The Smiling Man
I will always remember the first time He appeared.
It was my first birthday, and my parents had prepared a simple birthday party just for us in our little dainty apartment.
I sat there on the couch, confused as to why the lights were off. Then there it was, both my parents walking out of the kitchen — One holding the small slice of strawberry cake and the other shielding the candle from wind through the window.
"Make a wish and blow out the candle!"
"It's your first birthday, wish for something Juliette!"
With my eyes clamped shut and hands held intertwined, I wished for big smiles as wide as mine forever.
I should have been clearer with my wish.
When I opened my eyes again, my parents flipped the switch and the whole room lit up.
And there He stood.
In the corner of my living room, a room barely enough space to house any guests.
But there He stood.
I was confused, and my parents asked why I wasn't smiling. I couldn't say much then, so I just stared.
"It's your birthday, give me a smile," they said as they brought out my present.
And in that tiny moment I forgotten about Him.
As I giggled and clapped my tiny hands together shredding the princess-themed gift, I saw the dark figure creeping closer into my peripheral view.
I looked up to see Him, no longer smiling, long slender ashy fingers wrapped around my fathers neck.
My father started choking, desperately gasping for air.
"Rob! What's happening? What's wron-"
Tears formed as she grabbed her phone, "Help! My husband can't breathe, he was fine a minute ago. Please... HELP ME!"
While my mother sat there crying, seeing her own husband grabbing onto his neck gasping for air, I saw Him strangling my father.
The desperation in her voice, her confusion.
She couldn't see Him. No one could.
As I wailed, his frowned facade eased. His skin, dark like obsidian. The creases in his frowns seemingly housing the fear he instilled in me.
As I cried and cried, tears flowing down my face, his anger slowly turned into joy.
He let go of my father's neck and slowly backed into the corner. Oh, but he was already dead.
So trust me when I say I grew used to the image of people getting slowly killed in some way or form. Ever since then, I have always kept myself in check.
Then I turned 12, and the hormones started messing with my head. The nightmares, they harrowing.
As I cried myself awake, I saw Him.
Smiling.
My mother burst into my room, cradling me whispering words of comfort. My mother's embrace briefly covered Him from my view, and for a split second I felt a wave of comfort wash over my body.
As I calmed down, my mother moved away staring at me, and reassured that no one was going to hurt me.
Oh how was she wrong.
He started shuffling over to my bed, and I immediately thrashed and pushed her away. I screamed at them, told them to get out of my room. She was confused, a minute ago her own flesh and blood was fine. But she heeded my pleas and left.
And He smiled.
Ever since those incidents, I have been extremely cautious. I would control myself; Never showing any signs of remote happiness to put the people I cared for at risk.
But His power was far greater than my consciousness could control.
The inevitable came when my only close friend was found dead in her bed. An unnatural death they said. All because I had a nice dream of her.
Years pass, and my mother got struck with cancer. Too little too late. With her dying breath, she told me that she loved me. All the fights and pushes, it didn't matter to her. For she loved me unconditionally. She was ready to go find father in Heaven.
As I felt eased, He walked towards her frail frame. As tears of comfort streamed down my cheek, I whispered, "I'm sorry mom, I love you too."
His fingers held tightly onto my mother's neck. But she was already dead.
I looked up at Him, and for a moment I saw hurt. It was as if, He was hurt.
I never dealt with grief well. After all, I could not get proper closure on my own father's death. I went down a deep rabbit hole of self destruction. Cigarettes, drugs you name it. I laughed with colleagues over conference calls, only to hear them gurgling over the phone. I had sex with strangers at the bar, only to have my orgasm end their life.
Nothing held me back anymore, for I cared little for these people.
The only thing that mattered was that He was hurting. He was in pain, dying little by little with each constant smile and happy moment.
It went on, until my mother's first death anniversary, I sat at her grave and told her about my life.
"I am happy, mom. I truly am," I mumbled, holding onto her headstone.
"For once in my life, I am happy. Happy with myself, happy with my life."
And out of the corner of my eye, I saw Him.
And boy did he look angry.
But me?
I was smiling.