Relief #ReedsyFright

                                Relief

My first memory from childhood is when I was about five years old. It was also my first memory of it and at the same time, of my present...

My father and mother put me to bed, and I remember their faces as if it were yesterday. How they hugged and kissed me and wished me good night and sweet dreams. As I closed my eyes, I remember how strange the room felt. It was as if a vacuum had formed, sucking all sound out of the room. I could have heard a pin drop or a blade of grass fall, let alone a feather. At the same time, it was very cold, even though it wasn't winter, just early autumn. I remember wishing my mother and father good night in my mind, and I fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up screaming and feeling my neck. I didn’t remember why, nor why I checked my pajamas and whether they were intact. My mother rushed into the room and took me in her arms. I burst into tears, and she held me even tighter. “Are you okay?” she asked. At that moment, I couldn’t say anything—I just cried. After I calmed down, my parents explained that I had probably had a bad dream and that everything was fine.

From that night on, the nights were very similar, except that I remembered them better and better. I also remember that there was no point in telling anyone about it, because it was always dismissed as a nightmare or a bad dream—it wasn’t real. That's how my parents brushed it off. I became numb to the fact that, around 3:30 to 4:30 in the morning, I would wake up when it came. Of course, as a young child, I couldn't read the time properly, but once I learned to tell the time, I realized when it happened. In elementary school, doctors would examine me, and the main topic was my nightmares and all the self-inflicted things related to them. The doctor said I shouldn’t lie to my parents, claiming that something had torn my pajamas and left strangulation marks on my neck. The scissors in my room, of course, told their own story of how I had destroyed my own pajamas and used a rope or a sheet to make marks on my neck.

My teenage years were spent with various specialists. My head was scanned, and so much blood was drawn that it could have saved many people through transfusions. After ruling out physical problems, I spent the following months with a psychiatrist and in the hospital. Even that didn’t help, even when I stopped sleeping in my room. It found me there too. Even though I had no sharp objects or anything else, I had somehow torn my hospital clothes and caused the same kind of injuries to myself. My parents were exhausted. They had stressed themselves out over me, and after all the examinations, they couldn't handle it anymore. The conclusion was that I was doing it all to myself and simply refused to admit it. My story about the monster should have ended a long time ago, but since I insisted it was responsible for everything, my parents decided they couldn’t help me anymore.

I was placed in a foster home, and it was made clear there that lying and deceitful behavior weren’t allowed. That was all that needed to be said. I kept my mouth shut about the nightly events. I slept in just my underwear, making sure the caregivers and staff never saw me without clothes. I lived through it, forcing myself to endure, until I turned eighteen and was able to move out on my own.

From then on, alcohol, drugs, and other substances entered my life. It was great to numb the pain and anxiety before the nightly horrors. When you're intoxicated, the nights don’t feel real—they feel like bad dreams, just like my parents said. I spent my time in shady places with shady people. Wherever I slept, it was there too. To be honest, the “symptoms” started when I was five, and now at 35 years old, I haven’t slept through a full night, week, month, or year without it. In some ways, I’ve gotten used to it, in other ways, I haven’t. Substances and alcohol help with the pain, but nothing helps me sleep. Whoever I’ve talked to, I haven’t received any support or understanding. I haven’t even bothered to start a relationship, let alone engage in anything sexual. How would I even explain to someone what happens at night?

That's my story, as plainly told as it is. "Thank you, Mr. Korhonen," said my therapist. He had a look on his face like a gold miner who had just struck gold.

We talked for a while about follow-ups, payments, and scheduled a new appointment. I wished him a good day and headed home.

I had purposely taken the last appointment of the evening. I couldn’t have stood lazing around at home for the rest of the day, and now that the night had arrived, I was able to take enough alcohol and drugs to knock myself out.

After I was sufficiently intoxicated, I lay down in bed. The night began the same way it always did. A thick silence that raises the hairs on your neck. Then it begins. Creaks and groans—Mr. Monster is here. I’ve named this nightmare, and for good reason. If I dared, as I did when I was younger, I would look over the edge of the bed and see it crawling out from underneath. First its head and hands, then the rest of its body and legs. It moves in such a way that its stomach doesn’t touch the floor, almost as if it’s limboing upside down. When it fully emerges, it stands still for a moment, and that’s when I can see it completely.

"Mr. Monster" wears a long black leather coat that reaches the floor. Because of the dim lighting and the coat, I haven’t seen its legs. I can make out its face when it begins to climb on top of me.

It sits on my stomach and grabs me by the throat. Cold hands wrap around my neck, and I can feel its long nails digging into my skin. As it starts to choke me, it brings its face right up to mine. It has no beard, and I can’t see its eyes, hidden behind large sunglasses. It wears a large, saggy hat, under which filthy dreadlocks spill out. "Mr. Monster" grins or smiles, and in its mouth are only a few blackened, rotten teeth. Its breath reeks—you know, like you’ve stumbled upon a corpse. The stench is unbearable, and just before it chokes me unconscious, I smell it until the very end. I don’t throw up, though, because of the tight grip around my throat.

I woke up the next morning with a sore throat, as I had many times before. "Mr. Monster" had once again torn and shredded one of my t-shirts. Getting out of bed, I went to the mirror and looked at the marks it leaves every night. The cuts are always in different places, but every night after it appears, it writes “Good Night” on my chest. My parents insisted to the end that I had done it myself. Even though the writing scars over, "Mr. Monster" always writes over the old text.

After staring at myself for a moment, I grabbed the rope I had bought and began hanging it from the hook I had installed in the ceiling the day before. I had already tied a noose at the other end. I placed the noose around my neck, and a faint, melancholic smile spread across my face. This time you won’t wake me up, bastard. I kicked the stool from under me and hung in the air. A moment passed, and then came the darkness—relief and release.

On the bed, next to the hanging Mr. Korhonen, there was a note. It read:

"No one believed me!"