1 a.m. Deliriums of an Attention Deficit Mind

I write this narrative to supplement the speculations of the so-called “Sugar-Woman” that have been wafting through this region of the state, and to affirm that the reports are true, which should be astonishingly clear by the mere traces of these words, as I have no greater abhorrence than the practice of writing, rendering me the quietest of the hermits in the neighborhood. With that said, it is no surprise that I am not familiar to most who might read this passage, which is written by me, Arnold Clemons.

I take the time to emphasize this peculiarity to buttress my claim that I had indeed seen her, before my eyes, right there as a creation of God. Firstly, I would like to dispel the fallible accounts regarding her appearance: she does not have torn apparel and emaciated features, nor does she have pallid pupils or a thirst for blood. She is fitted quite conventionally, almost as to seem like a normal lady who had gotten disoriented–in an otherwise proper ensemble and, forgive my tendencies–a comely visage.

I reckoned first sighting her in the woods adjacent to my abode, where I had been scavenging for berries in the daytime, surrounded by the intermittent dance of bushes on a day of no wind, which at the time I regarded as nothing more than my coltish imagination attempting to frighten me–but what was soon the catalyst of bloody ankles and a shriveled lung when the contour of a woman had flickered behind the verdure as I had been walking by.

I had endeavored to throw away this sight before bed to avoid exhaustion the next day and had fallen asleep–when I had strangely awoken in the darkest time of the night, where a distinct person, with her back toward me, was scuffling about her immediate perimeter, stirring my cabinets in mild search of something. My first thought was that it was my mother–but her thin waist and sable hair said otherwise, leaving me gasping for air as my flesh bled out its color. Soon, however, I had mustered up enough courage to inquire of her, as I squeaked the following:

“What are you looking for, miss?”

Feeling the gravity of what I had just done I squinted my eyes, preempting the horrible, devilish face that would greet me.

She replied verbatim: “I’m looking for sugar, dear–maybe you’re much more familiar with where these things are?”

It was at this time my eyes were opened, and I was met by a face so clean and fair my reticence of speech was shifted from fear to timidity.

It was then that she stood upright and smiled, which I had disposed as a portent of impending mortality, when she spoke again, the words eluding my memory:

“I know you,” she said brightly. “You’re that boy who sells the apricots downtown.”

She then proceeded to creak towards me and feel my cheeks, before pecking me faintly upon the forehead; and I did not feel violated at the least, as I was now known as the boy who sold apricots.

When her chin had receded to permit vision, I had noticed that she was, or had turned, much younger than our initial acquaintance–and at first it seemed as if her head was disproportionate to her form; but the next second it seemed fit. I had thought little of this specific event, as at the time I had lost touch with most of myself.

Then, it seemed that I had told her that I would show her where it was, whatever she was looking for, which had been strangely bare of intention after my lapses of recollection.

At this comment she brightened, and proceeded to tell me to stay put, which I agreed to, and saw her exit my room with haste. It was at this time confusion had set in me, seemingly the first sensation in hours–before I awoke into the dead of night, no different than the last, heave after heave exiting my chest as I trembled against my strange urge to weep. Soon enough I had managed to subdue it and began looking around my vicinity in search of the visitor: everything was still.

I had retold this story countless times to my family members, all who have found amusement in my passion for “dreams” of nonsense or have found annoyance at my baseless alarm, which had soon spread to everyone after my account could be effectively rehearsed without the dropping of a preposition. They had also commented that there were no rumors such as the “Sugar-Woman”, nor did a speck of natural greenery exist amid the bustle of the conurbation; and that if I were to continue acting out my performance that I was to be taken to a doctor. This had successfully prompted less communication on the subject; which in turn had also equated to less interaction overall with family; and I confer my “madness” upon this paper in an attempt to keep my psyche at bay, at least until the truth is revealed to the rest of them.

In the meantime, I invite you to meet with me again, miss; and if this does you well, I gladly open my threshold to wear; feel no shame.

It is quite a pity that mental infatuations such as these are evanescent; so please, while I have you in my thoughts, pay another visit. I would like to be lost in my head again.

I write again, this time more sober–and without the eloquence I possess when I am in states of muse such as what I was spiraled in before. It has come to my attention, quite alarmingly; that the experience I had chuckled upon was, quite worrisomely–not a dream. Furthermore, the thing in my room was not even a woman, let alone a human–and I do not wish to expound on its horrifying nature nor endeavor to search for more, for I wish for this night to be over as quick as the sun’s mercy allows.

I had awoken in a similar manner, however much later through the light-lorn hours–possibly two into the next day. I had smirked at the thought of another apparition with the “Sugar-Woman”, when I had caught sight of a vaguely disfigured and bulky body trembling before me; above it was her familiar face, but the head on which it was painted was shrunk down enormously, possibly to the size of my backhand. She–it wasn’t searching for anything, it wasn’t walking occupied; it was staring at me, almost as if my last welcome had been too generous for it to allow itself to appear in this form. I sought to float in the numbness that dreams so strangely offer–but I felt myself, I felt my surroundings; it was real.

What had precisely happened after is not known to me; after its departure the events had mysteriously fled my thoughts. I labor to seal my memories of the events…

As of now I hear a deep rummaging through the walls of the adjacent chamber. I have decided to curtail my documentation here, to arouse as little attention to myself as possible by ceasing the hissing of lead running through paper. I shall write when it is gone.