Butterscotch

I can’t breathe. It’s cold. Cold and dark. Black. I can see some sort of figure. The outline of something absent a soul, there in the corner. It’s dark, darker than the room, colorless. A shadow once forgotten. It pains me to look at it. The pressure of an aura so powerful, right upon my cursed eyes.

I hear something. NO! Feel something. My senses are mixing. I don’t know when taste is taste and when it’s touch. Once more, a faint whisper of feeling. Shoulder, left, right below the ear, as if it’s calling to me as a friend. Lies. It begs for companionship with an open hand. Muscle-ridden and dysfunctional as it may be, I feel the need to hold it, like one with their lover. My mind is urging me to lock my fingers with this… thing. I can’t. I know I can’t. Last time it tried this it… it didn’t end well.

Despite my actions to prevent the connection of my hand with its, I feel a sudden pull, and the floor starts shifting. The room has begun to deteriorate. The wall turns to dust, crumbling more as time flows. Next is the bed, gone within seconds. The floor follows, fading quicker than the memories I once cherished. Every tangible form of existence within this wasteland has dissolved, and I’ve begun my descent.

A thick curtain of deep, black velvet falls over me. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going. I’m confused. I can’t see. I have lost all forms of sensory “safe-and-soundness.” My sense of direction is ever twisting, turning, twirling. Left is down, and right is butterscotch. Butterscotch?

A sudden impact frightens me back into this world. A memory, flying freely among everything bending to the might of the tornado that is my godforsaken mind. A wave of fear towers over me as if it’s to make me succumb to the power that is… it.

Some kind of creature. It’s alive for sure. It breathes, it moves, it has a heartbeat, but it doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t come out into the real world. It stays in the dreams, hiding in the shadows. Nevertheless, it’s only goal is to trick me. It takes on many forms, hoping one day I’ll believe that it really is that one good friend I’ve had "for 6 years." It’s smart. I’ve been overpowered by it’s mind a few times but somehow I’ve always managed to painfully claw my way back to the surface of existence. Those were lucky times. I might not have the strength to do it again. It is strong. Stronger than me by a large margin. I have much to learn in terms of what causes it anger and what doesn’t. Even the slightest, infinitesimal bout of acrimony could be very harmful to my now fragile brain. It seems to punish me for causing it any discomfort. I have to be careful not to trigger a negative reaction if I want to survive this relentless tormenting.

I’ve grown very fearful of what I have become, and what I have been overcome by. The chance of a total mental and physical breakdown grows exponentially as time passes. One foul move and this seesaw of stability will break equilibrium and leave me at rock bottom. Depression, anxiety overload, nervous breakdowns… suicidal thoughts.

That can’t happen. It’s impossible. There is no possibility of a reversal of such magnitude. I once was the happiest kid. Playing with friends on those long, boring weekends. Having no fear of anything or anyone. But that all changed when it moved in. It warped my thoughts and it warped my brain and everything I ever loved began to fade in my mind.

Slowly and slowly as I remember the times of old, I begin to realize, I’m still plummeting to the bottom of reality. Once more, I see a broken and misshapen hand reaching out to me as if it is offering to save me from crashing into the “ground.” An idea unfamiliar to me. I’ve never managed to keep myself from grasping the hand and being pulled into the real world. This is an attempt to make me trust it, but I know I can’t. I take the hand regardless, and suddenly I see overwhelming amounts of bright colors. My room, completed with paintings and posters and a bright TV screen I neglected to shut off before falling asleep the night prior. How careless of me.

I get up and search hastily for the TV's remote so that I can put an end to it's annoying flashing. My throat is dry. I make my way to the cupboard that holds our cups and I grab a good-sized glass. I bring the cup to the refrigerator to fill it with ice and water. I quickly drink every last gleaming drop of it. I'm starting to think I wasted it when I realize I have a terrible, splitting migraine. I head to the medicine cabinet and pull out something everybody needs and loves, Tylenol.

I pour 2 pills onto my hand, screw the cap back on, put the bottle back into the cabinet, and head back to the fridge for another glass of water. I quickly pop the pills into my mouth and swallow them along with the new cup of water. Despite the doctors warnings of "protecting my sensitive teeth," I tear through each and every solid, jaw straining ice cube. During my fine dining, I feel a sharp pain emanating from my tongue. "Ouch," I say quietly, hoping not to wake my parents.

I want to go back to my room and sleep but I know if I drift off again, there's a chance I'd never return. Tedious as it seems, I search for the TV remote once again and turn the TV on. I nearly fall to the ground after being attacked with a piercing, grainy, low quality shout: "HOLE IN ONE!!!" Golf. How interesting! I turn it back off. Luckily, the sound was most likely quiet. Everything appears extremely exaggerated when a migraine occupies your entire head.

Migraines, or at the very least headaches are quite common when I return from my slumber as a result of the merciless straining of my delicate mind. The more violent and macabre the dream, the worse the headache the morning after. It's agonizing. Unbearably agonizing. I'd rather have died by now than be forced to suffer through this life. This feeling of being so close to control, just to have it appropriated so quickly and violently. It drives a man mad. Being so unbelievably tired to the point of mental pain, but being unable to sleep in fear of the events that may occur in just a few short seconds. Hours and hours of pain are packed into few seconds of these dreams. Dreams? Dreams should be happy and inspiring. "Follow your dreams! Believe in yourself!" Is my destiny is to follow this? I can't seem to fathom how this is desirable.

It appears as if I've been stressing my brain too much, encouraging it to derail itself. The world has started revolving. I can sense myself gradually wobbling parallel to the shifting facade. I find this quite bizarre. Vertigo, common for those with unforeseen migraines, but quite a peculiar occurrence for me. I feel like I am on a roller coaster, ignoring my mother's commands to hold my head in place.

Supposedly, if you allow your head to sway along with the ride, you risk causing brain damage.

I never adhered to her endless, exaggerated nagging.

Now that I'm thinking about it, maybe that's why my mind was weak enough to allow this thing to assume control. Of course it's my fault. Everything is my fault. All I do is mess up the lives of those around me. I just need to be gone…

No no no no NO, I CAN'T LISTEN! It's trying to make me turn on myself and weaken my own mind. I know not to believe it. Whatever calamity it's attempting to set in motion can be prevented if I just remember. Remember who I was, who I could be if I would just win this fight. But I am frail, and weak, and I know I am. How else I would I have gotten sick in the first place. Yes, sick! I just have to remember that that's all I am. I am sick. This is an infection. A parasite, who's come to strike me down without knowledge of it's enemy.

If only it really was a parasite. Then there'd at least be a possibility of revitalization. A cure to my ailment. Something to get me back on track. Sadly, however, this beast is much more powerful than a simple organism such as a parasite. Far more intimidating than one. Even the most pernicious of parasites would cower in the presence of this almighty being, for the effect it has on mortal creatures is utterly devastating. It tears away at your brain, ripping memories, thoughts, and stability right out of your mind. There is no cure. I am destined to suffer.

I am on the floor. I must have dozed off. Passed out. How long has it been? The clock reads 9:13. Fortunately, it hasn't been too long. I wasn't dormant for long enough to transfer to the other realm. I believe that whatever intruder has made its way into my head is weak, much like me, seeing as it takes quite a while to overpower me even when I am most vulnerable. Some nights it fails to even break through.

I'm hoping that lasts.