“Frankly,” he begins, but as you already know, nothing else is needed.
“Frankly” this.
“Frankly” that.
You are given a warning. “Frankly” Halverson is quite concerned.
He listens to my replies. He notices a change.
My voice is your voice. Soon we will speak the same. Friend, you see it as much as I have seen it. Much like you have said, there is worry, misplaced worry. They see the pale skin, the marks that I have made, the bad breath, the bloodshot eyes. The thinning hair and missing eyelashes.
Indeed, you have seen better days.
A lot of energy placed in a body such as this can achieve only so much. Soon we will find escape.
I find escape from the principal’s office. Given a warning, and it’s off to third period. Must I be responsible for missing the second period if Halverson kept you with his “frankly” talk for a whole hour? Regardless, I walk as best as I’ve been able to surmise from watching you and I return to class. During this class, I remain silent like the other students, studying from a book I have no interest in reading.
What is this subject?
I am beginning to understand why you fear the monotony of school. I am also learning quickly of how little others understand about what you are going through. They treat me like an affliction. They treat me as a curse. They treat me as a behemoth.
I encourage you to look it up. “Behemoth.”
I am not a behemoth.
“Demon” is as close to getting right what I am. But so many seek the visual, what I look like, but I can only show you based on what I’m becoming. I look so much like you because of the events that have transpired where I have been able to influence and help.
The day wears on with this same undercurrent of confusion from others. They whisper words involving your demise. They whisper gossip about the breakup. They judge you based on how you look. They judge you based on the way I walk.
During lunch, I sit with Brad, who sits to the side, unwilling to say much of anything to me. I speak to him to get some practice. There is much to learn from speaking using this voice.
I inquire, “Brad, how is it that you haven’t gotten laid yet?”
Yet you aren’t supposed to know this. It catches him off guard.
There it is, once again, confusion and fear. You might be worried but I wouldn’t be concerned. Let us have some fun then.
“Bro, what the hell you talking about?”
Brad attempts to cover up the embarrassment that bubbles up from beneath his practiced demeanor.
“You are still a virgin,” I speak in an authoritative voice. I speak much like any of the instructors might. However, I assume it comes off much different from what I had wanted.
This will take some time. It will require your help too. As mutual friends, I assume we will both learn to operate the social ins and outs with relative ease.
Brad is uncomfortable.
Others are uncomfortable.
Perhaps this is a good moment to leave.
I do. I leave the table, let that bit of information hang bold and true, for it is worth remembering that even if it was I that made them feel so awkward and perhaps afraid, they still assume that it is you they are speaking to.
I believe it would be great to try a drink.
I haven’t had what this is called.
I find him where anyone finds him, Jon-Jon, whose real name is Jonathan Johnson, one of the most mediocre of names possible. I saunter up—another word worth acquiring, for I enjoy that word. Saunter.
Jon-Jon is adept at hiding behind a smoke screen, a practiced role of his as a businessman. Yet upon seeing your presence, seemingly out of nowhere—I had walked in such a manner that he couldn’t have noticed until I was directly in front of him—he says, “Hunter, well, you’re... you’re looking a little rough.”
Immediately he runs through a number of ideas, turning you into a gambler’s paradise.
I tell him, “Hunter will not die. He will live longer than you.”
The dramatic shift from reserved to noticeably concerned is far more enjoyable when the person’s worked tirelessly to be someone he is not.
Jon-Jon makes an offer, for there is little else for him to say: “You want a drink? Maybe a smoke?”
Must it all be vice?
Yet I am here to try one, and I accept a drink. The taste is familiar. I will not be able to taste this with fresh senses. You have tasted and abused this drink to help navigate the social circles. And it tastes of something else. It has no clear taste whatsoever. I taste mostly the aftermath, long after the effects of alcohol hit this body. I drink as much as you would.
I drink and discover that the body changes, becomes more difficult to navigate, after drinking enough.
I walk with narrower focus to what’s next.
Fifth period and sixth, yet this body needs time to repair. It needs to rest. I sit in what is deemed study hall. The students move away from where you are sitting. You are “freaking them out.”
I notice a young woman, Blaire, the only one staring back when I am caught making eye contact. She knows you, and not as what you were but what you are becoming. She wants to approach, but I sense that she feels as though she hasn’t been welcome. I sit there, staring, and she sits, staring back, for the entire period. Upon leaving the school campus, I watch so many treat you as a contingency, something that shouldn’t be. A lost cause.
For the one named Blaire, she is the sole exception.
Everyone else, they assume that the exorcism may arrive too late. I let the body rest before walking home. Your home is like you left it.
Now leave the kingdom.
They will be waiting for you.
Your parents.
I watched the entire thing, and man, it does seem different after it is all said and done. Seeing it from a distance, I really get this strange feeling, like they want me to be messed up, the one who got it all wrong, so that they feel better about themselves. I mean, right?
That would be correct.
It’s all fixated around you, and I don’t know why that is.
I am deemed an affliction.
Like something I shouldn’t be around. The priests told me to fight any and all contact with you.
I remember. I was there.
They don’t see you for what you really are, I don’t think.
They do not. They see things for the horror that has been defined over time.
You know, I’ve been thinking... is it why Father Albert calls you an unclean spirit?
Perhaps.
Yeah, I think that’s probably why. Demon seems too much like all the other demons in the movies and stuff.
They assume that the activity is made to terrorize. I have only done what I have done because it worked.
Definitely. It definitely worked. Okay, so I don’t want this to happen.
It will happen. It is what’s in front of you.
Like, she just won’t go away! Now she got my parents involved?! They’re both home. I’ve never seen it where they are both home in the middle of the day. Not like this. Now this, this is insane. She just won’t leave me be.
I am here. You will be fine.
You’ll do all the talking?
If I must. Yet did you not state that you would no longer take the easy and convenient way out of decisions?
Yeah. Yeah, I did say that. It’s just... okay. Fine. Time to get this over with.
Of course, they’re not going to let me step inside before my dad’s right there, making sure I won’t get away.
“Son, we have to talk.”
It sounds like I’m about to be in, like, one of those TV dramas. I’m the poor son who’s in a losing battle against a demon.
Mom’s got her head in her hands, and it looks like she’s been crying.
That bitch Becca is there, and she told them all. Of course she told them. Look at that grin on her face. You see it?
Indeed, I d
o.
Dad’s right behind me so that I can’t just run away. Run upstairs. Run back outside. Run inside so that you can speak for me. But yeah, I know, I know, you’re right there. I just don’t want to have to hear this. It’s so ridiculous to me.
“Son...” Dad’s got a chair, got a plan, got a whole big charade.
Yeah, I’ll sit, even though I already know how bad this is going to be. I’m sitting. Now it really starts.
Becca first: “Hunter, are you there?”
Of course I’m here. But I’m not going to say anything. She shouldn’t be here. She should be, I don’t know, somewhere else. Out of my life.
Then it’s my dad saying the same thing: “Hunter?”
My mom cries. She won’t stop crying.
Would you like to know how your mom’s going to die?
Huh? How?
Your mom will begin coughing one day. It is a cough that fails to improve. It disappears and then returns. Your mom will begin coughing up blood. She will ignore the symptoms given that they’re quite easy to ignore when working fourteen-hour days. When she gets it checked, her voice will have left her. A knot that will not leave when swallowing will send her to the doctor. The diagnosis will be cancer of the larynx. Your mom will die ten years after the first cough. You will be in your midtwenties.
I look at the tears and see how my mom really does look overworked and ragged. I take this information as something sinister but also something that’ll just have to happen. It’s already there, right? The cough?
The first symptoms have already begun to show.
Dad looks me in the eye. “Son, are you there, son?”
Becca too. “Hunter?”
They want you to speak.
Fine. “I’m here.”
Becca, acting all concerned: “Hunter, stay with us.”
And then Dad going on about being out of the loop: “Why haven’t you told us, son? What makes you assume that this isn’t serious?”
What is there to say? “You’re never around, what do you care?”
Mom gasps, cries a little harder. Wow, what are they trying to prove?
“Like hell I don’t care. This isn’t you speaking. It’s the demon!”
Becca nods. “You need help. And now.”
I say, “Why are you, like, even here? This is me talking.”
Becca rolls her eyes. “That was just an argument. We have been through too much to just up and end it. Come on, Hunter...”
Um, I seem to remember the scene being really, really final. I make it sound really insincere: “Come on, Becca...”
Dad’s all like, “Becca was the one that had to tell us! I simply cannot believe this could happen to my son!”
It can happen to absolutely anyone. You’re right. It can happen at any time.
One must simply put oneself out there.
Yeah, and they’re acting like I’m dying.
You are dying.
Huh?
We are all steadily moving toward the end of the tunnel.
Well, yeah, if you put it that way.
“Son, you need to fight it. You need to think about the future. Son, do you hear me?! You need to be strong. I know you can be strong.”
He’s shaking me and it’s making me dizzy.
Tell him to stop.
“Dad,” I start, “you won’t want to keep shaking me or else I’ll...”
Were those your words or mine?
A little of both.
Well, it worked. Dad’s taking a step back. That look on his face, he’s so damn worried.
Would you like to know how your dad’s going to die?
Die due to worry?
Your dad will remarry after the passing of your mother. Your dad will attempt to move on, but his attempts will ultimately fail to render anything but guilt from the fact that he had spent much of their marriage running away from intimacy. Your dad will find himself alone one night, unable to free himself from the thoughts dealing with your mom’s death. He’ll die much like so many have done before, a deadbeat with dull eyes staring blankly at the TV.
You just made me depressed.
I apologize.
It’s okay. I mean, I guess it’ll be hard for Dad, but he kind of ran away from things.
Indeed.
Dad’s shouting at Mom right now. He’s telling her that I’m in need of help and that this can’t wait. Mom’s not saying anything though. I don’t know what’s going on. See, they are the ones who are crazy.
Perfect example of hysterical.
That’s probably it, but they’re doing it to themselves.
Becca agrees with my dad. “He needs help. Like right now.”
Oh, is that so? And she’s the one who’s going to do that? After years of being treated like a child, she’s trying to get back in and stay. You know what? I’ll run with it. I’ll say, Fine, then make it happen. Fix me. I apparently need a lot of fixing.
“Then help me.” Just... help me.
Dad shakes his head. “I’m trying to but you have to let us.”
“I just did. Help me. Right now. Help me.”
What can they really do?
Mom in tears, Becca pretending to be concerned and afraid, Dad being suddenly a caring, loving father... it’s all so ridiculous.
They can’t do anything, you know? They are all just afraid.
“You’re going to what, call a priest?”
Becca says, “We’ve called Father Albert who told us to call Father Andrew. We left a message.”
“Left a message.”
Hope they caught the sarcasm.
Becca frowns. “Hunter...” It’s how she says my name that makes it sound like she’s really saying something like, Don’t be stupid.
I’m really not. It’s just the situation, you know?
Would you like me to step in?
Actually, no, I think I have this.
Perhaps then you’d like to know how Becca dies.
Tell me. Does she drop dead right now?
Rebecca Mazarin will graduate with honors and pursue a second degree in literature. Mazarin will spend most of her twenties single and focused on her work. She will meet a man she will marry. Three months after their engagement, Mazarin and her fiancé will drive home from a party drunk and will be involved in a car accident. Though not fatal, Mazarin had been in the front passenger seat without a fastened seat belt. The collision will result in her falling into a coma. The fiancé and Mazarin’s relatives will choose to pull the plug after failing to regain consciousness for ten months. Mazarin will have been thirty-five that year.
So you know all this how?
It is information. Information can be procured without too much trouble.
I guess. It’s crazy and wild that you can know the future.
It isn’t the future. It is a person’s life.
Okay. Then tell me if Father Andrew’s actually going to call back.
Indeed he will.
Dad starts crying too. “Son, I can’t believe you didn’t turn to us...”
Becca says, “He’s going through a lot. He is being influenced by the demon. That’s what Father Albert told me.”
Mother chimes in: “What happens if we can’t help him?”
Becca shrugs. “I... don’t know.”
Everyone looks at me.
They’re afraid.
Yes. They assume you’ll become a danger to them.
I’m just going to nod and smile.
Mom starts bawling again.
I say something like, “Tell her to stop crying. It won’t fix anything.”
But they react in a way that makes it sound like I told Mom to drop dead or something. It’s like what I’m doing doesn’t match what they see.
Dad sighs. “You play with fire and then you get burned.”
I’m like, “You’re not a poet, Dad.”
Man, this is going nowhere. What’s keeping me from leaving?
You. You haven’t yet left.
<
br /> Well, let’s leave now.
Yes. Let us.
I need to get the hell out of here.
Let us go.
Where?
Let me lead and you will discover one of the few wonders I am privileged to experience.
I need to start carrying around a dictionary so I can talk better than you.
If I speak, I am using your voice. You are deemed the one that speaks. Therefore, you shouldn’t need a dictionary. I am your dictionary.
You’re right.
I get up and walk right out the door. It’s as easy as that and I don’t know why I never thought about it. They yell after me. Dad tries to grab hold of me like I’m about to do something really bad. But pushing him aside is actually easy. I guess you helped with that.
He fell down. He’s probably fine. Either way...
This time we’re driving. No walking a billion miles.
I mean, I don’t even really need to go back home. There’s nothing left for me there. I don’t need to, but at the same time, home calls to me. It’s something that tends to spiral around like a command: Go home, you’re drunk. You know? That kind of thing.
Indeed.
So you’re telling me to park two blocks away?
You do not want anyone to notice your vehicle.
Yeah, but this is actually kind of crazy, what we’re doing. Even if it’s someone we know; it’s still out of this world.
This is what I do. Yet now I have you. It affords some new possibilities.
Can’t believe I’m about to haunt Blaire.
Blaire is an interesting individual.
I’ve known her since grade school. We go way back. Like everyone else, she’s the one that stuck around. I definitely didn’t make a point to keep in touch. But even so, she’s a friend, I think. She definitely cares about what’s happening to me. If she’s really a friend, she’ll know that you’re here.
Would you allow me to be the one that speaks?
Yeah, that’s cool. How are we going to, you know?
It will begin by maintaining distance. Look to see whether a back door is capable of being opened. Typically I muster up the courage by simply manifesting near where I’ve been wanted.
You can’t just go somewhere?
It does not exist without there being first a phrase, a notice of some sort.
Yeah, we can get in through the back patio door.
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