DEMONS By Claire
Godden-Rowland I was panting hard and
crying hysterically, all reason given way to panic and fear
ricocheting around my skull. The visions continued to
assault me. Tears poured down my cheeks and I wiped at them
frantically, the glass vase raised above my head like a
cricket bat, ready to strike at my ghostly assailant. Finally the creature
stopped approaching. It stood on the other side of the
coffee table, the orange light from the streets outside
giving him an eerie glow. ‘Stay the fuck back,’ I
ordered through gritted teeth, struggling to keep my voice
steady, and adrenaline shooting through me. Was he laughing? It
sounded like laughter, or was it sorrow, was he crying? Standing my ground felt so
good, it was empowering, it was euphoric and the creature
seemed to shrink slightly. He held out his hands,
those human hands, in a gesture of peace, visibly growing
smaller, becoming my size now. Curiosity crept into my
brain, and there was another feeling, another notion I could
not yet grasp but it hovered close, just out of reach. ‘What
are you?’ The fear, although still
pumping through my veins, was being surpassed by the other
thing, the sensation which lingered just outside my reach. ‘Are you sure you want to
see?’ The voice, although
whispered was so familiar. Still that whisper clawed at me,
just out of range and I narrowed my eyes at the spectre
before me, concealed beneath the heavy hood. ‘Tell me,’ I found myself
screaming. ‘Tell me.’ ‘Are you ready?’ ‘Fucking tell me!’ ‘Are you sure, you want to
see?’ ‘Fucking tell me,’ I
repeated furiously, my voice rising to a screech. I heard the key in the
lock. The creature grasped its hood. The door began to open.
The creature lowered the hood. Allen burst into the room,
his face stricken with fear. I saw the demon’s face.
Recognition like a tidal wave assaulted my brain, thundering
in with all natures’ force, barriers of repression crumbling
beneath its power. I remembered everything, like a hideous
dream bombarding my brain with its unforgiving garish
colours. The footsteps along the hallway at night, clutching
my covers to my body as I listened to them grow louder, the
child’s need to please, to cooperate. The bed moving as
another body sat upon it, pulling down the covers, exposing
my naked child’s body and climbing in behind me, and the
pain, followed by the brutal and diminishing shame. The
misery of everyday at school knowing you were different but
being uncertain how, knowing it was wrong but not knowing
how it could be. The pain of it all so exquisite it had been
blocked out all these years. I stared at the exposed
face in utter disbelief, my own memory rediscovered from its
dark hiding place. I stared at the face, my tormentor, my
abuser and my step father. As the demon vanished I turned to
Allan and I swung the vase and brought it down on his skull,
the shattering of glass and cracking of bone resonated
around the apartment. I saw the look of comprehension on his
face. As he lay on the floor, staring up at me in surprise I
leant forward and, raising my fingers to my lips, I shushed
him just before he died. Top of page | Page 3/3 | Fiction Index | 