The Demon

by The Demon

Why?

  Yes, why? Why should this disturb you so much? You are trembling.

  I dont know, shaking with confusion and fear, it just does.

  Do you know any other men who have been unfaithful to their wives? his tone, as usual, cold and detached.

  What???? I dont understand. I—

  Are you the only man who has been unfaithful to his wife?

  No, no, certainly not. But thats not the—

  Do you have a mistress?

  A what? I—

  Do you have a mistress? A girlfriend?

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  No, no, of course not. You know—

  You love your wife?

  Yes. I—

  Then this extramarital activity of yours is just of the usual variety.

  Well, yes, but I—

  In other words your liaisons with other women are the usual thing that last for an evening. The type of affair that millions of men indulge in.

  Yes, yes, I know that, but I love my wife and I—

  The interesting thing is that you should make such an issue of something that is so usual. Yes, it is extremely interesting that you should feel so guilty. Do you have any trouble performing with these women?

  What? What—

  Do you ever have a problem with impotency? How about with your wife?

  No, no, thats not the—

  What did your mother tell you about infidelity? Did she tell you it was a sin?

  What???? I dont know, I dont know. I cant—

  Were you ever caught masturbating?

  Masturbating? I dont know what—

  Were you ever told that it would make you stutter or make you go blind?

  I dont remember anything like—

  Can you remember your toilet training?

  What? I dont—

  Were you forced to sit on the toilet after each meal until you had a bowel movement?

  Jesus, I—

  When did you stop wetting the bed?

  Harry wanted to

  scream and cry and run and curl up in a ball and roll away or fade into the wall and when the session was finally terminated he took a cab to the nearest subway station and locked himself in a public toilet and cried and cried, under the roar of the

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  trains, until he felt exhausted and there just werent any more tears, and no energy or resources to manufacture more.

  Lindas hope was constantly decreasing as Harry became increasingly morose for longer periods at a time, the periods coming closer and closer together. And her fears and anxiety increased as her hope decreased. She fought with herself for weeks about calling Dr. Martin, not wanting to be an interfering wife, but eventually her desperation overwhelmed her judgment. She kept her voice and manner as calm as possible, but her insides trembled. She tried to reassure him that she was not trying to pry, but she was worried because her husband seemed so depressed and seemed to be staying away from home more and more often.

  I wouldnt worry about that, Mrs. White. A man in your husbands position has enormous responsibilities, responsibilities that do not end at five oclock.

  Yes, I realize that, Doctor, and I—

  I assure you, I will take care of everything. There is no need for you to concern yourself.

  Thank you, Doctor. I do not want to be an alarmist; its—

  Yes, yes, I know. Your husband seems withdrawn and silent and you are worried.

  Yes, and—

  Such behavior is normal in therapy. Your husband is simply going through a period of transference. You just leave everything to me.

  O, I dont mean to—

  Good. I have to hang up now. Good day, Mrs. White.

  Linda

  sat with her hand on the phone for many minutes. She tried to think herself into moving, but her hand refused to release the phone. She stared at it, trying desperately to revive a feeling of hope, but all she could feel was a void.

  Harry was still able to function at work, though his work was not up to his standards. He had to reread documents and

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  letters and, even after that, sometimes they still did not make sense, but by putting in additional time he just barely managed to keep up.

  His associates, especially Walt, were concerned, since the evidence of the strain Harry was working under was becoming more and more obvious. They too were reassured by Dr. Martin and told that it was necessary for Harry to continue working. I appreciated your concern, Mr. Wentworth, and the concern of the firm, but a vacation at this particular time is not just what the doctor ordered, if I may introduce a bit of levity, hahaha. It is important that he be able to sublimate.

  Fine. We/re really glad to hear that. Hes extremely valuable and we do not want to jeopardize his future. He is very important to the firm.

  Yes, I am fully aware of that.

  And, smiling and shrugging slightly, I guess I have more than a professional interest in Harrys welfare. I guess its obvious that it is also paternal.

  Yes, yes, nodding his head, but dont worry, I will keep your Mr. White functioning.

  And Harry continued to function

  at work, locked in his office, his oasis, his haven and refuge, envying the others who were free to come and go as they pleased, when they pleased, and wishing to krist that he could just stay in his office and then be picked up and placed at home and then back in the office, but he knew that he could not avoid leaving the office from time to time, that he could not avoid those trips to those phlegm-spotted bars to find another filthy mess to spew his poison in and then try to vomit the hell and rottenness out of his gut. . . .

  O jesus, the rottenness . . .

  The black, festering rottenness that chewed him up and the stench from his own gut that constantly hung in his nostrils. And the more time he spent on the couch the worse it got. The blackness that he felt squirming through him was slowly starting to wrap itself around his head and

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  squeeze it and squeeze it until he thought he would lose his mind and he had to go out into those streets and fuck another pimpled cunt.

  He tried to tell Dr. Martin, but somehow it just didnt come out. During the day, and especially in the cab going to his office, he would go over and over in his head what he was going to say, how he was going to tell him everything he was doing, how he was going to spew forth the evil corrosion of his soul (O jesus, he wished he could get that slime out), but somehow they always got involved with the past... his mother and his childhood.

  The thing that kept him going to Dr. Martin was the vague hope that he would reach deep down and pull this vileness out of him. He wished to God it would happen soon. He couldnt stand this much longer.

  Nor could he stand

  to see the pain in Lindas eyes . . . those eyes that looked so hollow lately. Eyes that seemed to be getting duller and duller ... And a mouth that was constantly pinched with pain. Her laughter . . . Dear God, it had been so long since he had heard her laughter, he wasnt sure if it was a memory or a

  myth. Laughter Love?????? He loved her. And little

  Harry. He knew he did Or had. O God, whats happening?

  All he wanted to do was go home and put his arms around his family and hug them and kiss them and push his sons hair from his eyes and hold his wifes hand and kiss her finger tips— thats all he wanted to do. Jesus, krist, is that so goddamn much to ask? Whats wrong with that? Why???? Why???? WHY???? cant I do it? Why do I cringe when he comes running over to me and hugs my legs? Why do I have to push him away? Why are you doing this to me, God? I cant look her in the face anymore. I cant lift my head. Cant eat. He doesnt even come over to me anymore. He doesnt talk to me. I cant talk to Linda. O krist, she hates me, I know she hates my stinking guts. If I could just die. Just somehow not wake up. I wouldnt have to see her face or hear his silence—O jesus, I love her. But how can I? Look at her. O Jesus, I didnt mean

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  to do it. Im sorry honey. Holy fuck, Im sorry. If I could only twist my head i
nto a pulp, or just not see her eyes. I didnt do it. Please, tell me I didnt do it. I did not sink those eyes into her skull and take the life out of them. Please, I did not do it. O dear God, I didnt do it. I didnt....

  And again, he

  silently went to bed, keeping his back to Linda, hearing her voice and wanting to turn and say I love you and kiss her good night, but grunting something unintelligible and trying to push himself instantly into sleep, hoping for a soothing oblivion, but immediately conscious of the sick pain in his body, the twisting and knotting chills, the ache and cramp in his jaw— And he wrapped his arms around his pillow and pulled his knees up almost to his chin

  and could hear her

  breathing. It was low and barely audible, but he heard it as a groan that iced the marrow of his bones and he tried to shut his ears against it, but the dull, low moan stayed in his head and he could feel her ... he could feel her! She was there. In bed with him. He wrapped his arms around his head and clutched tighter at the pillow as he felt her in the bed with him. She was there . . . behind him. . . .

  And she didnt move.

  She just lay there. . . . But it somehow felt as if she were

  coming closer .. . closer . . . and maybe she was

  going to touch him and his jaw felt as if it would suddenly snap and he fought and clung and was finally dragged into a half sleep that seemed like a dream, to dream a dream that seemed to be real, and he fought against the reality of the dream, trying to avoid it by going to sleep, and his body shook and he shivered and groaned and screamed inside his head but the dream persisted, and persisted in its terrifying reality, and he looked at his daughter getting ready for her fifth birthday party and she was in the tub taking a bubble bath and she was drying herself and he was staring at her naked body and he wanted to turn and leave but his head was locked, it wouldnt move, so he could only stare at her and his head yelled over

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  and over again and again and again a wailing and pleading NO NO NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOOOOOOO

  and finally his scream

  spewed out of his mouth and his body jerked up and Linda put her hand on his shoulder, You all right sweetheart? Can I get you something? and he could only shake his head and grunt and shiver and allow his head to slowly descend to the pillow, and curl himself up again and fight the tears that pounded against his eyes and chest, that welled up inside him so he had to fight to breathe, that made him jerk with the fear that he was drowning in his own juice. O God, if

  he could only turn over and reach his hand out to hers

  or cry ... just cry ...

  or maybe just sink into the ground and allow his body to be eaten by the maggots and

  worms. Anything

  Anything

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  16

  There are limits. Limits of time.

  Limits of circumstances. Limits of endurance. Linda had reached hers. Time had run out. She could no longer sit passively by as the man she loved kept constantly rejecting her and humiliating her by treating her like some sort of unwanted encumbrance or excess baggage that he obviously wanted to get rid of, but did not know how to go about doing so and therefore continued to punish her with his cold indifference. She did not know the reason for Harrys behavior, but she was not going to sit idly by and allow herself to be treated like this.

  She visited her mother and hesitatingly told her what was happening in her life and marriage, constantly breaking into sobs and crying and shaking her head—her mother embracing her and trying to soothe her childs sadness and pain

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  looking at her mother completely bewildered and shaking with grief and frustration and moaning over and over that she didnt know what was wrong. I just dont know what is happening, Mom—

  I know, dear, I know—

  I dont know what is wrong ... I just dont know—O Mom, help me ... help me....

  You have a good cry,

  darling, and she hugged her little girl close to her, feeling her sadness and pain, and her tears wet and warm on her breast.

  When Linda had finally calmed enough, they discussed the situation and decided it would be best if Linda simply told Harry how she felt, and perhaps, just (hopefully) perhaps, there might be a simple and logical explanation for his behavior and he would reassure her. And if not. . .

  well, then maybe it

  would be best if Linda and Harry Junior spent a little time visiting her family. Lindas mother thought that it might be better to wait a day or two, when youve calmed down more, darling.

  No Mom. I cant wait. I cant put it off any longer. I have to find out now. I cant wait. She left her son with his grandparents and went home determined to talk with Harry.

  That evening, as soon as Harry sat down, Linda said there was something she wanted to discuss. She had spent the previous hours trying to think of some way to simply, and easily, say what she had to, but the more she thought about it the more confused and pained she became, so she simply blurted out that she was going to spend a few days or so with her family.

  Why? an immediate and terrifying panic exploding within him, an instant welling of tears that pounded against his eyes, and the shattering fear that he would be alone and on top of that the god-awful dread that she would tell him why, and he would not be able to live with what she would say and yet would have absolutely no defense against her words.

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  Why? Because there is something going on that I do not understand and that I cannot live with.

  I dont understa— What do you mean? his voice pathetic, pleading, unconvincing; his shoulders even more rounded and stooped with dejection.

  Your behavior, Harry, Linda trying desperately to retain her firm resolve to talk this through and take the appropriate action no matter how painful it might be for her—Harry shaking his head and looking more at the floor than his wife—you . . . you treat me like some sort of object of scorn, keeping her voice low and her tone as inoffensive as possible and trying to ignore the pleading look on his face, you dont talk to me, you dont touch me no less kiss me, and if I ask you something you just grunt and turn your back on me—you are always turning your back on me, Harry, as if youre ashamed of me or tired of me or cant stand the sight of me or as if I did something terrible to you and you have some sort of resentment or hatred for me—Harry, are you seeing another woman?

  Harry

  shook his head and stammered and sputtered but could not seem to create the force necessary to dispute the accusation because he knew if he tried she would ask some sort of simple question that he simply could not answer and he might end up telling her the entire truth and just contemplating that possibility froze and paralyzed him with fear. He continued shaking his head with the same pathetic expression on his face. Why do you ask? I dont—

  Because of your behavior. There just

  doesnt seem to be any other explanation, and Linda could feel a terrible twisting of dread within her and though part of her wanted to get this problem out in the open there was an even stronger urge not to know the truth, not to have Harry suddenly blurt out that he was seeing another woman and wanted a divorce. She did not want to lose him, she just wanted him to change, to once again be the man she married five years ago. Perhaps if I spend a little time with my family, you and Dr. Martin can work out whatever the problem may be. I hope so,

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  and she looked at Harry, waiting, and hoping, he would ask her not to leave and reassure her that everything was all right or somehow would be, but all he did was to sit and stare at the floor, his head seeming to sink deeper and deeper into his shoulders. Harry, dont you care?

  He wanted desperately to reach out and ask—beg—her not to leave, but felt completely enervated by the overwhelming pain of despair and the pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization that had wrapped itself around him, more and more tightly, like a serpent.

  He could feel her staring, and the longer he sat there staring at the floor, the more impossible i
t was for him to raise his head and look into her eyes.

  Linda waited endless

  years for his protestations, and eventually the silence forced her into action. She went into the bedroom and hurriedly packed a few things. She started to say something before she left, but her eyes started tearing and an overwhelming sense of sadness constricted her throat. She left.

  Harry heard her breathing, her sighs, her movements as she packed her bag, then felt her standing near him and staring, then heard her walking across the floor, heard the door, then the car slowly fade in the distance . . .

  and

  nothing happened to stop her. And nothing happened to stop him from just sitting. And staring. And hoping pathetically he would sink further inside himself and suddenly wake up from this nightmare . . . But he knew that would not happen. That was just a dream.

  Linda drove slowly down the circular driveway, the crunching of the gravel sounding loud and piercing and, somehow, ominous. She constantly glanced in the rear-view mirror, and stopped a few times and looked back at the house, hoping to see Harry in the doorway or running down the driveway waving at her to come back. O merciful God, she did not want to leave. She had resolved to leave if necessary but she had felt certain he would not let her, that he would explain away all

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  her fears and refuse to let her go. She stopped at the entrance to the road. There was no traffic. It was silent. She strained to hear the sound of feet pounding on the gravel, running feet that would get louder and louder—but it was silent. The gradual sound of an approaching car. Then the sound grew more distant. The gravel was silent. Still. Linda wept. She was actually leaving. There was nothing stopping her from turning onto the road and driving away. O God, she did not want to go. She rummaged blindly through her pocketbook for a handkerchief, then threw it aside and trembled with a moan and rubbed at her face with her hands, trying to clear the tears from her eyes. She was no longer leaving for a few days. Inside she felt like she was leaving forever. She would never see Harry, or her home, again. It felt as if there were a form of death waiting for her if she drove away. There was a terrible and abysmal hollowness within her that was rapidly filling with tears. Her bones seemed to be slowly dissolving and she found it impossible to move, to put the car into gear . . . to take her foot off the brake ...