by Destinee
I remember walls of fragile wood trembling and quivering as if I was trapped in a box with someone attempting to free me, yet at the same time squish me within. My room was dingy with the exception of the dim light like the underground tunnels lit with old-fashioned wax candles. It was like searching through a mummy tomb with Rick O`Connell in The Mummy. Except, this was my bedroom, and instead of treasures of gold and knowledge, there was only me and my faint soul.
My room was a sauna with no steam. I would feel light perspiration from the hot air trail down my forehead and back. Loose strands of my own hair, always up in a messy bun, dangled on the back of my neck making me paranoid that something was constantly trying to crawl beneath my battered skin. As for the stuffy air, that was because my room lacked proper ventilation.
I refused to open the windows and turn on fans. I used to believe that, if I left my windows open, some evil spirit would invade my sanctuary and possess me or steal me away to remain in the depths of the Underworld forever. As for turning on fans, I just found it difficult to listen to the murderous screams in my head with the sound of the blades rotating like how I can never hear a word my school teacher says when a custodian is vacuuming in the room next door. I should have kept the fans on but the voices… they were… real.
I heard voices a lot. There were so many, and I could never tell which voice was mine. A million different voices would flow into my mind the way water escapes after a dam has been destroyed. It went from: I see you. Alone. Go away. Get lost. No one cares. Not now. They left you. And rapidly switched to: How could you? What’s wrong with you? Why are you here? These weren’t the only voices I heard either. I could hear the firing of shots that were all the straining voices yelling from other rooms inside my house. The breaking of glass made me cringe at every piece that hit the tiled floor. The slamming of tables and countertops made me tense up so much that, with each pound, I tightened my grip on my legs that I had bent in order to tuck in with my arms. This was not my home, just a house I lived in.
That house I grew up in was not a home. A home is a place where you feel safe and secure. I did not feel safe or secure. I was constantly living in fear that everyone was going to leave me one by one, the way it had always been. I was frightened by the realization that no one understood that my heart was bleeding words that begged to be heard.
If that three-bedroom, one-story house was a home, it was a home to demons that ran around me daily. I always felt like someone was out to get me. That Death would be right around the corner. There was an endless amount of nights where I’d wake up panicking, checking to see if I was still alive. I’d be sweating and hyperventilating as my scream alarmed the entire house that I had just seen the face of the Grim Reaper.
I used to sleep with my stuffed animals to add comfort, knowing that I was not alone and that I was safe. However, as much as I loved my stuffed animals, when night fell, all I saw were their eyes stalking me like a surveillance camera that watches your every move. It made my heavy breathing grow louder and louder just like my heart that would pound so hard I thought it would emerge from my chest and fall right into the palms of my hands.
Nightfall became one of my greatest fears. I could feel the darkness consume me and devour me whole. I could feel tiny venomous snakes slithering past my veins. I began to scratch my wrists and my thighs hoping I could claw them out of me. My skin would blush, and soon my arms and legs would form crimson puddles on the filthy floor masked with crumbled, torn-out papers from my storybooks. The air would thicken, and my throat would dry up. My tear-stained eyes and cracked lips were signs of my uneasiness swirling in my gut. Hair floated down beside me from all the times I tried to pull the voices out. You’re weak. You’re ugly because you are weak. I’d fight back, but… they were right. They were always right.
I can’t recall when exactly, but one night, before I closed my eyes for the last time to dreamland, I said to myself, “Just count to ten and no monsters will lie under my bed”. Little did I know that the monsters lived in my head: We’re coming for you.
