Delusional

An odd donation to the less fortunate, A gift. Yes. That’s what they said it was. 

A gift. 

Emily was only 5 when they gave her, smiling. All my life my heart ached for the warm embrace of a child, for the joy of staring at smiling, young, twinkling eyes. Of hearing a small mouth enunciate the word, “mother”.

It was my only dream, but little did I know what I’d be getting. Emily was quiet, her face emotionless and robotic. She never laughed, never cried. Never smiled, never frowned. Her features never shift, never change to accommodate her feelings. She was different, an enigma of sorts. I didn’t know why her parents gave her away, as a gift, a donation to me, one without child. They said she was too much for them, but who could possibly give away their own flesh and blood? Who could live with their hearts intact as their own child lives with strangers? They don’t even ask for visits. Since they gave her, I’ve never seen them again.

We raised Emily as our own. In school she was always alone, and when we asked why , she told us that she chooses to be shrouded in a veil of solidarity. She allowed her uniqueness to differentiate her, to keep her away from others. She never called me mother, only Mrs Janae and she never showed an ounce of warmth.

 All I could sense deep within her was a wicked devilry, a sinful shadow draped over her soul. As she grew older emotions began to surface, like raindrops pelting away at the surface of the Earth in preparation for the arrival of a ghastly, abominable, storm. She began showing rage, but never happiness, sadness or anything else. Just an ice cold rage. She was a quaint little thing when we took her: snowy blonde hair, pale white skin, small expressionless eyes and she was wearing cheap drab clothes. Now, her hair falls down her black in long, icy waves. Her grey eyes glint, hard and sharp, her stare piercing. Her skin is smooth and plain. Not a scar or a shift in color or even a dent dares to embed itself upon it. Her hands are always cold, and never once has she had a fever. Not once in the ten years since we took her in. Emily is beautiful, her form exquisite, her every movement graceful. But beneath the surface of the ice lies turbulent, stormy waters. 

I will never love her. 

Never. 

She was, nay, is, a despicable creature. An abomination of nature. My heart yearned for a child, and for a second I thought I finally had one, until I saw her true colors. I shudder, when I think back to that night. 

My eyes fluttered open as I awoke. I grabbed my phone from my bedside table and stared at the time. 9:30. I groaned loudly and quickly got up, took a shower and walked the familiar path down the dusty steps and then into my kitchen. Emily sat next to my husband Alfred. “Morning you two”, I greeted cheerfully as they sat solemnly staring at the table. “Umm hello? You could at least look up you two, I’m not dead yet so no need to act like it.” I chuckled slightly. 

No response. I walked over. Emily smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Suddenly, her hands clenched Alfred and a sheath of ice encased his hand and snaked its way up his arm, spreading.

Fear. 

It has many synonyms: terror, horror, fright, alarm, panic, agitation, consternation, dismay, angst. It is a creation of darkness, the putrid embodiment of misfortune. Like death it rises from deep within, clenches our hearts and where death mercifully ends us, fear squeezes painfully, Inflicting anguish. 

People claim they feel fear everyday but they only feel the edge of it, they feel it creep through them but only those who’ve know real terror can relate to what I’m feeling. Only those who’ve known real terror understand the urge to scrape every inch of your skin, to scream from the discomfort of trepidation scaring it’s way through your bloodstream, hiding beneath surface of your skin. 

Only those who’ve known real terror, understand what I felt when my husband’s frozen form fell, laying cold, colorless and absolutely still. He was incased In ice, and every fiber of my being screamed kicked cried screamed screamed screamed screamed and screamed repeatedly in protest. White, yellow, blue, purple, brown, red spots clouded my vision as I blinked a thousand times. Dizziness threatened to engulf me and the immense urge to hurl was going to overtake me. I fell to my knees, my senses dimmed.

Shattered.

Destroyed. 

My ears no longer obeyed my command, my eyes refused to stare at the horror before them and as terror, painful yet absolute, crushed every other sense and emotion tears streamed down my eyes. I don’t know if I stood there for hours, days, years, possibly seconds-I really don’t know- but finally my vision cleared and when I looked again, I wished it hadn’t. What stood before me was no girl: Emily’s face shifted before my very eyes as her skin changed to a cold, ocean blue, her eyelashes froze and two horns made of icicles grew upon her head. Her eyes were a spitting Image of a snowy field: pupils, and entirely white. But what truly terrified me was the light, emitting from her face. Everything yet nothing about her seemed to change, and it made her absolutely grotesque. I screamed. And screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Every part of me from head to toe,

screamed. 

She laughed loudly, cackling. “Thought I was pretty? Guess you thought wrong stupid. Also, your clothes all suck get better clothes, and taste in men. Alfred is sooooo ugly.” Her voice was sassy and suddenly really ugly. It was as if a Netflix mean girl possessed a character from Frozen. Absolutely horrifying. I screamed again. “I am a demon sent from hell, your worst nightmare, I will crush you like the bug you are. Your husband is a murderer, so I will make him watch, motionless as I take the one thing he loves: you!” Her voice was harsh and distorted, like the frozen character/mean girl just turned male and went through puberty. I stood up, shaking as my hollow bones attempted to support my heavy, amazing body. Misery and anguish reverberated through my them as I tried to stand up straight.

The moment I gained balance I took off running, then slammed into the wall. She burst laughing, her distorted cackles sending a million little pins into my heart and I cried out in pain as fear squeezed tighter and my brain fought not to process any of this information. How could I be so dumb as to run the wrong way, and slam into a wall, I didn’t know. “Doors the other way, idiot. I mean honestly I thought it was just in horror movies but why does the victim, always, always do something stupid like they want to get killed? And why do they seem dead before I’ve even hurt them I mean women, I haven’t even touched you yet and you look you crawled out of a morgue.” Hearing it converse normally was jarring, seeing as how normally the monster didn’t have a personality nor talk either.

“Girl I can kick yo butt so hard if I wanted to don’t you dare mock my appearance you ugly little pest. Besides why you talking you’r the living personification of a Frozen doll who did transgender, smashed it’s face into a wall then went through puberty all in one day,” I replied, immediately regretting it as a look of total rage materialized upon its face. I got up and ran quickly, darting from side to side. Suddenly, she appeared somehow, in front of the door, laughing heartily. I sewn a look of horror upon my face and left my mouth gaping open, staring as if something even more horrifying the her stood behind her. Immediately, she turned around and I ducked down and ran under her then opened the unlocked door and escaped. 

The sun. Egoistic. Treacherous. Judgmental. It lays high above us, casting its lazy rays of light upon our Earth. It believes it’s better then us, sits high above us and judges us. The sun was certainly being judgmental today: searing hot rays of light blinded me as I ran, looking down to escape its wrathful rays. It was as If it knew what was going on, as if it knew what was happening and it was looking down at us and frowning at the occurring events. But I didn’t care what it thought. I knew that treacherous creature will simply leave us at night, to care for ourselves. I can’t wait for the day it

explodes. 

I ran and found someone, borrowed their phone, told the police everything then stared as they called me insane. They returned and found my husband missing, Emily gone, like she never existed. They also decided there was enough evidence pointing to me being the one who killed my husband. They took me to court, and my idiot lawyer pleaded insanity. Now I’m in a mental asylum day and night, writing all of this from here. This is what happens when you receive gifts from strangers. You end up adopting demons sent from hell. 

They tell me everyday I’m wrong, that I’m insane but I know what I saw. Sometimes, the doubt gets the best of me, and I begin to believe maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m crazy. Even right now, I know, it could be true. I didn’t kill my husband however, but something did, because they found his dead body hidden in the trunk of my car. How convenient. The demon won. 

I lost. 

Now I’m fighting to remember one thing: Emily is out there. And every day every minute every second I can’t help but wonder was I the 1st Emily hurt, and will I be the last? I stifled a scream as suddenly, Emily materialized before me. “Hello again Mrs Janae”. She was young again, 5 years old, polite and emotionless. “You did well, killing your husband. It was the right thing to do.” Rage swelled into a lump within my throat and I wanted to yell but I chose to stay silent. I spat at her. All she did was laugh without happiness, smile without warmth, stare at me with no joy within her eyes or soul. Her eyes pierced through me and suddenly I saw, everything. The dizziness queasiness pain terror all returned again in a one wave of anguish. I felt as though all my life I’d been trapped in a small prison, living the same routine again and again and again and again. I felt as if all my life anvils have been falling like heavy rain from the sky and I’d been jumping running ducking rolling dodging constantly but I’d finally been hit. I knew the pain I’d felt that day was grief, regret, fear of prison, not of a living soul. I knew there was no ice, no well preserved body but a cut up, bloodied, expressionless body of my husband. I knew all the rage, all the furry were anger directed to my cheating, murderer of a husband. 

I knew the charitable donation I received long ago was not a child, but money money money money money money money money, because I was poor and I begged and Alfred came along and donated to me. Only later did we fall in love. Every piece every day every second every minute every decade every year of my life was torn at its seams and suddenly rearranged and I thought back to every moment through the delusion and anguish because money is pain. The money Alfred gave me allowed me to buy nice clothes, to be beautiful, to be important, to make him love me and marry me and I was respected because of it, cared for because of it. Money helped me be the best me I could possibly be and that was a monster, a creature deserving of death. Tears streamed down my cheeks silently, and I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed as my memories flew into place like a jigsaw puzzle. I sobbed, because the picture they arranged meant the one thing I could never accept. Emily never existed, she was a figment of my imagination. Because I had a child, who died a year ago called Jessica and when she died, murdered by my husband when she caught him cheating on me he covered it up and ended her. 

But I can’t hate him.

I’m just as guilty and horrible as he is. I made up Emily to help me accommodate ending my husband, to help me forget Jessica’s existence because if I had lived poor I’d have been happy! But now I’m nothing but a pile of consternation. I’m a demented creature, a horrid thing and i deserve death. I forced myself to recall that night. I remembered greeting him in the morning, screaming “die, honey” when he replied “hey, morning honey”. I remember driving my knife into his throat, then into his heart and I remember poking and poking and poking and poking and poking and I didn’t stop until blood covered every crevice of the room. I called myself a monster on repeat, then imagined I was talking to a demon child called Emily. I felt waves and waves and waves and waves and waves of dread and grief rippling through me but unlike rippling water I never returned to how I should be. I never became whole and clear again. 

In a way everyone is rippling water. As babies they appear crystal clear, innocent and 100% pure. Their personality, their future appearance, their everything is still moldable, but as they grow events cause ripples through the water that is their lives and they never fully recover. The dents never really hide themselves.

If I was an ocean every part every inch every crevice every bit of me would be full and full and entirely covered with ripples. With flaws. If I was an ocean since birth I’d be changed, full of scars and tragedy and death. And evil. But especially deaths, because every fish every creature in me would be dead. Nothing would lay in my depths but the blackness of my soul, the demented darkness that grows larger and more twisted by the second. 

The rippled water in the surface of my ocean would be littered in dead bodies, each of the millions of the dead fish the embodiment of a part of my goodness. 

Dear, dear reader, if I was an ocean…

Nothing would dare touch my waters. 

And live to tell the tale.