UnArmed - Part One

Unarmed 

          by: Deevious

Nightmare #89

Hi.

My name is Deanna.

Deanna Grayson.

I have always been a follower.

Take one look at my Twitter account and you'll see it's true. 

I've never made any decisions - well, any important ones.  Today, I have chosen the black yoga pants over the gray ones, but besides that, I struggle with almost anything new.  

And I'm okay with that.  

I’ve always been this way.  

I have always been grateful to slide through life, effortlessly. 

To follow the pack;

To hang on the sidelines and watch others play the game.

I was happy with this measly existence.

Then, the monsters came.

One day, I was living a quiet, normal life - a lonely one, mind you - but it was mine, all mine.

I had a nice, little two-bedroom apartment in the city and a hub of nearbys ~ 

My favorite pizza shop, where they make the best thin crust around;

A hair studio, with reasonable prices and busy beauticians who never ask too many personal questions;

The Supermarket, which is really a gigantic warehouse where I can get anything and everything I would ever need and where I can blend into the crowd easily;

A kick-ass Fruit stand, which is super important to me;

And the book store, where I buy all of my reads and it’s literally called The Book Store.

My life consisted of a five-block radius.

I knew the people;

The hours;

The routine.

I wasn't changing the world, but hell, it wasn't changing me either.  It was a schedule, dammit.  And I was happy with it.  So what if I wasn't big on socializing with everyone I met.  I'm an introvert and that's what we do.  We ignore people and live in our heads and spend our time alone.  

That doesn't mean I wasn't here.

That doesn't mean I wasn't living.

Then, one Tuesday evening I'm sipping broth from a bowl of Ramen Noodles (a favorite of mine since my college days and I’m not talking the good ones from the Asian market down the street, I’m talking the really cheap ones that come wrapped in plastic); I'm watching a little TV to unwind from my day of repetition and disapproval (telemarketing isn't for the weak).  But now that I am thinking about it, horror isn't for the weak either.  Which reminds me of that quote by Jean Lorrain:

"The charm of horror only tempts the strong." 

Maybe I’m just that strong and that is why these things came to visit me.

That has to be it.

I'm only one of the very few who could actually handle their invasion.

But why me?

Why now?

Am I to blame somehow? 

Is it my genetic make-up, on some level, that has made me more vulnerable than others?

Should I examine this further?  Research the argument between nature versus nurture? Maybe Freud was right all this time.  Perhaps all of this could be put on my mother.

That would explain a lot.  (And totally reinforce my suspicions of her.)

But I guess I'm getting ahead of myself.

Try and keep up.

You must forgive me for jumping around in conversation.  These days, my mind takes fits and it isn't what it used to be.  (Hey, once you've been haunted to this extent then you can talk to me about focus.)

Anyways, it was a Tuesday.

After a nine-hour telemarketing shift, I indulged in my normal routine:

Oodles of Noodles;

A couple of cold beers;

The latest Netflix series;

And then off to bed.

It was sometime before the dawn - when time hangs suspended somewhere between the darkness and the first light.

All at once.

Without warning.

Without hesitation.

The monsters came.

And let me tell you something about them, they were organized.  

Organized like those flash mobs in the park.

At first, I thought it was a dream.

But the screams assured me it was not.

Nothing in this lifetime will wake you up like a bloodcurdling, ear-piercing, heart-pounding banshee scream at four in the morning.  Nothing.

Sometimes - if it's really, really quiet- I think I can still hear that scream echoing inside my head.  

And when it does, a migraine haunts me for about an hour.  

So, I try not to think too much about that night, but it's hard to suppress the horror; all those images; all the terrible creatures.

 And I believe that on some psychological level, I need to get it all out and tell someone.  I feel compelled to share my story.  

Sharing it helps calm the tremors.

It helps with the voices too.

And since I cannot share it with my grocer or beautician or on social media - well, not without consequence - I thought of you.  

Why not create a little do-it-yourself therapy session and transform these neurotic emotions into text; into words; into a story to share and pass on; to warn and inform.

Why not share the scare?

And I think to myself, what if it helps one other person out there?  

What if, someday, they come for you?  

Then you’ll know you're not alone.  

You might even survive.

And if you do, then you can come and find me and we can hash out these demons as one.  

We can face them together.

There's always been a certain safety in numbers, and I've come to learn that company can be a good thing and that being alone all the time isn't the best way to spend a life.  Maybe these leftover morsels of screams and fits of anxiety are actually a reminder - 

A memory designed to keep me in check; to stay on point; to be appreciative, grateful, ferverous. (If that is even a word.  I think it should be, so I'm leaving it in.)

There I go again, spouting off crazy shit and examining my neurosis.  

Sometimes it does get the best of me, but I'm working on it.

Aren’t we all a work in progress?

Okay, back to it.  I was caught somewhere between REM and reality - in and out - in and out - kind of like that sleep you get on an airplane - short, refresher naps that always end in a head jerk, where everything is a bit broken up and foggy.

I did a final head jerk and opened my eyes.   

I immediately knew something was off.  The air was electric and it was wearing static like a pair of leggings out of the dryer.

You could actually smell the energy in the room - a strange, warm scent that seemed to replicate more fire than smoke.

And I'm back there again...

(Stop back for part two of the story tomorrow)