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The Demon Within Me: Chapter One

Tags: angry, death, setup

For those of you unaware, this story contains graphic depictions of violence. It is not for the faint of heart. I've rated it EC, but even beyond that, this is not a story that has very much censorship. It may even be a trigger for some. Read at your own risk. Again, this story doesn't reflect the views of me or of Stories Space, and this kind of behavior is NOT condoned.


Last night I forgot to dream again. Not consciously, of course: it’s never conscious although sometimes I wish it were. When the dreams do come, it’s always in Technicolor flashes that burn me somewhere deep inside. Green, yellow, green, blue. Sequences. I like sequences, but these ones are unsettling. They tell me it’s time, after all.

It was Monday that I dreamt the last sequence. Green, yellow, green, blue. For a while, I would get more than that. Just the colors weren’t enough two years ago. An image. A face. A location. Some direction. I didn’t know where it came from, but I could guess. From him, only. Who else would it come from? He is the only one who talks to me after all.

I used to be scared, but now I’m not. I used to feel regret, but now I don’t. He promised me I’m doing the right thing. How could he be wrong? I used to question him because I didn’t know any better. It’s just because I’m human. It’s not a reflection on myself, he tells me. It’s just part of who I am. It’s endearing in the same way a puppy’s bark is endearing. Cute at first and then eventually you make it shut up. I had a puppy once, but... Well. He said it was for the best. It was practice. I have to learn to not get attached.

Attachments are death, he says. I tell him I’m attached to him. He laughs at that.

“Maybe,” he says. If it’s any consolation, he’s attached to me too. But more literally.

Once, I was little. It was many years ago. I can’t remember exactly how long. I stopped counting after a certain point. But this was before I let him free. I remember… I remember being a kid. I used to play soccer. That day I was about to score a goal and then there was a kid who stopped my shot. Not even the goalie. But some kid stepped in front of me. They were smaller than me and I wanted to score so badly. I should’ve scored! It was my right! I dribbled around everyone. That goal had my name on it! That kid stopped me from my rightful place! That was my goal. Mine. Just like he would be.

That’s when he came for the first time. Green-yellow-green-blue. But I didn’t expect it and I was unsettled. He gave me a name, a face, a location. A dream but it wasn’t really a dream because the same kid was there when I went. All by themselves. It was messy, but it was beautiful. There was a record on.

“Well, it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth… the minor fall and the major lift”

He said it was a song for the ages, but it wasn’t my song. He didn’t like the lyrics very much. He doesn’t like “God” very much. I have to put “God” in quotes because there is no “God.” Except him, of course.

I’m uneasy today. Not a fear of death, though. Death is just another notch to put in my belt, and my death will mean very little. Some people would hate that truth. They desire attention, adoration, followers. I am no follower, but the ambition to be a leader doesn’t burn through me.

Either way, I can never die. He needs me too much.

I think I love him.

When I dream, it is only of him. When I smell something sweet and sad – sulfur, blood, and roses – it is his scent. When I see something beautiful, like the way she lay spread-eagle on the floor of the hotel with her hair framing her face and her throat slit in a gaping wide smile, her eyes closed so softly she could have been sleeping, the blood pooling around her torso, still warm and that vibrant red of sunsets and cherries and hastily applied lipstick, her lavender perfume still carried on the air like the last remnants of a lifeblood – it is because of him. She looked like a fantasy at midnight, the witching hour, a menacing promise, beautiful, demonic, and godly. But above all, beautiful.

I’ve been called crazy before. Violent. Therapists don’t know what to do with me. I know that this isn’t normal. But I also don’t know what normal is.

I guess normal is different for everyone. My normal is green-yellow-green-blue. My normal is a knife in my hand so I don’t have one in my back. That’s one of his favorite sayings. “Two knives in hand are better than one in the back.”

I’d say two knives in someone else’s back are better than one in my hand. I don’t like the idea of having to defend myself. It makes me feel like a victim, and I’m not. In fact, I’m the farthest thing from it. I control them. They’re my puppets. Their bodies do what I want them to do, most of the time. The laws of physics aren’t always my friends. I long to see the last expression before a human dies. It’s so beautiful, in its own way. So pure, like a newborn. That innocence, and fear, and love, and desperation mingled with absolute naivety is... indescribable.

I wish they would see me like that before I kill them. They’re afraid, all the time. But I’m not. I don’t feel fear. It’s a disgusting emotion.

I feel… joy. Relief. Happiness. I know when I should feel sad, but I don’t. I never have felt anything of the sort. When my mother died, I felt remorse, but only because it was an impulsive decision. But when I saw her long, white, slender neck and the way she swallowed, and I saw the colors flash behind my eyes, my rationale flew out the wind. It was embarrassing in the sense I knew I was susceptible to the charms of a beautiful woman. That I was just as weak as the men I despised.

But how I love it, the moment when they die, when they stop struggling underneath you. You finally have control. It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever witnessed, and I love it with all my corrosive soul. When they stop breathing, I can breathe easier. The tang of their sweat, the sound of their heartbeat as it slows and then ultimately stops, but the quickening of breath, the gasps they expel… some of them scream, of course, but that’s so cliché. I love the quiet ones, the silent ones, the ones who die without a fuss and without a word. Or maybe just one. The people who die with other’s names on their lips represent true love to me. Deep love. Sweet love.

I don’t understand love, but if I did, I assume it would be something like that. Dying with their name on your lips. If I die, it will be with his name on my lips. 


A/N: I wrote the Prelude in the 2nd person/you format, but this chapter and the rest of the story will be told in the first person/I format. The narrators of both the prelude and this chapter are the same. These first chapters, as well as the next few, will just be setups of the narrator - a look into their psyche, so to speak. After that, the real story will begin.
Thanks for reading!

Please note that the views and opinions expressed in this story are those of the fictional characters portrayed in the story and do not reflect the views and opinions of either the writer or the staff at Stories Space. 

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