My Personal Demon

16:33

Does death scare you?

When I was a little girl, my parents told me that upon explaining death to me, I cried for hours. I was utterly inconsolable, unable to grasp the concept of someone disappearing from my life and never returning again.

I don't remember that moment when my childhood ended. I was no longer innocent of the way the world worked once I knew about death. The person that I was before knowing that people could die was only a blip in the grand scheme of things. But sometimes, I wish I was her again.

I wanted to believe that Charles had only disappeared for a moment, that he would be back in half an hour from the grocery store. I wanted to think that he didn't die, that I was just a kid struggling to learn object permanence.

But I could only pretend for so long before I saw him again. He always wore my husband's face, sometimes speaking in his voice before reverting to his own.

In that sense, I could never really get over his death. I had a constant reminder of him in the form of a demon that wouldn't leave me alone.

I wondered if there was a support group for widows haunted by the supernatural. Was there someone out there who could understand the bloody walls and dead birds that I kept seeing?

I imagine myself reclining on a chaise lounge, speaking to Sigmund Freud about my visions. I was sure that the Austrian psychologist would have a field day with my psyche if he didn't get an aneurysm first.

I needed to feel normal. Charles's death may have upended my life, but we were two separate people before we met each other. I knew that the rest of my existence would have to be spent without him even if part of me still couldn't accept it.

So I sat before my easel and painted for the first time since his death. I let the shapes pour out of my brush, becoming a vessel for an invisible muse.

I didn't worry about the colors that I used or the pattern of my brushstrokes. Painting was something I had done countless times. While I was no savant, I did make considerable money from it. I rarely had an unhappy client so I think it would be reasonable to say that I was and still am a good painter.

Let it be known that my skill level is an objective fact.

A figure emerges on the canvas, coming to life from the red splotches I had first painted. First, I see the head which is bent at a strange angle. It dangles from a broad set of shoulders that connect to two hanging arms.

I'm in no rush to see if I recognize the person that I paint. I've sculpted imaginary faces from my subconscious, a weird collection of eyes, noses, and lips. But I can't deny the resemblance to Charles in the man that I've created. I've situated him in the bathtub, seconds after an unfortunate accident with his razor. Suddenly all of the red paint that I've used makes sense.

I pull the canvas from the easel, putting it to the side as I switch it out for a blank one. The wet paint stains my hands, but I ignore it. I paint again, trying not to conjure macabre images with my brush. This time, I avoid the red paint tubes.

I empty myself onto the canvas, opting for a self-portrait. Maybe then I wouldn't see my dead husband again. I open a tube of black paint for my hair and get to work.

Charles told me that I was quite pretty during our first few months of dating. Like other men that I've dated, he was drawn to my eyes. But while others spent a few seconds commenting on their light hazel shade, he fixated on them. They were the most unexpected part of my face. If anyone were to see a photograph of my mother and my sisters, I was supposed to have dark brown eyes, ones that resemble pools of freshly brewed coffee.

I think it would have made me look warmer if I did. But instead, my hazel eyes made me appear meaner somehow. It was probably the flecks of green. Otherwise, my eyes would've made me seem as harmless as a deer.

"They have warmth," he said when I told him how I felt about my eyes. "I see honey and gold when I stare at you. But you don't always show it."

No, I didn't always show it. Sometimes it made people mad as if I owed them that sense of comfort. But I couldn't control my face or how they felt about it.

I possess a lot of harsh lines, from my high cheekbones to the angle of my eyebrows. Some people liked that, envying those features. I admit those are the features that I'm most proud of. When I was younger, I used to pretend that they made me look like a model. But I was always more interested in creating art than being art.

Of course, both could be true at the same time, like with the self-portrait I was creating. But I never enjoyed the burden of another artist's vision. Maybe that made me selfish, but I like to think it's helped my paintings more than hurt them.

Alas, even within the boundaries of a self-portrait, I still managed to create a scene of violence. There's a knife sticking out of my neck on the canvas even in the absence of blood. I put this half-finished painting aside, frustrated with my efforts.

Maybe the third time's the charm. I put one last blank canvas on the easel. This time, I use red, but I will only think of pleasant things. Like flowers. How could there be anything violent about that?

But I don't paint flowers. My brush may make the shape of rounded petals and thin stems, but a cluster of flowers is not the end result. At the center of that garden of closed buds and flowers in partial bloom is a face.

It's a man's face, but not anyone I recognize. Yet, the features of this person seemed familiar like I met him in a dream. He was handsome, but he wore an expression that would scare most women away. I may not have painted a violent scene, but I knew deep down that I created a violent man. I saw it in the way he stared back at me, angry for bringing him into existence.

I glare at this imaginary man, daring him to change his expression. When he could not, I laughed. The poor thing remained imprisoned in my mind. I decided that I liked this painting even if I did not succeed in making a peaceful scene.

A thump on my right catches my attention. Another blue jay had crashed into the window, its corpse sticking to the glass. Above, the ceiling drips dark red blood, the kind that gets stuck in the veins of someone who doesn't drink enough water.

The demon was close by. I hear the front door open and the faint jingle of keys I don't remember giving to him. The rustle of canvas bags tells me that he's gone out for groceries again. I don't know where he gets the money to buy the food, but I knew he wasn't stealing from me. I checked my wallet and bank account enough to be certain of that.

He cooked a lot. I would've liked that if the food didn't lose flavor after a couple of bites. Still, he would always leave an extra plate for me. I suppose even demons have good manners when they don't torture sinners in the pits of Hell.

Speaking of Hell, I wondered, for the first time since Charles's death, if he ever made it to Heaven. Surely if a Hell existed, there must also be a Heaven where my dead husband is peacefully resting.

I ask the demon in my kitchen if he's seen my husband recently.

"He died a few months ago. I just want to know if he's alright on the other side," I explained. "His name is Charles Noble. He was thirty-nine when he passed."

"I've never heard of his name. He's probably waiting for his Judgment Day," he replied, buttering the pan. A raw steak lay on the counter near him, already seasoned and waiting to be cooked.

"He was a good man. He deserves to go where all the good people went."

"Most people aren't good or bad. The ones that I see are pure evil and there's never a shortage of them. Heaven is a hard place to get into."

"If he's neither good nor bad, where would he go?"

He doesn't respond momentarily, laying the steak on the pan. It hits the hot butter with a light hiss, the kind that someone gets from medium heat on the stove.

"He would be reborn," the demon said at last. "Your husband would walk the earth with a different face."