I recently had a very interesting experience. I suddenly woke in the middle of the night and saw my bedroom door slowly eek open. I tried to shout, thinking it was one of my children, to tell them to go back to bed, but my voice died in my throat. I couldn’t move my body and I was covered in a painful, numb, pins-and-needles sensation that I couldn’t shake off. The door was now ajar, and standing in the doorway was the shape of a man. He was walking with wide strides but he wasn’t moving, as if he were on a treadmill, floating slightly above the floor. He was very slowly coming toward my bed, but I couldn’t make out any of his features, he looked like a swarm of flies. I felt tremendous fear as if I were trapped inside of a corpse and my skin was full of solid cement. It was likely that I had left the front door open by accident again, but no matter how many times it happens, it’s always scary when a strange man enters your house while you’re asleep.
He jumped and drifted into the air, his body scrunched up like a bad drawing, and then his legs slowly extended, the heels of his shoes aimed toward my chest. He was falling like this for what felt like five minutes, and when he finally made contact with my chest, I felt intense pressure. My thoughts raced a thousand times faster than the physical world around me, and every microsecond of pain was outstretched in front of me. His shoes sank into my chest like a hydraulic press, and my shoulder blades cut through my skin, stabbing into the wooden floorboards underneath the bed.
I was pinned in place, and he proceeded to enter me. It felt like a great big thing crawling all over me. I was suffocated by a hot, foul smell of rotten oranges and sour milk, but when you regularly have sex with men, middle aged men, old men, disgust goes hand in hand with it. This experience wasn’t really too different from normal, and I could feel myself start to relax. Like a glass being filled with black milk, I could feel rats scramble inside my body, their claws popping out through the ends of my finger pads.
The next week, I arose from my satin tomb undisturbed, surrounded by a positive aura of scent-boosting laundry beads. My erotic, demonic entanglement had been so sensorily vivid that I felt as if my brain had been pierced, and I was walking around with it stitched to me like a shadow. Sex with other men just wasn’t scratching the itch; it’s always like, yeah well kind of but not exactly like that... I suppose that comes with being a Queen, raising a family, having excellent interest rates on my ISA, maintaining a perfect house, and doing it all in high heels. Therefore, I find it very difficult to respect anyone else. Although I had let the chores build up, I have to confess, and childminding ended up taking a bit of a backseat. My general relationships with my children definitely need some work. I had a spat with a few of them a couple of weeks ago because I am just honest to a fault and wear my heart on my sleeve. I just wish my children weren’t so heteronormative, is that such a crime? That I wish for my children to paint with all the colours of the wind? Now is the time to experiment and get away with it, and I feel jealous of the gay children that other mums have at school. My children are obviously not neurotypical, but the NHS simply can’t be bothered to diagnose children with personality disorders, so I suppose we’ll just let the BPD and psychopathy fester and mature then. Thank you ever so much. Jehovah, my third son, is most likely to be the gay one as he compliments me sometimes, but he threatened to go and live with my ex-husband when I tried to calmly explain to him that I would appreciate him wearing my nice shoes around the house. Anyway, a few of them are choosing not to speak to me, which is alright as it leaves me some space to pursue my own interests. Hashtag no filter problems.
I’ve tried a few different methods to trigger my hallucination again, like getting really drunk or making myself dehydrated. I’ve tried to focus really hard on my problems, but the anxiety just doesn’t seem to stick. I wanted that feeling of being innocent, with my desires completely out of my hands. They’re bad, and I’m so so good, but setting up that situation in reality, unfortunately, has baggage and consequences. I booked some time off work at Superdrug to experiment with some more rigorous methods. I thought about making some kind of chemical potion with the bottles under the kitchen sink, but I don’t want to give myself brain damage or accidentally kill myself. I could probably eat laundry powder or dishwasher crystals, and I have thought about that often, but I think that would be more of just a fun sensory experience. When the children came home from school, I shouted at them for their less-than-empathetic huffs toward me and I shoved them into their rooms, locking the doors but ensuring they had their Nintendo Switches to keep them occupied. I reckon just one more rigorous attempt would stop this niggling irritation, and I could get back to normal.
I lit some candles for a sexual atmosphere, turned the lights off, and took my jeans and knickers off, as I don’t think a ghost can undo buckles or zips. I put a thick bag for life over my head, doubled over an elastic band around my neck, and lay down on the sofa. After a couple of minutes, I got short of breath and kind of lightheaded. I reckoned that if I tore it off a few seconds before I passed out, that would probably do the trick. My eardrums swelled and felt like they were about to explode. My eyes rolled back into my head so I could see my little pink brain. I felt my survival instinct whimper inside my body, and when I could hear it speak, I took my index finger to pry the rubber band around my neck loose, but the Chinese glue I use for my press-ons made my nail pop off. I felt too weak to move and had that dead muscle feeling all over me. I felt like I did last summer when, on an adult’s camping trip, I accidentally spilled a whole bottle of poppers on the floor of my tent. Like a magician’s cloth being placed over my head and whipped away, I disappeared off the face of the earth.
I woke up a bit later being joggled and shouted at by my brother in law, my sister must’ve let themselves in. Both of them looked horrified, but it was quite funny to have my fanny out on full display in front of him with my uglier sister looking on from across the room. I wonder if that little show has had any permeating consequences between their sheets. I tried to tell them, like, Oh , a man came into the house and tried to kill me, he took my trousers and knickers off as well! But I don’t think they believed me,
"I don't believe you," my sister said tearfully, pacing in and out of the room.
Their disbelief was very annoying; it felt incredibly rude in my own home.
"Claire," Bill began, taking my hand gently, "If you needed help, you could have reached out. You've raised several perfect children and live in a beautiful home, it’s seriously an amazing house and the DIY work you’ve done in the bathroom looks as if it was done by a professional; it's hard to imagine what could cause you to be depressed, which means it must be serious."
I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but the special attention I have since been receiving since my ‘suicide attempt’ have completely soothed the frustrations I had with my own children, and my demonic sexual desires. Everything always works out perfectly for me.