To whomever may be reading this piece, by God knows what means, I want you to first note that you need not take immediate action upon what you have read. For it can be presumed that I already lie dead and rotting in the confines of my room in my own apartment with my brains blown out by none other than myself using the only twelve-gauge shot gun I’ve ever owned. The reason for this entry is not intended to be, in essence, one of self-loathing nor pity over the inevitable decision I have already made. It is not a suicide letter to those close to me by any means. It is a simple man’s attempt at trying morning of the first day of September of this year that I awoke next to my fiancé’s cold body. Demri was her name, and a drug-induced asphyxiation had taken her life during that night as I slept soundly through the noises of her choking on her own putrid smelling vomit. It is not that I blame myself for not waking, but the fact that I was in the deepest of drunken slumbers and couldn’t wake even to save poor Demri’s life, that hurts most. We were Soul Mates, and we both knew it. It may have been at that particular moment that I lost my own will to continue on living as a human being, and I do know for fact that it was in this moment that I lost a large portion of my own sanity, if not all off it. Which is no excuse for the person (or thing) I became afterwards, to put into words the haunting experiences of which have occurred in my life during the recent months and leading up to this day. Experiences that up until now, I have dared not try to put into words even in my own mind. It is also worthy of note that as I write this, I am still unsure of my own sanity, and if the things I am about to describe truly happened. Though I will tell you now that every detail that I am about to record, seemed as if to happen in definite reality to me, and was no mere dream as I saw or felt it.
My downward spiral towards the depths of a living hell and insanity began only a few months ago. The date I remember all too well. I could probably forget my own God-Forsaken name before I even begin to try to forget this date. It was the but the recognition (or excuse) offers me some peace of mind in the present for God knows what reason.
I feel as if it is necessary at this point to record a summarization of mine and Demri’s history. As I previously mentioned, we were Soul Mates, and dare I say it was love at first sight. Whether that is still such a thing to believe in is not something for me to say, nor is it the topic of this essay. When I first met the eyes of the beautiful girl from my Philosophy Intro class at university with my own, there was a connection we both felt. A connection that girl and I (whose name that day I discovered to be Demri Nox a few hours afterward in the south courtyard in which I approached her after class), often discussed on our many dates following as we formed our bond to each other. We had realized that upon gazing into each other’s eyes we were able to peer into the depths of one another’s soul. This, as well as a great many other reasons (which I am not up to nor will I list), were why Demri and I were destined to be together in this life; ‘til death do us part – and that it did. Not in the particular way I would’ve hoped, at least.
Though the cause of Demri’s death is a common one among drug addicts and alcoholics around all places of this evil Earth, neither Demri nor I was an addict by any means. We both just liked to have fun. It was almost every Saturday night that we would find ourselves hitting up the downtown strip of the city in which we lived, partying our asses off. We would blow our checks we earned during the weeks on drinks at the clubs we frequented so much, accepting strange pills from strangers and seemingly having the time of our young adult lives. We would always stick together too. We would arrive together and leave together every single time. Being lawfully engaged, stuff like that is usually expected of a soon-to-be married couple; but it was a spiritual thing more than a lawful one. Even before the engagement I can’t recall a time out that we weren’t together since she had moved in with me.
Anyways, to keep things short I’m going to try and attempt to get to the point, which is hard when your thoughts are scattered trying to recall such happy memories and emotions in the state of mind in which I write this. Demri and I were able to balance fun with life. We both obviously had a lot of things in common. One of these things being common sense. Which allowed us both to keep a good conscious no matter how fucked up we were some of those nights. We both knew our individual limits in terms of inebriation, and being the avid partyers and intense lovers we were, we came to know each other’s limits as well. This allowed both of us to keep our lives in order amidst such chaos. Something I’ve realized (or maybe learned) now is that there is no order in the midst of chaos. It is an impossible thing, a sort of oxymoron if you will.
It was the night that order subsided and chaos raged on that I lost the love of my life. Demri and I were at one of the usual hang outs purchasing multiple rounds of shots for the group of celebrants gathered around us, as was per usual. What I didn’t know at this precise time, (and it wasn’t until the next morning that I found the empty bottle next to the microwave), was that Demri had taken more yellow bars than she could most likely have counted on one of her hands – maybe even two. What the girl had in her mind when she took the pills, I cannot say. The very act haunts me to this day. Surely Demri wasn’t so unhappy as to purposefully push herself past her limit? Whether it was a conscious decision or a subconscious one remains a mystery, and I don’t think I’ve ever truly wanted to know the answer. Though since her death I’ve had a lot of time alone to reflect on that night. There were hints. Little details I remember when I think back to mine and Demri’s last hours together at the club that make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Were I not drinking that night would I have been able to perceive the situation for what it was? I find it pointless to ask myself such questions at this point in time but at the same time those questions are all I think about. As I stated earlier I had always thought I had control when it came to things of that nature, but I guess there are some things in life that we are just unable to control, whether you’re drunk, high or sober. It doesn’t matter. I know this now because it was when I was wasted at the club with Demri that I noticed her eyes the night before she died. At the time I thought we were both having the time of our lives as I usually did on those kinds of nights. This night was different. I realized it at the time too, but only subconsciously. It was not until it was too late, after she was six feet well underground, that the memory was brought to my consciousness as I laid in our empty bed alone. I had remembered how her eyes looked strange, and could almost recall the brief feeling of discomfort that surged through me for no more than a few seconds before I drunkenly discarded the feeling and took another shot. Though discomfort is the word I use to describe what I felt in the moment. After having too much time to myself to reflect on the instance I think I’ve found a few more appropriate terms for the way I felt. Emptiness. Void. Though, these are only terms I would use to describe what I felt in the moment. Neither are terms I would use to describe Demri’s eyes. In that particular moment in time, as well as a few other smaller instances of which I can remember from that night, Demri’s eyes were soulless. They no longer contained any reflection of the light of life nor the depth of soul that we had bonded so deeply over. I feel it is almost as if those lifeless eyes of hers spoke for her that night, and I still find that a looming contradiction to my continued existence in this life.
Of course since the memory was brought to my conscious attention I’ve had weeks to struggle with the ideas in my mind: whether I was imagining things, whether it was true and our bond was actually not as strong as we had thought we had developed it to be, whether it was a sick façade on her part, and pretty much every single other ridiculous situation someone with my mind could conjure. The most important aspect to me telling you about this though, is that every single one of these thoughts led me to one ultimate conclusion: I was not able to live anymore, and I would inevitably end up taking my own life. The conclusion (that was more of an impulsive decision brought upon by severe mental trauma), should be no surprise to anyone this far into this piece of writing. You may be asking yourself why I’ve waited weeks without carrying out the deed. Or why I’ve wasted more than enough time writing this letter that is probably going to be read by no one after I’m gone. Well you see, dear reader, I’ve been afraid. Afraid so much of the death that I have so earnestly yearned for over the past weeks. Afraid to actually pull the trigger. I’ve been afraid, that was, up until the occurrences of last night and the horrors that I’ve had to face that have pushed me over that mental cliff finally leading down to my own demise. I have seen unspeakable things. Unthinkable things.
I do not fear death anymore as of last night, no more than I fear life as I know it to be now.
To understand the things of which I am about to attempt to make fathomable to the reader, I must also record a bit more detail of certain incidents post Demri’s death. In the weeks following the funeral service, I had become a complete recluse. My whole world had shrunk to the confines of my own small apartment which I now share with no one other than myself. In the four times I have actually managed to bring myself to leave my house, two times consisted of a quick run to the corner store for groceries after practically starving for a week at two separate periods of time. The third time I had managed to walk myself down the street to my place of employment and turned in my resignation, which I found it hard to do while being offered so many condolences for the loss of my fiancé from colleagues. The fourth and last time I went out was last night.
It was only yesterday morning that I came to terms with the fact that I am insane. Insanity is a funny thing really, because those who are insane know that being insane is quite the sane experience. I still can’t bring myself to the conclusion that the things I did and the things I witnessed last night were that of reality, but at the same time as I sit here writing this, I have evidence to prove that what happened was real. And if someone had come to my door twenty four hours ago and told me what was going to happen to me during the coming night, I would’ve laughed in their face. What’s worse though is I would have believed them. Crazy as it may seem to you, it would have seemed perfectly reasonable to a mentally insane individual like myself. Despite what you may think or believe by reading this, I want to make one thing very clear: I brought insanity upon myself, and in doing so I have destroyed any possibility of mental recovery in this life. The events of last night have more than proven to me that I am no more living now than when I will be after I am laying on the floor of my bedroom with my brains splattered all over the wall. You may be wondering how I can rationalize such a conclusion as this while still being able to put my story into words. You will need to understand the development of my state of mind leading up to the events of last night, which I will now explain.
During the weeks of my reclusiveness I had little to occupy myself with other than my material belongings such as my iPhone which was all but non-existent to me anymore, my TV and cable box which barely saw any use even before Demri’s death, and my computer to which I accredit most of the blame. For hours that stretched into days at a time I would use my computer to escape the hell of reality in which I reside into that of a world of unending knowledge and wonder that was the internet. For a (very) short time, recovery and a life moving forward almost seemed possible. I would constantly be browsing Philosophical sites, videos pertaining to enlightenment of the human mind. How to reach Christ Conscious. Things of that nature. While my reclusive internet studies kept me occupied to a feasible extent there was something during that time and up until now that I was never able to escape. Unlike the material things of my possession, I could not escape that which was my own mind. The suicidal depressive state of which I described earlier that came with the weeks post Demri’s death was something I brought mostly upon myself using nothing other than my own thoughts. Even during my internet binges my thoughts were always there, nagging endlessly at me. Over time my thoughts became darker and darker, which naturally bled into what I researched during my time on the internet. This led to me searching for articles on strange mythologies, Wiccan rituals, even Necromancy.
It was last night that I stumbled upon an article from a website in one of the deeper parts of the internet. The article was so fascinating. It was an analysis of a story from ancient Indian mythology. The story was titled The Tale of King Delhi and his Beloved Rashish. I won’t give a full analysis of what I read as this piece is already turning out to be much longer than I intended. I will however explain why this article I read on the internet – that which summarized the story of one archaic Indian ruler who lost his love, made me leave my house last night to go to the cemetery in attempt to dig up the grave of my dear Demri Nox.
King Delhi was the ruler of a territory in one what would now be the northern industrialized parts of India. If it was of importance to this piece, I would formally cite the article and paraphrase details of Delhi’s life and reign. But this is not a formal essay for some basic University History class. The reason this article affected me in such a way that it did is because of the allegorical similarity between the King Delhi’s relationship with his first and only wife, Rashish, to that of mine and Demri’s relationship as it was when she was alive. In the tale of Delhi and Rashish there was a certain bond between the two. A connection, that when I read it as described in the article, made my heart stop it’s beating for seconds that I didn’t count. For the Indian King and his beloved shared a soul connection through each other’s eyes, and it was stated in the article that the belief of these peoples was that one’s soul is alive in the eyes of the individual. It is stated there too that the soul lives on, even after one passes on from this life, in the eyes of the deceased. It was because of this belief that the common practice of these primitive peoples was to remove one’s eyes at post mortem if requested by one who shares a soul connection of the one deceased, and given to them to keep before a ritualistic burial of the eyeless body. What these people did with the detached eyeballs of their deceased love ones isn’t really detailed in the article, and my informal synthesis of the article does not help much in understanding what these peoples practice truly accomplished, but I will try and give you a decent idea of the understanding I was able to attain while reading it myself.
In some way or another, in possessing a pair of eyes that contains a soul within them, these people were visited by the dead in the forms of dreams or other supernatural experiences. When the King Delhi had Rashish’s eyes removed after she had passed away from an unnamed illness or plague, he had claimed that he could still see his wife as if she was living. Others around him claimed to be able to see the deceased Queen as well. Whether it was some form of ancient necromancy or some amount of inhuman insight was mysteriously granted to these peoples, I still cannot say for sure. What I can speak of is my personal experience. If you had asked me what I thought about the supernatural based on experiences from my own life up until before last night, I would have told you that such talk is just myth.
Well as of the events of last night, I can say for sure, we humans are not the only beings residing in this world. We might be the only ones in this dimension of space, but there are different planes of existence that all coexist at once in this world. Since the dawn of humanity we have questioned the nature of our existence, and few have found the answer. Even now while you are asking yourself why you are still reading the insane ramblings of a man who is certainly more than dead by now, there are things in the room with you, beings who are around you, creatures who watch you. They stand in the same spot as you, sleep in the same bed as you, and unless provoked or summoned, they will go unnoticed by human eyes.
As I took a spade to the dirt of her grave last night, I could feel them watching me. I could almost see them, their eyes around me in the darkness as I dug myself into a hole that was almost my full height. As I opened the casket of my beloved Demri and looked upon her corpse for the first time since the funeral service, I could feel them peering over the hole in the grave, watching closely as I used a steak knife from my kitchen to pry out her beautiful eyeballs. Once I got each eye with its socket attached out of the corpse I felt something indescribable. Void. Emptiness. Soullessness. They were all replaced with feelings familiar to me. Feelings that I thought I would never feel again. I was filled with the love of my Demri once again as I crouched over her disgusting corpse that was now missing its eyeballs and sockets, leaving two dark holes in a skull of rotting skin and clumpy hair. God knows it was an unholy sight. Something out of the darkest of nightmares. I put the eyes in the glass jar container I had brought for the occasion and stuck the jar in my pack I had brought that was empty at that point as my tools laid scattered around the sight. I didn’t bother to clean up afterward, either. As you know, I am quite literally insane and feeling as I was then, I climbed out of the grave with my pack on my back and ran the whole two miles back to the safety of my apartment; panting and wheezing my way into the door.
At this point I was exhausted. I had only enough energy in me to take the glass jar out of my pack and place it with its pillaged contents on the sill of the window in my bedroom where it would be in my sight in the position where I slept. I laid down in my bed on my side facing the window. I was intent on watching the jar until I quickly drifted off, in hopes that Demri would visit my dreams. It was probably no more than two hours (I never bothered to look at the clock at any point during last night) that I was awoken by the sound of what I thought at first to be someone trying to open my front door. There was a silent knocking, then the sound of someone trying to casually open the door. I thought of who it could be in my sleepy state. Maybe it was the police investigating the robbery of Demri’s grave? It didn’t matter whatsoever to me once I looked over to the window and at the jar that still sat there with its contents undisturbed, the eyes almost watching me as I slowly drifted off again for what was probably a total of five minutes. Then I was awoken again by another strange noise. It sounded as if someone was rapping a set of wood sticks, or a set of old withered fingers melodically against my window. Had someone from outside seen the jar and what was inside? As the thought reached my mind I forced myself to open my sleepy eyes so that I could see what the cause of the uncanny noise was.
What I saw then was the most unholiest of sights. I was paralyzed by the sight of the creature that stood at my window, peering into my room with those two dark holes in its skull. It was not Demri. The creature had her figure and her hair, the skin was rotten and peeling from the corpse and its mouth was agape as its dead gaze, set on my unmoving form in bed, filled me with horror. It stood there, alive but dead, its warm breath forming condensation on my window as it stared. I knew it had seen me looking. For after half a minute or so, the creature turned its body slowly and walked away from the window toward the direction of my front door. As it did so it showed no signs of living emotions or thought, it just turned and walked. So slowly, so terribly. As I laid there still paralyzed by fear, I heard the door once again. There was no knock this time, just the slow turning of the door knob that was stopped by the lock of the door. The thing tried it a total of three times that I counted before the noise stopped, and then there was silence.
I don’t think I moved a muscle until the light of day was flooding my bedroom and I knew the sun had fully risen. I could hear the signs of suburban life outside and the chirping of birds. I rose and went straight to the door of my little apartment where the thing had tried to come in. I slowly unlocked it, inhaled sharply, turned the knob and opened the door. There was nothing. Nothing to see at least. The smell was there, God that smell. It still lingers out there even as I write this. It is inhuman, wrong. Unnatural. I can’t describe it in any other way. The god damned smell. Worse than that of a corpse. I can’t go outside anymore. I can’t stay here either. The jar with the eyes is still there in the window, but the feeling of fulfillment I had felt so strongly last night is long gone. All that remains is horror. Something so dreadful that I not dare spend another night alive in fear of the thing coming back tonight or any night after if I were to choose to live.
Whatever this means of death I care not to think about. Surely death will bring some sort of the relief to the terrors I came to witness last night. I will blow a hole in my head that will surely obliterate my eyes in hopes that my soul will cease to exist as well. For such insight into the inhuman knowledges of this world is not easy on the human mind nor is it easy to describe to the blind. Insight. That word means more than you may think. Having insight truthfully means to have eyes inside of your head. Eyes on your brain. It makes no sense to the common man but with the amount of insight I currently possess you would surely see the clarity in the haunting concept.
I bid this world a great farewell and I curse whatever may become of me after I am gone.
May it, with all the others, be cast into the deepest depths of Hell.
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