It’s cold, and dark. The shadows are long and I know the demon is waiting.
He’s stalked for years, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
Once, I sat in a restaurant at a table full of friends, surrounded by four off duty cops. The safest place I ever could have been, and yet every willing man in the room stared with that horrifying desire.
The demon stood by the soda machine. Tall, ominous, draped in shaggy layers of black. He had no reason to hide from me, why should he? He stood outside my bedroom window waiting. Always waiting.
Unable to bear his presence any longer, I left the table full of friends, and the four police officers eating, to run away from him. Them. Their lusts loudly resounding in my head.
In that moment, I decided perhaps prostitution wasn’t what I wanted after all. It had been a flattering idea which gave my abandoned flesh purpose. Serve, submit, succumb, and never have to remember the name. There were too many names it hurt to remember already. Ones that promised to care. Ones that promised to help. Ones that failed.
I was the problem.
Needy. They said. Emotional. Too young. Too much. Too smart. Dependent. Depressed. Trailer trash. A product of loveless marriage. A ghost of an existence that wished even God could love me. What could I do? Where would I go? Who would ever love someone like me.
Nothing beats the terror of knowing a demon has decided your fate for you. The sensation an ice cold chill. Panic overtakes you as their intentions manifest in other human beings around you.
All one can do is run, hoping you run the right way. Easy enough to leave a safe place and end up in the wrong place.
The spirit didn’t pursue. My “friends” didn’t ask why I left. Nobody would have believed if I’d told them anyway. Not everyone sees what I see. Not everyone knows what I know. And the ones who don’t believe silence with condescension.
I know the spirit lingers, I feel it for the first time in a long time. It’s a shadow stretching, reaching. Calling.