My Personal Demon

03:29

Sleep used to be easy for me. Even with the nightmares I had before, I knew how to be tired. It was automatic, something I trained myself to do the moment my head hit the pillow.

But then came the insomnia.

It started with those new nightmares, the ones where he dies over and over again. I would wake up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat and tears. My heart would race, pounding in my ears.

I was always so close to saving him. Maybe I'd finally make the right turn on the freeway or I'd pull his body out of the wreckage. But then another freak accident would happen and he would perish in my arms like he did every night.

There was only so much heartbreak I could handle and only so many nights I could spend curled up in my bed desperately trying to fall back asleep.

I became convinced that it was better not to sleep at all.

Gymnopédie No.1 plays faintly in the bedroom. I pull out a drawer that is stuffed to the brim with Charles's journals. I couldn't bring myself to read any of them before. They seemed sacred to me, filled with his most intimate thoughts. It didn't feel right to open them.

My fingers toy with the leather strap of one of the journals. The loneliness was extra sharp tonight, jabbing itself into my heart. I was tempted to soothe myself with his words, but even in death, I respected his privacy. I couldn't do that to him while he was in his grave.

Outside, birds chirp at three in the morning. This was the second reason why I couldn't sleep. They had started their songs at one in the morning, chatting with one another under the cover of the dark. I've pulled my curtains back multiple times to catch a glimpse of these nocturnal avian creatures, but I never saw the hint of a feather or beak.

Maybe I was going crazy, but my auditory hallucinations were never like this.

I turn up Satie's composition, drowning out the birdcall. On the bed stand, there was a ceramic container filled with his ashes. He had asked to be cremated and placed into that specific container because he had sculpted it a long time ago when he was young and living abroad in Spain.

He wanted me to visit that place someday so he could show me the sights. I was supposed to experience it on one of our future anniversary dates. We were meant to go there in a month when his novel was supposed to be finished and submitted to the editor. He was writing the last chapter during our car ride.

It's a shame that he never finished it. He had drafted half a dozen endings, none of which fit the story according to him.

I've read some of the chapters he left behind. The story itself is based on a fairly simple concept, that of a young man trying to grow beyond the shadow of his powerful father. But Charles always put his spin on things. There was a strong autobiographical vein in the tale, one that only those closest to him could see.

A week after the funeral, his agent asked me for access to his manuscript. She suggested publishing it posthumously as a tribute to his short life, with the ending left up to my discretion.

I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself. The world had already taken him away from me. Must they also take his words away from me too?

But, being the civilized grieving widow that I was, I told her to give me a month to think about it.

I read through the story, flipping through the pages. He certainly had a way with words. I touch the letters on the paper, tracing the rightward slant of his handwriting.

I wish he was here with me.

The sun rises, slowly warming up the horizon with rich hues of yellow and orange. I peer outside the window again, looking for the birds and their ceaseless chatter. A single blue jay stares back from its perch on a branch, startling me with the azure shade of its feathers.

Blue had always been his favorite color. Maybe this bird was a messenger from the afterlife, a sign that he was at peace.

Or not. The blue jay rams its little head against the glass pane, crashing against the window again and again. A thin stream of blood leaks out from its tiny skull.

I unlatch the window as fast as I can, but I'm too late. The bird lies dead outside my window in a scarlet and blue heap.

I pick up its fragile body, ready to put it to rest in a shallow grave. Then, I see the pile next to the tree: half a dozen blue jays, each mauled in a grotesque fashion. It takes everything in me not to scream at the sight.

Inside the house, the demon comes to the window, making eye contact with me through the glass. He sees the mess of birds near the tree, shaking his head.

"Poor things," he said. "They never did like me."

If I had gotten enough sleep, I would've told him that I agreed with the birds.

But the blue jays haunted me throughout the day. I couldn't get the sight of their dead bodies out of my head.

Even when I worked in the tattoo shop, their broken bloody forms burned in my inner eye. It didn't help that today's client wanted a pair of wings inked on her back.

She was young. A lot of my clients were, some coming into the store as soon as they were legal. Plenty of them weren't legal at all, brandishing fake IDs like invincibility shields.

I don't blame them. Most of the time, I'm happy to aid in their rebellion. But they were inexperienced, some of them coming into the shop with awful designs. I would gently nudge them to my catalog to pick something of better taste, but ultimately the final decision was up to them.

I did get the occasional angry parent storming through my doors, demanding that I remove the tattoo or asking for a refund. It was expected, being the only tattoo shop in town. But I handled them with grace, telling them that their child claimed to be of legal age and usually saved up their money to purchase my services. Then I would hand them the business card of the only tattoo removal shop in town and wish them the best of luck.

Otherwise, most of my clients were older. They were around my age, looking for trendy designs or something meaningful to put on their bodies. Some served in the army and others served time in prison. It was never my place to judge. I was there to help them become themselves.

I finish my work, cleaning and bandaging up her skin. "Wait a couple of months before fully removing the bandages," I said. "Your skin needs to heal."

"Thank you," she replied, pulling her shirt down. "You know, you'd look great with a sleeve." Her eyes scan my face. "And a nose ring, too."

Her comments elicit a laugh from me. "Is that so?" I had practiced tattooing on my leg before, but I never thought about giving myself an entire sleeve.

"Yes," she insisted. "And I'm serious about the nose ring. Not many people can pull off your straight bangs. The ring would definitely add to your look."

"I think I'm too old for that," I admitted. Not to mention that I was a widow.

"Nonsense. What are you, twenty-six?"

"Thirty-three," I told her, wrapping my equipment in Saran wrap. She was my last client for the week.

"No way." Her hand goes to her mouth in shock. "You look so young."

"I'm thirty-three, not eighty-five," I said. "It's not like every woman shrivels up when they turn thirty."

"Yeah thirty-three is still young," she remarked. "So you should get the sleeve and nose ring."

"I'll think about it."

"Let me know. I do piercings over at the mall. Just ask for Clara and I'll give you a discount."

I lock up the store, staring at my reflection in the glass. It had been a while since I made any major changes to my appearance. The bangs were a decision I made five years ago. I try to picture myself with a nose ring. Would I really look good?

I hear something fall next to me, slapping the pavement as it plunges from the sky. Another dead blue jay, this time with its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Two more fell next to the dead bird, crashing near me in a deadly rain.

I look up, half expecting to see a wild cat or even the demon staring back at me. Instead, I see a few clouds peacefully drifting by.

A feeling of dread settles in the pit of my stomach. This was not the end of the strange violence around me.