I think these are demons

      They again appeared in February.       Weightless, barely perceptible, they greeted me with elusive darting. As soon as I opened the front door, they rushed in different directions and dissolved into the semi-darkness of the corners. I stood there, not daring to cross the vestibule, but the crackling yellow bulb blinked reassuringly, promising that they would not come back. Not today. But I froze, unable to take a step, holding the heavy iron door. The wind behind roared, picking up the flakes, diving from the black sky, and furiously throwing them at my back. At that moment, I attributed everything to chronic lack of sleep and fatigue that had settled in my body right after the winter holidays. But a bundle of panic curled up in my stomach like a sticky, slippery snake.       The setting sun painted the snow in a pinkish-orange color. The tall snowdrifts sparkled and shimmered, as if showing off to the rare passers-by. I was sitting at the table, trying to concentrate on the homework. The head was buzzing, and the letters I had written were scattering in different directions like ants. I kept replaying the two days ago incident in my head. It seemed to me that in November, at the end of the gray autumn, I had finally managed to kill them. They were gone — I buried them under the pure, white snow. Untouched and innocent, falling from the sky in huge flakes — the symbol of my victory. I need to get some sleep, otherwise this won’t happen just once. I stretched and was about to get up, when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. I turned my head sharply — elusive, it jumped to the nook between the sofa and the closet, disappearing from my field of view. The blood pounded in the head - I slowly stood up, and on unbending legs, quietly, trying not to breathe, walked up to the sofa and bent down sharply, looking into where the shadow had slipped. Empty. I exhaled loudly and straightened up. It had disappeared, dissolved, leaving the dust on the floor untouched. Sucked into the wallpaper. Disintegrated. Evaporated.       I sank tiredly to the sofa and sobbed. They had returned after all.       It didn’t take me long to accusto to it again. The long autumn weeks that I had to get used to the fact that I was no longer alone had not been in vain. For a few days I had shied away from the black silhouettes that hopped here and there, for a few more I had flinched when they scattered as soon as I turned on the light, but very soon I had become accustomed to the smoky creatures sitting in the corners and under the table. They were nothing new — just something old that rose up from the ashes of the past.       They just had become bolder. Before, when I had paid attention, they had hidden or disappeared into the shadows, blending in with the surroundings. Now, the shadows watched me from secluded places, hunched under the short glances that I had periodically cast. If I would come closer, they would immediately and silently flow away to safety, but as soon as I sat down, they returned again. I could not know for sure, but I could feel their clinging, tireless glances on my skin. Whatever I was doing, I never was alone.       I walked down a wide street, looking around in horror. Shadows floated before me like a stream. They were hideously different — from tall ones, the size of a five-story building, to small ones, only half my height. And all of them were awkward, with disproportionate limbs, flowing like a huge river, blocking my way. I need, no, I must to get to the other side, but if I will try to cross the pilgrim line, they will notice me. And I don’t know what will happen next — I don’t want to know. And I just stood there, shaking finely with horror, and waited.       It approaches silently from behind and barely touches my shoulder. I’m jumping up as if scalded, and recoiling toward the stream. The shadow is standing opposite — the only “human” one here, the same height as me, — a painfully familiar silhouette. I felt myself starting to choke and threw my head back. A huge creature right in front of me has blocked the sun and is drilling me with the gaze. I looked at the shadow in front of me.       Wake up.       They whirled around us in a wild dance, emitting sounds I couldn't understand. I cringed - my head was splitting from the crushing pain. It took a step and stretched out the hand. I also stepped back, but it was approaching, although it didn't move itself. I had nowhere to run.       WAKE UP.       I woke up in a sweat. The room is filled with thick, inky darkness. I am shaking finely from the cold and fear. I did not immediately notice them — vultures, they have settled around the room, waiting, and are drilling me with their gaze. Can they even see? Or maybe they just feel? Feel my warmth, my breath and my fear.       Tears ware coming to my eyes, but I cannot show them that I am afraid. I am straightening up abruptly, jumping out of bed, throwing off the blanket, and making my way through the darkness to the door of the room. They scatted along the walls, rushing about, trying to hide. I bursted into the hallway, pressed the switch with all my might and tumbled into the dimly lit bathroom. I’m pulling the faucet — the water noisily collapsed into the sink — and only now, clutching the cold edge, I’m sliding to the knees to sob uncontrollably.       Please, God, I want them to go away.       I couldn’t eat. Physically. Just thinking about the next meal would make my body protest with nausea and stomach cramps. It would take me minutes to eat a single bite or spoonful. Anything more substantial than vegetables would make me sick — lucky if I made it to the toilet in time. In the mornings, I usually was finding the strength to drink yogurt. I skipped lunches at school — no one cared whether I ate or not. But family dinners, already stressful, became hell for me. I would smile and diligently stuff my dinner down my throat, trying to please my parents, only to vomit every single crumb later. My body wouldn’t accept the food, and I would writhe on the bathroom carpet in tears from the pain and my own insignificance. Yogurt became my salvation. I ate only it, except for those rare days when my body simply couldn’t resist from exhaustion, and I managed to eat. But this happened less and less often.       The line between me and them is erased. They are becoming bolder, getting closer. They are sneaking everywhere — at home, at school, on the street and even in dreams, although I am no longer sure where the dream is and where reality is. Maybe this is all one continuous, drawn-out and extremely cruel joke of Morpheus. Or maybe I have not slept at all for weeks. Reality, like sand, is seeping through my fingers while I’m trying to catch it. The feeling of actuality is crumbling like a house of cards, and I’m raking the cards with my hands, trying to build it again. It seems that I am hidden under a glass dome — there is me and them — and the rest of the muffled world remained behind the wall. I became indifferent to the endless sticky snow, to the viscous exhaustion of my whole body, to the eternal squabbles between my parents and their desire to hurt each other more painfully. Someone carelessly touched the button and turned off all my senses at once. All that was left was fear — whitish scars on the body and the viscous taste of steel spreading across the mouth.       I was losing touch with the world. When someone called me, I responded only after a few times, as if I needed time to wake up. Digesting information became more difficult and took longer — I reread the text three, and sometimes five, times. I was constantly bumping into people and objects — my body became an uncontrollable car, the dimensions of which I did not feel at all. I was skipping automatic actions — do not close the refrigerator, leave the light on, forget about opened faucet. Everything, right down to the names of classmates and relatives, seemed to be erased from my memory and ceased to have meaning, or even to exist at all. Only me and them remained.       Imperceptibly, I became a “perfect” child. I often began to fall asleep right at the table, where I studied until late at night. In the morning I often woke up before the alarm clock — I was getting up, stretching my numb limbs and sore neck, dragged myself to the bathroom, so that there, choking on cold water, I could finally wake up. Having nothing better to do, I was cooking breakfast for the whole family and, having packed my backpack, went to school, where, concentrating, without taking my unblinking gaze off the teacher and the board, I spent hours. Then, immediately upon returning home, I sat down to do my homework and studied until late at night.       They did not know that otherwise I would not have survived.       By cleaning the room, I was only trying to disperse them and leave less space for hiding. Concentration on the lesson is nothing more than an unwillingness to look around and see the silhouettes occupying the classroom. Constant studying is an attempt to while away the time, to switch to something, to keep the mind busy. Late lights out and early rises are just inability to sleep. After all, even in my dreams they did not leave me. Every night turned into a game of survival — if in my world they could only watch me, then the world of nightmares was under their control. They were afraid of me during the day, but as soon as fatigue won, they, having crept into my dreams, brought me to primitive, animal horror, and I did everything not to fall asleep. I repeated to my tired body that rest could cost us our life. “Don’t sleep” — an eternal slogan, an affirmation, a prayer. The only clear thought in an empty head. Do not allow the remnants of reason to fall into oblivion.       Most of me was already asleep. Only a lonely shell wandered on the ground — the soul, or what should have been inside, froze, frightened by incomprehensible silhouettes. Everything that was happening was nothing more than a nightmare. A viscous, impermissibly long nightmare, to which I began to get used.       Get used to living in constant fear.       My parents were arguing terribly loud. Every word was nothing more than another attempt to hurt. I sat huddled under the table — a frightened child, clutching his own shoulders. A prickly lump was lodged in my throat, making it hard to breathe, and my eyes were barely able to see because of the tears. The silhouettes, sensing my vulnerability, were getting closer and closer. I couldn’t take it anymore - I crawled out of my hiding place and began frantically rummaging through the drawers. Gritting my teeth in an attempt to hold back my hysteria, I pulled the last drawer towards me.       Found it.       I’m slipping into the bathroom, clutching a penknife in my hand. The door creaked shut behind me and the screams suddenly died down, as if someone had turned up the volume control on the radio, and instead of filling the surrounding area with loud noise, it only hissed quietly in the background. I leaned against the door and slid to the floor. The blue tiles are deathly cold, and it seems to me that even the air here is cooler than outside. I’m pulling my knees up to the chest and resting my chin on them. My gaze felt on my own feet — only my toes stick out from under my wide trousers. Against the background of the tiles, they seemed white and alien — I wiggled the toes, but the feeling of foreignness was not going away. I throw my head back so as not to see these strange, unfamiliar feet and for a couple of minutes I’m just sitting, closing my eyes and listening to my breath reflecting off the icy walls. Finally, with a convulsive breath, I opened my eyes and unclenched my hands. The bright red Swiss knife is laying perfectly in my right hand — heavy, smooth, warm. I’m opening the blade — it is glistening enticingly in the light of the weak, white lamp — and without thinking, I am immediately scratching the edge of my palm. The white stripe are stinging, but nothing more, and I’m furiously drawing the blade across my skin again and again. The pain was and remains a clear, primordial rope connecting me and the shaky, false reality. It is rolling in waves, enveloping me, not letting to fall into my own nightmare. Confused, noisy thoughts are drowned out by instinct, screaming about a ten-centimeter danger in my own hands. I stopped only when I noticed that the entire edge of my palm is covered with red dotted stripes. I froze up, exploring how beads of blood are emerging from the cuts to merge into grand one and flowing down in a warm stream to the wrist. Watching the cooling trace, I shuddered, feeling a herd of goosebumps, jumped up from the floor and convulsively stuck my hand into the sink, turning the tap all the way on. A stream of lukewarm water hit my palm, causing a sharp pain, but the only thing that worried me was the pale pink streaks carried away into the sewer. I was shaking slightly — I rubbed my hand like a madman, but the blood did not decrease.       I will not lose so much blood to die.       There are simply no veins or arteries in the edge of the palm, I could not touch the vital vessels.       Or could I?       Like a hunted animal, I looked around, grabbed the antiseptic and with a shaking hand began to press, spraying alcohol on the cuts. One, two, three… my palm was doused with terrible, burning pain, as if I had stuck the hand in an oven. I bent over, holding back tears, and biting the lips. Someone knocked.       “Are you okey?”, my mother asked irritably, “you’ve been hanging around in the bathroom for fifteen minutes…”       I swallowed, got up from the floor and exhaled.       “Yeah, mom, I’ll be right out,” my voice sounded strained, but the bitterness that was eating away at my palm didn’t allow me to speak normally.       “Okay, fine…” mother muttered hesitantly. She noticed, felt the falseness, but couldn’t understand where it was coming from. Or didn’t want to understand.       I rinsed the knife, waited until the footsteps died down and, looking around furtively, slipped out of the bathroom. Unnoticed, I slipped into the room, stuck the knife in the drawer and only now looked at my palm. The poisonous pink stripes were no longer bleeding, but stood out noticeably against the light skin. The thought that this time there would definitely be scars crept lazily through my mind. With light pressure, I ran my thumb over them and closed my eyes. The head was emthe aroma of pasta and cheese mixed with the smell of snow from the window seeping through the veipty. Not only my head — it seemed as if the whole world has become blank, and I am alone, floating in an endless space, feeling only a painful burning sensation in my left hand. Finally, I dropped my arms to my sides, allowing reality to envelop me from head to toe. The burning passes, opening the door to purified, renewed senses. I’m feeling the fabric of my T-shirt caressing my back, and the linoleum tickling my feet; the aroma of pasta and cheese, mixed with the smell of snow from the window, is seeping through the veil; the clink of plates and the muttering of the TV echoed in my ears…       I’m opening my eyes — muffled smells, sounds and sensations seem to have suddenly been turned up to full power. They are knocking me off my feet in a huge wave, and I’m barely holding on to keep from falling. Fireworks are exploding before my eyes, but then, through the thicket of colored stars, a room flooded with sunset rays appears. For the first time in weeks, I am alone in it.