"Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage."– William S. Burroughs.
Someone, I beg of you, please help me. I'm scared, lonely, sleep-deprived, and rocking like a stubborn baby. (If that's the word you want to use, then be my guest). Will a child-eating bed bug scoop me up in its pointy beak? Thinking about something (other than a human) putting their grimy, obtuse hands on my behind worries me. I'm seriously considering the life of a nun. The hood, black and white, the prayer, on your knees for hours at a time, the long midnight dress, I want it all. To make things more digestible, at least you're not alone. You have partners in crime to rant to. An entire syndicate of peach-skinned nuns. Delightful.
For the last seemingly forever, I've been innocently excited. No, I'm not referring to the kind where you get aroused (excuse my choice of vocabulary) by the playful seduction of a cute classmate. The specific excitement I'm talking about is when you have trouble catching your breath, and your heart races like a Formula 1 car. It makes you feel like the lopsided closet proudly displaying your uncomfortably loud bras and underwear will come alive. (Think polka dots). Or some hideous cyclops will drag you into the burning sunlight to tear you apart. Bystanders will laugh and giggle at your screams and pleas for mercy. Once done, it'll lick its fat lips and say, in a low, muffled tone: "That young, pure maiden was quite delicious." As it gives a smile, the monster will lumber into the night. All the while thinking of how yummy the girl's remains taste going through its complex digestive tracts. Ah, the perfect ending to a soft horror comedy. I should seriously write one someday. Eh, I'd have to trust myself first.
Which leads me to think of my insecurities.
It's been years since I've last trusted someone. Am I even capable of trusting anyone at this point? (Imagine being unable to trust yourself.) The last time I did that, my younger brother, Noah, flapped his jaws and flew to my parents. That indecent incident cost me my car and phone for two weeks. Trust me when I say life becomes a slog when forced to live like a freaking Neanderthal. Eat, homework, sleep– that was my routine. I swear I gained ten pounds in the first week from a lack of motivation. Zero social media, zero influencers to take advice from, zero horror playthroughs on YouTube, zero life. It took me months to recover from that psychological nightmare.
But now, if you saw my body, you'd say I'd gotten larger, such a shame.
Beside my bed, tucked between the two concurrent walls, resides a nagging shadow. How had I gotten so absorbed in my degenerative thoughts that I forgot this? Ha! Sometimes, reality doesn't exist to me. Sometimes, I say, out of respite, "Begone maggots! Beware atheists!" That last part was entirely my imagination. I would never speak so poorly of a religious faction. (Or non-religious faction, do you get it? Get IT? Forget it).
It shuffles and stirs like it's spit in the mouth of retirement to deliver an impactful speech on drunk driving. My pupils morph into dinner plates, and the pillow I squeeze with enough force to detonate squirms out of reach. All that's physically possible is to let my jaw drop and my saliva drip evasively onto my duvet. Like a frightened kitten, I collapse onto my hands and knees like a suck-up servant, moving my bottom-heavy arsenal (Kim Kardashian would be put to shame) away from this methane-eating monstrosity.
Behold, it speaks as I moan in suppression of frustration. I'm sure this abstract beluga thingy glaring at me like I won a world record enjoyed it. "Why are you afraid?" Long fingers, thin and enticing, pry on the duvet.
Alarmed, as anyone would be under these circumstances, I reach for my bedside stand. On it, I ALWAYS stash a pocket knife in the first drawer. Every icky, sadistic lesson of feminine self-defense comes crashing back to me. It reminds me of how an awful first date circles your memory months after it happens. You're driven to the cusp of insanity but allowed to teeter on the edge for a while. While the sarcastic, human prophet of wrong choices pokes your chest warningly. Their finger repeatedly touches your no-no area. Maybe it's out of good taste, or (this is as far-fetched as they come) perhaps it enjoys experimenting with the spring mechanics of a female chest. As wholesome and pure as I am (still a virgin baby), I would love to be poked. Like, please boop me.
Again, it tries to get me to respond. "Do I scare you? If so, I mean zero harm. I'm like a good infection."
Seriously? Oh. My. Gosh. A good case of the sneezes? Not a thing. I repeat, NOT a thing. Anything that tells me that deserves an F- for disruptive egotism. "Yes, you scare the hell out of me." I don't withhold my fear. I sound like a bicycle without rubber tires, hard and tone dead. Crash! The drawer falls off its hinges, and I tumble right along with it onto the floor. I hit my head, going into a daze. Little stars swarm in the ridges of my vision like an uninvited guest. So I lie there like a persuasive corpse.
The monster, disregarding kindness, shuffles across my bed. The beast goes Shuck, shuck, shuck. I wonder if it has legs. Does it move on fins? Eww, is this some exotic creature from the Atlantic Ocean?! If so, I'm leaving for the Mediterranean. At least they make a mean Moroccan Tagine.
"Talk about lousy speaker and clumsy." Its head dangles over the side of the bed, smiling full of renewed sarcasm. "Don't tell me you're dead. I wanted to have some fun with you first."
Fun? I'll wake up faster than a bear in a food coma to beat this loser's unappreciative butt. I don't recommend making fun of the mighty Violet Gwendolyn, star of her physics class. The only reason for the 'star' status is I demonstrated the law of momentum during the lecture. Like the good girl I am, I wasn't paying attention. My chair tipped too far back, and I smashed into the person's desk behind me and flopped on the ground like a fallen angel. Even my breath fled the scene. (I was left gasping like a fish out of water.) Every ounce of confidence I possessed seemed to vanish since I never got asked out again. Men labeled me as a sad starfish– which made me depressed. That's also the cause of my obsession with extra-large hoodies. Did I mention how I was wearing a crop top? Did I mention the crop top was a size too small? Did I MENTION everyone talked about the physics of my upper body for weeks? Did I?
I've never been so embarrassed! Problems like that are why young women cover up rather than show off. Men (but in this case, both) can't let an accident die.
"What's with the long face?"
I bolt upward, "I'll kill you–" my head whacks against the underbite of the table, and I wither. "I'll kill you next year." I groan, closing my eyelids. Whatever ambition to slaughter him where he stood poofed out of existence. The throbbing of my skull seriously put a pause on normal thought processes. For me, at least, it happened to be a big deal.
"Yeah, that's what I expected, here, let me help you," massive hands extend from under the duvet, and I think I managed a psychotic half-smile.
"No," I respond, cold but firm. My dominant side (which remained dormant for most of my life) was beginning to emerge. Eclipsed by a goofy-looking figure the size of something from Attack on Titan, I scream simply because that show made me pee 17 times in one sitting. My bladder said, "Nah, I'm gonna do things my way." It caused my parents to reconsider if I'd grown up. My dad, bless his heart, nearly convinced me to go to a counselor. He told me: "The bladder is hard to control; sometimes we need a stranger to talk to about it." My face was beet red for hours afterward. From then on, I swore I would never watch anime again. That promise holds up even today.
Dropped back to reality by a hand the size of Dwayne Johnson's shiny head, I'm brought upright. I stand face-to-face with an anomaly from the pages of Dr. Seuss' fictional masterpieces. (Is it just me, or did Green Eggs and Ham not sit right with anyone else? I even ate the green eggs and vomited for an hour straight, curing myself of any need for a diet. Yippee, Dr. Miracle-Worker.) Gorgeous, perfectly spaced, blue eyes plunge themselves far into my soul. Like a madman on the verge of his final breakthrough, all before being caught by celebrating police. They cheer and accidentally crack open a case of fireworks randomly lying around, sending everyone to the afterlife. Tough choices, right?
If my heart wasn't wishing it could separate from my body, it was threatening me now. My hand, dainty and the perfect blend of tan and ghoulishly white, guides itself toward his face. "Ooo-la-la." I hum, checking to see if this creature is real. My five senses are working in overdrive, trying to identify every detail. "Can I guess your name?"
"Can I guess your weight?" It replies, smirking but lowering its head for me to stroke like a lost kitten. So damn soft. Blue curls, thick and luscious, travel through my fingers like an aftershock.
My ears perk up; is this a challenge? I scoff, so loud steam surrounds my nose. Man, I didn't think secondhand smoke would be this bad. "Have you ever heard not to mention a woman's weight? You should be ashamed." Groping around in its hair, I purr softly and smoothly, asserting whatever recessive, dominant gene my parents gave me.
Mr. Rude I-Need-A-Strong-Mother-Figure-In-My-Life backs onto his hands (I'm not sure what I should call the nasty little vermin in my room, so I'll experiment a bit). Their blue curls shake and flutter over slightly curved ears. "Asking for my name is like eating a bag of tapeworms; bad idea, kid."
I puff out my bottom lip, fighting an uphill battle. "You may not know my weight; that's top secret." My arms crossed, my teeth showed, and while I was for a bloody war. Anyone who attempted to learn my innermost secrets was bound to scatter like moths after the lights went to sleep. "Screw off, go back to your home, Mr."
"Bossy. I like that," they grumble, amused like this answered a question. "190." He licks his lips in the darkness, and I feel so insecure. Was my chest showing? Did I have a piece of hair dangling from my mouth? Ugh! That is why I can never land a boyfriend; the cons of dating me outweigh the pros.
"Stop, dumbass! I told you not to guess!" I flap my arms around like a T-rex, lunging for him. "Bain, Batman, Leopard, Lint, Flint, Hint, Leo!" I'm pathetically punching its body like a hellbent ex-girlfriend. "You. Don't. Listen." When I've finished my barrage of anger, my stomach hurts, and passing out is inevitable. My chest is struggling to obtain any air, so, doing what any athlete does, I call a timeout. Smart, huh? "Oh-Kay," I huff, sprawling out on the floor. Sweat drips from my forehead into my eye, causing pain I haven't felt since getting a bat to the ankle.
As I make a big scene out of nothing (what can I say, drama is my middle name), the rude monster laughs hysterically. "Oh man, you're even more stupid than I originally thought."
"Ha-ay! How about you tell me what you are? That comment hurt." The frown stretching from side to side strains the muscles occupying my cheeks. If he doesn't respond, I'll remain this way for all eternity; what a sad fate. A beautiful girl, such as myself, reduced to nothing but a frowning sack of lard? A menacing creature restricted to a dark cellar. Even historians would have to root for me. "Go, Violet, go, Violet, slay the damned beast who dare make thee miserable!" I can hear their words while I'm panting like a has-been-track sensation. There's nothing like reassuring yourself you're as gorgeous as ever. It makes me want to thump my chest and sing hymns of glory.
That wouldn't be a pretty sight, no, not in the slightest.
"I can... but I won't." He says, playing with his delightfully poignant curls. A smile, large and coy, slides across his complexion. "You're a human, figure it out."
I'm shaking at this. What did I do to deserve sexist (I'm sure it's not derived from that, but I'm putting it out there), biased treatment? I'll show this inhumane muffin who's the boss. "Stubborn bastard, tell me your name and species now." That'll show him not to one-up me.
"You see these?" he squashes his hair, revealing tiny, almost symmetrical horns. Silvery in appearance and pointy, like a gentle slope. It catches the moonlight as a stream of perpendicular light showcases my messy bedroom.
I nod, stunned at the sheer beauty. "Yes," I timidly retort, "You're pretty."
"I know," they say, reeling in their ego. "Any relevant guesses now besides 'demon'?"
Nope. The first thing that entered my pea-sized brain was DEMON. My synaptic neurons were firing at hyper speed but were stuck, fixated upon an already doomed answer. I can't bother sighing; it'll accomplish nothing. "Sorry, the demon is like this universally accepted idea for any being with horns. You fit the description perfectly, and I could fill out a prescription for you right now."
"Enlighten me." They muse, folding their hands together. Their breath comes out heavy, staccato, and intense. Like they're trying to will me to fall for them.
"Cunning, conniving, beautiful, masters of seduction, powerful, deities, and horns." I count on my fingers, smiling when I've depleted my resources. I'm thankful I know how to count (congratulations, education, you're useful for something). "Enlightened?"
"For being slightly amusing, I'll tell you one thing about me."
Choose wisely, oh ye who walks the straight and narrow. This decision is the difference between victory and crushing defeat. I can't screw this up like I screw up relationships. I take a moment to cycle through my options, eventually spinning an imaginary prize wheel that glows red and blue. It stops on an intimidatingly tall, bold caption. It reads: START WITH BEING. So, that's what I begin on. "What are you?" I whimper sadistically, clutching my knees.
"Simple question," his lips separate into a face of relief, "But I'll do as told." He smiles, stretching out his curls with a muscular pinky. "I'm a parasite."
Well, that wraps up my late-night chat. Leaning back, I hit my head on the drawer that fell out, knocking myself unconscious. I'm out like the fabulous Goodnight Moon.