GET OUT OF MY HEAD YOU'RE NOT REAL YOU CANT BE REAL YOU'RE JUST A HALLUCINATION OR DELUSION OR SOMETHING JUST LIKE YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN STAY AWAY FROM ME GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT

JUST

LEAVE

ME

ALONE

YOU'RE

NOT

REAL




















ive seen the body

I Don't Even

A proxy blew up in front of me.

Okay, not EXACTLY that dramatic, sounds like he had a grenade in his chest or popped like a balloon there, which he didn't, but um.
Well.
Where do I begin, exactly?

Okay, a couple days ago I was being pursued and I kinda got...
Wow, you know what, I'm terrible at this. Just gonna be to the point like I'm always being told to and skip to the end-
You know that cliche moment in the movie where the antagonist is gloating over the protagonist dangling over the edge of the rooftop holding on by their fingertips? Let's just say it's really not hard to get into those situations when you can't exactly run away, and I ended up in one. Rather disappointed in myself, but I wasn't exactly armed at the time, which in hindsight I probably should've been. Anywho. The deus ex machina saving me in this case being one of his legs kind of... exploding.

I don't know how else to describe it, okay! It popped! Like a freaking zit! It swelled up for a second about halfway down the lower leg and then there was blood everywhere and he fell over me into the alleyway and he left a foot (because just a shoe might've been just a tad too mundane or clean for this story!) behind but once again NOBODY found anything like, oh I dunno, a BODY or his BLOOD or the FOOT, because somehow I ended up perfectly freaking immaculate despite said "pop" and I've been kinda freaking out just a bit ever since!

... Wow Mr. Run-on Sentence, take a moment to breathe why don't ya.
... Shut up, brain.

I know, someone out there's thinking, "maybe you should've kept the foot if you didn't want everyone to think you were just making this up", well hardy har asshole, I'm not so far-gone that I keep any old disembodied limbs I find lying around. Sort of a catch 22 in getting people to think you aren't completely batshit.
Or you're just going to give me odd looks because of the idea of keeping a random stranger's foot.
I mean, I can't even begin to guess where it's been. Probably nowhere nice.

...

And I'm still alive by the way.

Or maybe not

I honestly don't know if I'm doing this under my own power or not.

I started to notice the whole leg-swaying thing about a week or two after my "encounter" with Our Mutual Tallish Friend. Within a few days I was able to kick, within a month I could stand for a few moments and by the time I last posted on this, I was able to take baby steps for about 5 minutes at a time.

This isn't possible.

First of all, when I'm "walking", I'm only able to do it in short bursts, though the bursts get longer the more often I'm doing it, much akin to working the muscles. I've always fully expected that regaining control of my legs would take time, what with them being a bit atrophied for lack of real exercise, fine. However, in the months that I've been able to do so, I haven't really been able to feel my legs any more than I've been able to for the past three years.
Maybe I'm crazy (... I really need to stop using such an obvious line...) but that seems a bit unusual to me.

Second, when I started to think I might have been on the road to recovery after catching my legs swaying on their own, I arranged a visit to the doc- probably about the only time I've felt anything higher on the scale than absolute dread being carted off towards a hospital. A few hundred bucks worth of tests down the drain, and they still say it's unlikely I'll be able to walk.

Third, no witnesses, which unless you're Harry Potter evidently is typically the first sign that it's all in your head. Regardless of how often I'm trying to do so, I can't seem to move them whenever someone's looking. If I'm standing and someone is within the vicinity, they'll spontaneously give out right before I'm in view like some cliched comedy act. Once again, something my parents believe I should be talking about in therapy.

There are two possibilities here.
I'm having some crazy vivid daydreams on the topic.
Or, in spite of the fact that I can at least choose where I'm going when I can use them, I'm not the one really in control of my legs. Given when these events started, it's not exactly hard to figure out who probably is. Remember what I said before about being just too easy prey? Someone really enjoys playing with their food.

So why am I posting all this now? Because if the latter, who's to say that's all that's being controlled. Even posting could be entirely the influence of the other guy.
Or this is all in my head, and I'm making a fool of myself.

I have a superpower

It's called "walking".

Yeah. What.

Arrival

I really don't want to talk about this.

But.

I did decide, in my stupor, to write a message to our Mutual Tallish Friend. I suppose if I left it on that note, you'd probably think I'm being tortured to death.
Well... not physically at any rate.

The other day, your "Construct" showed up. Just stood in my yard, staring in through the window at me. Just like the first time.

I honestly don't know why the fella didn't just come in, surprise me in my doorway or whatever. Had to make some grand announcement. Or hey, if the theories are true about certain temporal anomalies, maybe it was all part of some stable time loop that I decided to dose myself up to get a migraine.

Can you guess why? Hard to think that way, mind stops racing because it just slams facefirst into a barrier, over and over, like a three-year old to a glass door.

I've had a while to think about my own death, I wasn't going to let myself be just another victory.
So I drugged myself to screw TPF over. Not like it's hard to find anything of that sort in my area, if you know the right people.

Felt like hours I was just sitting there waiting for the effects to kick in. Staring through the window into that pseudo-existential mass of sentient nightmare.
I blinked first.

Okay, that was a bad pun. Actually I don't know if there would be a staring contest, since the first symptom that took hold was the tunnel vision. It's hard to explain... the bugger was just sort of there in front of me when I tilted my head. The photo-sensitivity took over and the apertures to my soul shut.

So why am I still here?
Well, why would I ever think it would be that simple? That the engine of paranoia and despair would just let me die? Probably even knowing full-well that my death would have done more damage to the fella?

You know in those movies where the protagonist is facing some massive blind beast, and they're backed into a corner with the creature facing them down and smelling them, leading to the suspense of whether or not the beastie even knows our hero is there?
Well it was sort of like that, only nowhere near as epic. I'm no hero, and TPF certainly isn't... well...
...
Well TPF wasn't 3 stories high that day, alright?

Maybe TPF ran away because I wasn't worth the kill. Or maybe migraines are actually some kind of psychic forcefield from eldritch horrors. More likely though, it's probably dawned on him it the SOB that I haven't suffered enough yet. I guess I should look forward to being given a gentle nudge by hithe sick fuck down some stairs one of these days.

I don't even know anymore.

you just couldn't make this easy, could you










no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no nonononononononononompinasldkna;vnld,x

you sonof a bitch
why wont youj ust let me die

Confessions

There's something I've had on my mind a lot recently in the past few weeks. Most of it's a blur, really, but I figure it's about time to bring it up. Now or never, right?

January 22nd, 2010. I know it better as "The Day We Killed Each Other".

Darren and I had been arguing on and off for the past few weeks. I honestly can't remember what it was about anymore, but knowing him it was probably just him trying to shut me out of something stressful in his life despite my attempts to butt in. Between his mother's medical bills, his dad and mother-in-law's pressures, his most recent break-up and the company he kept at school, he had a lot on his plate. I did my best to distract him from it, but I just as often bugged him to find out what was wrong to see if I could help (I don't know why I bothered since I knew I never could).

We usually settled arguments via dueling in his backyard. That had always been my idea- he always had the urge to hit something even when he knew he was wrong, I always felt like I deserved to be hit unless I knew I wasn't, and it was good practice. This day was no different in that respect.

We tired each other out pretty quick, as he put all of his power into his hits and I strained myself dodging blows. The duel ended with the both of us on our asses, laughing at our own bruises and welts. We dragged ourselves to the wall of his house and got to talking. I don't recall how long it went on- maybe a half hour or so- before I said something stupid and he snapped, fueled by rage to fight again.

I didn't have much I could do at that point, since I'd never been as quick to recover as him. I didn't pick up my bokken and tried instead to talk him down, receiving a couple more swipes for my failings. I tried to physically disarm him but I never had the strength to overpower him, even when I wasn't weakened. All I could really do was block the worst of his rage-filled blows and close the gap between us.

I backed him into a corner of the fence with my advances and grappled him. He kicked and scratched trying to free himself, but I locked both of my arms around his back and pressed myself as closely as possible to him to form a restraint. When he was tired of striking me his body remained tense and he breathed heavily, but he gave up on that after a few minutes of standing there stopping himself screaming. He let out a deep breath, dropped his bokken, slid his arms around my back and slowly put his head down near mine. He apologized, having realized how tightly I was holding on. He told me I was a good friend for letting him cut loose, but that I should never let him wail on me like that again because he couldn't bear the thought of doing serious damage. I loosened up and pulled my head out of his chest, reminding him that I'd faced worse at crueler people. He smiled, his eyes glinting with choked-back tears.
He always said his smile was goofy, but I always found it wonderful. Beautiful, even.

That's when I did the most stupid thing I will ever profess to.
I kissed him.
It hit me within seconds after doing so that I had literally forced my first kiss on a guy who had always professed to be straight, who I came to in a moment of weakness after a recent break-up. I was horrified by the implications and pulled away.
He looked me in the eye a moment as I stuttered, trying to apologize without knowing how. That's when he did worse: he shook his head with a grin and leaned in, returning the favor.

It was like I had a moment of perfect clarity when we were together; I could see a future for us that I wouldn't have imagined beforehand. Just the two of us on the road, leaving our misery behind. Working off bills, coming home to a lousy apartment to watch bad movies on the couch or play Halo, having impromptu picnics on weekends to talk about the mythos I'd been working on for D&D or the motorcycle he'd been dreaming of owning... For the first time in years I could see a future I wanted. I could see myself happy.
I was happy.

The next part I remember clearly. Pain.
It originated in my lower chest and erupted all over my body. I stumbled back away from Darren, and caught the glimpse of horror in his eyes. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't scream. My legs gave way. Darren ran to my side, screaming to deafened ears in a panic.
Darkness.

I woke up in a hospital bed a couple days later. There were my parents at my bedside, praising their God for my health, crying over me like a stage mom who vicariously won the beauty pageant through her 8-year-old daughter. The only things I understood in my confusion were the bruises on my arms and the numb feeling in my legs.

The doctors were completely stumped. Somehow, I received a very large and nasty chest-wound. Punctured diaphragm, irreparable damage to my spine. I had some serious blood loss, and between the head injury from the fall and the lack of oxygen, I'd suffered from some brain damage. They glossed over the fact that I had died on the operating table, which my parents certainly didn't take well. That didn't bother me nearly as much as their doubt that I would ever be able to walk again. What stumped them was that they didn't know WHAT could have made the injury- there was no exit wound, no bullet, the hole was too circular for a blade and too big for a typical bullet anyway.

My parents were convinced that Darren was responsible somehow. I was dazed, and couldn't defend him because I didn't understand what was going on at the time. The ensuing investigations only revealed my blood all over Darren and his bokken- which had similar dimensions to the hole- and since he was the only other person there, it seemed an open and shut case to anyone else.
But... he dropped his weapon, right? We were too close to each other for him to gain any sort of velocity for a gouge that deep. Nothing added up after my mind began to clear.

I spent months in the hospital. Some nights I dreamed the incident again from Darren's perspective, crying over my own body and staring at the blood on his hands. I spent every waking hour wondering where he was, facing only grim looks and topic-changes whenever I requested his presence. I couldn't understand why he was staying away, but angered myself harboring the idea that he'd been turned away at the door by my overprotective parents. I refused to believe he was away intentionally.

It was a week before I would be released when Darren finally arrived in my room. He was panting from riding all the way over on his skateboard, bleeding from scraped limbs. The two of us were speechless at the sight of each other. After a minute or so of silence, he broke down in tears in the doorway. I beckoned him over and cried at the sight of him as well. He kneeled by my bedside, apologizing with broken words for the state I was in. I told him to get up and shuffled to the other side of the bed, motioning for him to join me. We lay in the bed together for a few hours reminiscing, avoiding the subject, my head on his shoulder, our fingers wrapped around each other's... He tried to leave after a while but I made him swear to stay with me. He chuckled teasingly as he agreed.

Eventually I fell asleep. When I awoke he was gone.
I found out a couple days later that he had washed ashore, evidently having jumped off a bridge to his death. My parents finally confessed that during the course of hiring an investigator to find evidence proving that Darren was responsible for my condition and suing his family to pay my hospital bills, they stumbled upon the necessary evidence to bring Darren up on attempted murder charges (their only regret was that the judge to disavowed actual murder charges in spite of my temporary death). After he somehow escaped custody, he "must have realized it was hopeless and killed himself to clear his guilty conscience."

Yes, I drowned in disbelief too. This cemented my assumptions that I live with people who are batshit insane.

In hindsight, it can't have been anything but fate that the funeral was two days after I left the hospital, unless Darren had planned for me to attend it before his jump. My parents refused to drive me there, but after what they'd pulled, they deserved to be spited by me. I rode 3 buses in a wheelchair to the service.
I arrived fully expecting scorn from his family for what mine had done. Instead, we mourned his loss together, and they drove me home after the burial ceremony.

So here I am. My best friend is dead. My body is my prison. I lost the will to survive a long time ago, but can't just kill myself because of him. For every ounce of me that adored him, there's a part of me that hates him for his hypocrisy in death, and that hatred assures I can't do anything he did.
Now a being is coming who will solve this... problem... of mine. I know there are better ways to go out, but what am I supposed to do? Run? Think I need to walk first.

A final note.
The second time I saw Our Mutual Tallish Friend... it was the anniversary of Darren's death. When I looked into his HHIZ face, I didn't see anything per se, but part of my memory returned. The memory of the final moments of dread before I collapsed. The pain in my chest. The image of fear across Darren's face.

Do you understand now?