When Worlds Collide

by Charles Blair

  I smacked myself across the face until it was red and swollen, punishing myself for the monster I’ve become. The night shift workers didn't hear my frantic plea; as a result, the only option was to crawl beneath the covers, and hope for the nameless man to come and rescue me.

  *

  The next morning, Bricker arrived early at the hospital to conduct a staff meeting to determine my future treatment. The meeting was held just after nine o'clock in the morning, located in the main conference room. In the conference room, there were twenty swivel chairs surrounding a beautiful wooden table. Honestly, the table had to be as expensive as most cars. There were fresh coffee grounds brewing in the pot, and rays of sunshine penetrating through the half-opened blinds. Bricker was the first person to arrive, clearly he should have been, considering he orchestrated the meeting, but he was also the most motivated. In the meeting, which would conclusively reshape how people saw me, were seven participants.

  Laura, an orderly, and probably my favorite staff member besides Bricker, entered the conference room next. I respected Laura because she wasn't judgmental, and didn't pretend she knew everything. Steven and Jason entered after Laura. They were orderlies, but didn't serve any beneficial purpose for me or anyone else in the world. How do I make this clear, without offending anyone? Affirmatively, Steven and Jason were idiots, and didn't belong in the human service field. A few seconds later, after Steven and Jason poisoned the room with their contagious personalities, Doctor Kazumabara, the hospital's psychiatrist, joined the group. I wasn't an admirer of Kazumabara, because she earned, well, didn't actually earn, but got paid in the ball park of three hundred dollars per hour. And for what, Kazumabara, and other psychiatrists, haphazardly speak with patients for several minutes, and then scribble their signature on a prescription pad to make their money. Yeah, that's what they do, impressive isn't it? Can they indeed believe a pill is going to cure psychological symptoms? Favorably, I never swallowed a pill Kazumabara gave me.

  Doctor Hauss, a child psychologist, whom I didn't know but saw walking the halls, entered the conference room after Kazumabara sat down. Because I didn’t know Doctor Hauss, my opinion of him is limited, but from what I heard, he is a good man. Speaking of decent men, the last person to enter the conference room wasn't. With his nose held high, and the scent of shit on it, Doctor Clarkston walked in, and sat across the table from Laura. I realize I shared my thoughts about Clarkston earlier, but there was one detail I left out, purposely, because it wasn't the right time. Nevertheless, now is the perfect time for me to expose Clarkston's malignant spirit.

  Bricker began the meeting with a review, expressing the events that led to my institutionalization. Sitting at the head of the table, Bricker said, to a somewhat engrossed crowd, "Shawn Walters was voluntarily admitted by his mother, Rebecca, after a failed suicide attempt. According to Shawn, he sustained auditory and visual hallucinations that interrupted his suicide attempt."

  Bricker turned the page in his notebook, and took a sip of coffee.

  "Preceding Shawn's suicide attempt; he exhibited other abnormalities, through report, Rebecca told me Shawn dressed up like a girl. He also initiated a fight in school with his best friend. Before these behaviors, Shawn suffered an undiagnosed heart failure, while swimming in his family's pool."

  Kazumabara, who spoke broken English, and saw me two times for ten minutes, asked Bricker, "Can you address the behaviors Shawn has exhibited since he's been here?"

  Kazumabara wasn't a patient woman. She was entitled, wanted spoon fed, and didn't realize Bricker was working his way to my current behaviors with a purpose.

  Knowing he was interrupted, Bricker disguised his true feelings, and replied cordially, "I'm getting to that right now."

  Bricker continued his summary of my symptoms, intriguing most participants, except for Steven and Jason because they didn't care.

  "Following Shawn's antecedents, I've observed seizures, hallucinations, and pervasive self-talk centered on fixations of blood, and possibly telekinetic powers.”

  Laura, who was taking notes, and highly fascinated with my case asked an insightful question.

  "Has Shawn's stories about the hallucinations remained consistent?"

  "Yes, extremely consistent, except for his most recent hallucination. Shawn recently saw a man, who didn't exist, and claimed the vision was there to set him free." Bricker responded, as Laura wrote feverishly in her notebook.

  After a few silent seconds, Bricker took another sip of coffee. After swallowing, he placed his mug down before speaking. Tentatively, Bricker said, “There’s something interesting I think you all should hear.”

  From no-where, under his breath, with no intentions of being heard, Clarkston asked, "Jesus Christ, do we really need to hear this?”

  "Excuse me?" Bricker responded passively.

  "Nothing,” Clarkston answered, as he folded his arms into his chest.

  You could feel the tension between Bricker and Clarkston growing like a hyped up pay-per-view boxing match. Bricker was conscious of Clarkston's counter-transference towards me; although, he didn't understand it, Bricker knew it was present. On the other hand, Clarkston had unsaid knowledge, and a damn good reason for his counter-transference. On his behalf, Clarkston's knowledge may have been at an unconscious level, but he was scared like a child in a dark room, because he knew that I knew his secret.

  What was Clarkston's secret?

  And why did I hate him so much?

  Furthermore, how did I know his secret?

  You're about to find out, because I invited myself to the meeting to share it with everyone.

  Before I arrived, Laura studiously asked Bricker, "What was the interesting note you think we should know?"

  Bricker took another sip from his coffee and thought long and hard before answering Laura, because he didn't want to be the butt of all jokes. With courage or craziness, the man of science, said to Laura and the group, "On the night of Shawn's suicide attempt, Rebecca requested God to stay away from her son, and then called upon other forces to help him, dark forces. She believes Shawn isn't suffering from a mental illness, Rebecca believes that her son is possessed by an evil spirit."

  *

  Knock, knock, knock, is what the seven wonders of Mountain Springs heard when I stood outside the door, waiting my turn. I was escorted to the conference room by Christopher, who was filling in for Laura while she attended the meeting. Christopher wasn't supposed to take me anywhere, besides the bathroom, but I convinced him. How I persuaded him, I will never tell, but trust me, he won't remember. Bricker answered the door, and Christopher immediately said, "Shawn wants to be involved."

  Bricker had other things on his mind, and wasn't thinking of confronting Christopher for breaking protocol, so he allowed it to happen.

  In a tiresome voice, Bricker said, "Come on in Shawn."

  As I entered the room, Christopher went back to the hospital wing where I was supposed to be.

  All fourteen eyes were on me, as I stood at the head of the table behind Bricker's chair. Meanwhile, Bricker stood against the wall behind Laura, and said to me, "Shawn, if you have something you wish to say, please do it now, because we have a lot of work to do."

  I nodded my head, and said, "Thank you."

  Everyone was calm and quiet, waiting for me to speak, but I held out for a few more seconds to butter their bread, especially Clarkston's. The room was a January evening, about two hours before a big snowfall, peaceful, but uncomfortable because they knew hell was about to break loose.

  "Shawn, please say what’s on your mind." Bricker said, impatiently.”

  "Alright,” I replied with moderate frustration.

  Curiously watching me, they were completely unprepared for the passion of truth that was going to bleed through my words. Finally, I spoke.

  Standing sturdy and stiff like an old oak tree, I said, "Doctor Clarkston is going to die."

  Explosively, Clarkston stood up from his chair, looked at Br
icker, and asked ferociously, "Are you going to allow this shit to continue?"

  Bricker's eyes were similar to a deer in the headlights. He definitely wasn’t expecting me to prophesier Clarkston's death, but he murmured a few sentences anyway.

  "Shawn, Doctor Clarkston's right, you shouldn't be saying things like that. However, Clarkston, you are a professional working in this hospital, so please have a seat and listen to our patient."

  Surprisingly, Clarkston sat down, cowardly like the feeble excrement that he was. I didn't appreciate being interrupted because I wanted them to comprehend that the truth goes with us when we exit the light, so I felt like I needed to repeat myself.

  "Doctor Clarkston is going to die, and I will be responsible for his death. His heart will stop without cause, and then he'll fall into a swimming pool, not only resembling a suicide, but my own death, and the death of my first murder victim.”

  Oh boy, the scene was delightful, not for them, but for me. Clarkston was aghast, but he was demonstrating his fear with a pissed-off smile, as he squirmed in his chair. Bricker was disorganized because I prophesied a death for which I would be responsible; for that reason, he didn't say a word. Thankfully, Laura was absorbed and untouched. Freely, and with utmost curiosity, she asked me, "Why do you despise Doctor Clarkston so much?"

  Conclusively, I let the cat out of the bag, "Doctor Clarkston is a shameful pedophile. He molested nine different children between the ages of six and ten at Christ Lutheran Church.”

  Instantly, Bricker yelled, "Shawn, stop this!"

  Before I had a chance to reply, Clarkston ran out of the room like a maniac on a mission. He ran straight down the stairs, into the parking lot, then sped away in his car. Clarkston never looked back, and was never heard from again. His dead body was found a few days later.

  *

  You may be asking, how did I know Clarkston was a pedophile?

  Others may be asking, did I really kill Clarkston, and if I did, then how?

  Well, now the six members of Mountain Springs were forced to answer these questions and none of them had a clue.

  Was there a clinical diagnosis for my condition, or a pill I could swallow?

  Of course not, and Bricker realized it; it took him a while, but now he's a believer. Bricker was misled for years, but now he's on the right track; be that as it may, he still needed a conductor. After the meeting, Bricker contacted an old colleague who intertwines psychoanalysis and spirituality to assist in my treatment, his name, Patrick Lucid.

  Are you a believer?

  Chapter 10

  THE WRITING ON THE WALL

  Patrick's quest to discover who I was, and identify the truth was in full swing. From my perspective, many people don't put forth an effort when it comes to finding the truth. People waste their efforts on meaningless activities that don't amount to anything in the end. You will come to this realization when it's too late, and your life as you know it is over. The questions you should be asking, why am I here? What is my purpose in life? Personally, I have a purpose, just like you. The only difference, I reside in the darkness, which means; I can see my purpose without interference from the light. I understand my role, do you understand yours? If you could comprehend that the end is only the beginning, you wouldn't be misled; hence, you would already know who I am. If Patrick doesn't channel his efforts, and use his energy in the right direction, he will fail. If Patrick fails, then I will fail.

  Patrick believed I wasn't going to harm him or Joy, and he was correct. The night I terrorized their vacation, I reacted similarly to Patrick's patients. The likeness was the reaction to abandonment. Whether abandonment is caused by a parent deserting their child, divorce, or death, it's still an emotional loss, over identifying sadness. Sadness is elevated when love or happiness is taken away, and if this occurs too often, fear develops.

  What exactly do I mean by fear?

  Ironically, we are afraid of love and happiness. Just think about it, please. Sadness is created from the loss of love and happiness; so, loving another person can only result in sadness because the destination of life is death.

  Patrick theorized I was frightened by the thought of Joy and him leaving for the cabin, and again; he was right, because I was scared. I love Patrick and Joy, and when they left, I felt loss in the form of them detaching from me. Its common knowledge people are scared of spirits; on the other hand, spirits can be frightened by people, especially when love is involved. You must feel completely unhinged in your head when you hear me say, I love Patrick and Joy, but you'll understand when my story concludes, hopefully.

  *

  2:30 a.m…

  It was time for me to collide with Joy, because I had something I wanted to say, and I needed Patrick to interpret my message. Joy was in bed when she sat up like demon girl; however, demon girl's problem was purely psychological, but Joy's issue was spiritual, under my authority. Joy was robotic as she carefully uncovered herself, stood up, and one deliberate step after another went downstairs into the kitchen. Please don't fret, because Joy wasn't in any danger, as a matter of fact, she didn't remember any of this.

  Joy ripped out a piece of paper from a notebook that was on the kitchen table, grabbed a handful of colored pencils from the drawer next to the sink, and then sat down on the floor. Legs crossed, Indian style, Joy closed her eyes and started drawing. Throughout the duration of the drawing, Joy repetitively whispered, "Help her. Help her." It took Joy somewhere around ten minutes to complete the drawing I wanted her to, before I had her stand up with a red-colored pencil in her hand, and write the initials SW on the living room walls. Like the release of an overhead crane dumping its load, Joy dropped the colored pencil onto the floor, as I guided her to bed, where she fell asleep within seconds.

  *

  In the morning, Patrick noiselessly slid on his fleece pajama pants, went downstairs, and brewed a pot of coffee before Joy was awake. What the hell, Patrick said to himself after he stepped on Joy's drawing that was smack-dab in the middle of the kitchen floor. In nothing flat, Patrick noticed the phrase help her written inside of a bubbled caption at the top of the drawing. Underneath the caption, was an illustration of my body floating in a pool. My corpse, in the drawing, was exactly what Patrick envisioned while analyzing Joy's psycho-spiritual dream. It wasn't long until Patrick discovered the graffiti on the walls, and received a sneak preview of the initials of his next patient.

  At sea, Patrick wished to place his feet on solid ground, so he rushed to the bedroom and shouted, "Joy, wake up!" Nudging her shoulders, because he didn't get a response, Patrick repeated, "Joy, wake up!"

  In a sedated, hung-over voice, Joy replied, "What do you want?"

  I'll tell you what Patrick wanted, he wanted the same things I did, which were answers, closure, and the truth.

  Joy had one weary eye open, when Patrick asked, "What the hell did you do last night?"

  "What are you talking about?" Joy replied, as she rolled to the other side of the bed.

  "Joy, wake up!" Patrick shouted, yet again.

  "Jesus Christ, this better be good!" Joy projected, as she flung the covers off of herself.

  Joy entered the living room and was more dismayed than Patrick, when she saw the countless, red, SW's, written on the walls.

  "What is this?" Joy asked, wide eyed and stupid.

  "You tell me." Patrick answered with sarcasm in his voice.

  Joy expressed with paramount sincerity that she didn't write on the walls, yet there was physical proof she that did.

  "There's more." Patrick said.

  Patrick reached out and grabbed Joy's left hand and led her to the counter, where he placed the drawing.

  As soon as Joy saw the drawing, she impetuously threw it on the ground. Joy coupled what she saw in her dream, and the content gave her cold sweats. Joy's abashed state of mind was enlarged, when Patrick laid bare the proof, she not only wrote on the walls, but drew the picture as well. Patrick's proof was smudged red graphite residu
e, from the colored pencil, on the palm of Joy’s hand.

  *

  What is a spiritual possession?

  Some of you do not believe in transcendent possessions, and that is fine, but for those of you who do, what is it? Spiritual possessions, like most subjective proceedings, are misunderstood, so please allow me to set you straight. The host, or person, of an unworldly attack is incapable of remembering the behavior they exhibited while under the reigns a spirit. There have been many recorded cases of possessions throughout history, where the host gave a detailed and vivid description of the attack. This is gibberish, allow me to explain. When a spirit enters a human body it temporarily paralyzes the mind of their host. When the mind of a human is paralyzed, not only is the spirit in control, the host's memory collapses. Those who have claimed they can remember being possessed, were one, either fibbing, or two, suffering from a mental illness. Joy didn't have memory of her behavior because I paralyzed her mind, and with it, went her memory. When a spirit reaches the disparity of possession, it is communicating crucial information.

  Why is this happening to me?

  I have heard this question almost every time life presents challenging situations, and Joy wasn't any different. We are exposed to negative aspects of life, whether on television or newspaper, the aftermath is shoved down our throats daily. Most of you have built a protective bubble with intentions of providing shelter for a rainy day, but what happens when your bubble is popped? You have an unprepared person saturated in fear. There are rhymes and reasons for everything, and your life, whether you realize it or not, is included in the web of association. Responsibility must be accepted. If you believe the world is a playground created for your entertainment, your answers will never be found.

  Why me?