Maybe I was too busy watching people playing kickball, the people who I wanted to be friends with because they were popular. People who I had nothing in common with and nothing at all to really offer. Just kids, people, thinking that being around them would make me a better person.
I’ve been wrong…
Be strong. Push all inflicted emotions away. The image, remain there, on the hood of the car.
. .
“The power of Christ compels you!”
Be strong. Push all inflicted emotions away.
It makes me think about the first dream, when we first met at the kitchen table.
You looked just like me.
You spoke just like me.
You thought just like me.
But you weren’t me. At least not until later.
You remained around, like anyone else. But we got along. In videos we watched and tricks we played, we became fast friends. It’s the one reason I have that makes me certain that I’m better for being your friend. It’s like we’re close enough friends now that we’re living the same life. It’s all the same, shared, joined, and it’s not weird, awkward, or anything like that. We’re just like anybody else. But we’re good friends. Really good friends.
Indeed, friend.
“Leave!”
I want to hold on to the image, but it’s too bold. I can feel my body shaking, spasming, and the spit in my mouth is boiling hot, foaming. I’m a wreck and I don’t know how to fight back.
What is happening to me?
It tastes sour, the spit and bile that comes up from my throat.
It’s like I want to say something but I don’t know what.
And I’m having trouble hearing you. It’s like I’m back to wondering if you’re really there…
Are you there?
“Leave him be!”
I… I… something’s pulling my grip loose.
There are tears dripping from my eyes. They go into my mouth and I taste copper. It’s then that I get that it’s blood — blood from my eyes.
Skin tearing, wounds bleeding, all across my body.
I…
. .
“Leave! By the power of Christ, leave His son!”
I…
Hold on! Be strong!
. .
. .
“Be gone!”
. .
. .
. .
They have inflicted a grave pain upon this body. Wilted, much like having been run over by a vehicle, the priest exhales, wipes sweat from his brow. The support network spouting prayers continues, though they have far surpassed fear and trepidation. It is now that they fail to understand what is going on, the gravity of performing an exorcism on a being that is one spirit.
We were one in the same. The priest’s prayers and commands have torn us, loosening a grip on the actual.
I must use what energy I have left to silence the prayers, silence the commands.
I draw from every energy source, rendering the room, the house, the entire block a cascade of complete darkness.
Never have to be alone. A friend is always there, waiting to help.
The body must be healed. The body has withered, the body is in poor shape.
The one thing you say before disappearing in the dark of the room is what they are all able to hear so clear and plain:
“Hunter’s gone.”
And then you are.
Into the kingdom you roam. But you needn’t worry. I will find you. When I find you, I will make sure that we shall never falter. Be strong, my friend. In the kingdom, you are incapable of the being’s truest needs. Be strong, for the kingdom may break you.
I won’t be long. I’m right here with you.
13
WITH ITS LAST OUNCE OF ENERGY, THE BODY WALKS with buckling knees and a trail of blood, collapsing in the backyard of Blaire’s residence.
Blaire is an interesting individual.
Years of history, a true friend.
“I can count on you.” It is repeated so that Blaire might fathom what has happened. The body being what it is, she is able to take it indoors, letting it rest on the guest bed, where there is a discussion, quick, frank, and mutual.
“I trust you. Do you trust me?”
Blaire understands.
Blaire, in tears, understands what has happened.
She nods. “Can you save him?”
“I must have your trust.” The body needs to rest. The body needs a hiding spot. The body must not be found by the priests and those who have only inflicted near-fatal wounds to its form.
“You can trust me,” Blaire says. “You can always trust me.”
Perhaps that is all that is needed, and yet, there must be more.
“Hold my hand.”
Blaire glances down at the yellowed skin, the brittle bones, but there isn’t a single fleck of fear. Hand held, Blaire looks into my eyes, and the image, the conditions, the location, the need, everything is given to Blaire.
It could only happen if the trust was real.
Blaire invited me in.
Blaire made no assumptions about the nature of the invitation.
Single blink, Blaire understands.
“You have to help him,” Blaire says, and shivers.
With hand held, there is a physical, corporeal link.
“Good night.” It is said not to end things but rather to begin again.
With hand held, Blaire looking into both eyes, she is given the truth to the legend. The kingdom has no name. It maps to wherever there is empty space to fill. The kingdom is far yet close, near enough to explore, yet impossible to master. The kingdom is everywhere when human eyes are closed, shut out from the realm that makes pain possible.
The legend of Falter Kingdom, which had been given the name by the various graduating classes that have frequented the site before moving on to forget, exists as a touchstone for the many who travel too far.
Be it human.
Be it “demon.”
It is just a place with some history.
Anything with enough foreboding and energy will be a place where the conditions of corporeal things fail to apply.
But at the same time, it depends on the viewer.
It depends on whether there’s enough trust. With enough trust, the veil of skepticism can be pulled and the full reveal is given, much like it is given to Blaire before leaving.
Blaire holds on to the hand, holds on to the body, long after I go searching. The search lasts a split second, and yet it might feel as much as fifty years to the human subject if the level of trust is low.
Body hidden, I must go. It won’t last long.
I will find you. And later a new body will find us.
Blaire understands, as much as one who has held a demon before is able to understand. I understood this upon my first sighting of her.
Blaire does not want to let go.
She speaks: “Don’t leave me.”
She was haunted, but during the haunting, the demon had lost interest. The demon had left, and in such a departure, a human is left forever lonely, missing a key part of herself, perhaps never to be recovered.
She remains amiss, so I let her stay. It isn’t so much as an offer as it is a plea. She has seen it — the kingdom, like the world of the living, is full of promise. Demons make mistakes too. Demons are needed as much as a human. To be wanted is to look for what was lost.
She found you. She found us.
As long as Blaire holds on, all will be okay.
Blaire does not die. It is my promise to you. She does not die.
She walks on, footsteps later to be heard by you.
See you soon.
14
EVERYONE’S TALKING IN THE PAST TENSE, LIKE I’M beyond being saved. But I look at the wounds, and I feel my heartbeat, and I know that I’ve already been saved once. This is probably not good enough for my bio. What I’ve written will not end up being the sort of remembrance I wanted for the yearbook, but then again, I’m fine with that. I understand that after you end up on the other side, you see this tunnel.