No sudden moves, no heroes and everyone gets to go home,” the man with the gun to the young woman’s head said.
As he says this, his two compatriots shove bank employees out from behind their kiosks and force them to their bellies; their hands behind their heads. In this moment, my slow mind made sense of what my eyes were seeing. My heart began to thunder in my ears, and I remember this in particular, because I wanted to act, to run, or hide, or something, but I couldn’t. It’s true what they say – fear can absolutely paralyze you. Your brain just shuts down. I watched as the gunmen forced other customers to the floor, working their way around the room to me.
“Lay down!” a masked man shouted at me.
I looked at him, but wasn't able to make my body obey. I heard his words, but couldn’t summon the will to move. He grabbed me by the arm of my sleeve and dragged me to the ground. My forehead slammed into the hard floor as he put his boot and weight onto my shoulder blades.
He shouted, “I said lay down!” and stuck his gun barrel to the back of my head. “Don’t make me say it again! You want to die today?”
Stars floated around in my vision and I managed only a whimper in compliance. I’d like to say I kept my wits about me and contemplated my escape. I’d like to say to I didn’t feel spreading warmth around my legs and waist, as that cold blue steel dug into the soft skin of my scalp. I’d like to say that very much.
For a long moment, an eternity to me, but was probably no more than a few seconds, we were stationary – prisoner and captor, powerful and powerless. He slowly withdrew from his position on top of me and I felt warm tears trickle down my face. I could hear other muffled cries and heavy thuds, but didn’t dare look around. I buried my face into the carpet. I remember feeling crazed, racing pleas for mercy, maybe towards God, but more likely just insane, desperate thoughts for my own safety. I didn’t think or care about any of my fellow hostages. I would have traded them all in an instant, without regret, for relief. I guess this makes me a bad person, but honestly, I doubt any one of them felt any different. In this modern age, at least in this country, we are rarely confronted with our own mortality, and when those situations arise, we tend to lose all sense of common humanity. In those moments, it is self and only self. I didn’t feel guilt then and I certainly don’t feel any now.
“Everyone, quiet! I got a few things to say and I won’t repeat myself,” the man with the young woman at his feet said.
He seemed to be the leader as the others were doing most of the leg work. “There is a big gun pointed at this woman's head. For those of you who don’t know what that means – I won’t miss. It means she won’t get a second chance. Any one of you does anything that inconveniences or even annoys me and I will kill her. She will be splattered all over the floor here. It won’t bother me at all and she will be dead, and it will be your fault.”
Now, I don’t know this for sure, because my eyes were firmly shut as I cried into the floor, but I could hear manic cries and prayers from his hostage, as he spoke. She was begging for her friends or co-workers, whoever she was there with, to help - to do anything. When this didn’t get any response, she started calling out to the general group of captives.
“Please, God, please help me. Someone, please! Do something! Please, God.”
This went on for several seconds, probably to reinforce the fact that no one was coming to her rescue and although the men were vastly outnumbered, none of us were willing to risk any kind of action. He must have hit her or pulled hair sharply or, something, because she let out a quick shriek of pain and then just sobbed.
“Now, this won’t take long. We are going to come by and each of you are to throw your cell phone, wallet, purse whatever you have on you to the center of the floor. No. Sudden. Moves. Nice and slow,” the leader said.
He must have hurt her again, as there was another cry of pain and renewed sobs. Other than the soft yelps and hushed prayers from the crowd, there seemed to be nothing impeding the thieves work. I could hear the occasional clatter of plastic and vinyl hitting the floor.
This is where the whole scene starts to get fuzzy for me. I don’t think I passed out. I mean, I know I didn’t pass out, in the traditional sense, but my memory starts to blur between the real and unreal. I remember thinking I was going to die. My only thought was this constant loop of, “This is it. This is when I die. Oh, God, this is it. I am going to die, in this moment, crying like a baby."
This dark, un-welcomed pool of shame and anger grew in my heart. I know it was my heart. That’s the only place those types of feelings can come from. I didn’t try to fight it, although, now, I know I should have. But on that day, on that floor, I welcomed anything that would distract me from the inevitability of my own death. As this black ink of hate and self-preservation grew, I obsessed over it. Yes, why should I die here? Why me? What had I done to be forsaken like this? If there was a God, why would he let me die? I wanted to live. I was owed a life. I was owed another day, another hour, another moment, another breath. Me, not this sobbing woman, not any of the other hostages.
They deserved to die, not me. I hated them for their compliance. They should be volunteering to take my place. Don’t they know who I am and what I am worth to this world? No, it was me, and only me. I did not deserve this.
Now, I don’t have any family that I am close with. I have no children or a wife. Then, I didn’t even have a girlfriend. Sure, I had some casual friends, but no one that would probably do more than come to my funeral and, more than likely, use my death as an excuse to post on social media. I thought about this – how my pain and suffering would be someone else’s tragedy and how they would use that to their own ends. I thought about how they should be here instead of me. I hated them, too, for not being here in my place. I even, crazily, thought about how much I hated the bank directors for making come in person to sign paperwork. It was the twenty-first century, goddammit, who the hell where they, what right did they have, to make me appear in person! I could be in the comfort of my own home, safe and away from this madness.
This, when my mind was its most irrational, was when I heard it.
“John…” My name. It wasn’t so much an audible sound, so much as my inner monologue. But this wasn’t my voice. It was something else.
“John…”
“What?” I asked out loud.
“Shut-up!” one of the men called.
“John…” the voice said.
“Yes,” this time I whispered.
“It’s time, John,” the voice said.
“I…don’t understand,” I said.
“It’s time. Give in to me,” the voice said.
“What? I don’t…I don’t know what you want,” I said.
“Give yourself to me. Let me take you. I can make this all go away. Just say the word,” the voice said.
The voice was male, for sure, and deep. Also, comforting somehow. It was like being told to go back to sleep on a cold winter night. It was seductive, almost parental in its offer. I was in, by no means, in my rational mind and felt myself fall into that comforting warmth of black and hate. I could feel that, too. I knew, whatever this was, it was not good, but then, I didn’t care. It felt gentle, and, oh God, it felt safe. The one thing I wanted more than anything.
“Yes, that’s it, give yourself to me and I can save you. No one else here can. I want only what you want. Yes, more, open yourself to me,” the voice said.
“I can’t. I…don’t think I can. I’m…I’m not,” I tried to stammer.
My mind was racing. I could hear footsteps moving closer to where I lay and I braced myself for the inevitable gun shot to my head. I imagined my brains being scattered over the floor; knew it was going to happen. Any moment would be my last. My heart felt like it would explode with each beat and my breathing was uncontrollable. I lost grip on who I was and felt my stomach roil from fear.
“Yes you can, just let me be. Let me in and I promise you – you will live,” the voice whispered.
“No, I can’t. I…” I thought.
“Do it now!” the voice roared inside my head.
“Yes!” I shouted, not realizing I was speaking out loud.
There was this sudden flash of light and sharp pain as something heavy came down on my head.
