Possession

by Johnson, A. M.

  Copyright © 2017 by A.M. Johnson

  ISBN: 978-1-5323-3001-8

  Except the original material written by the author, all songs, and song titles contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders. The author concedes to the trademarked status and trademark owners of the products mentioned in this fiction novel and recognizes that they have been used without permission. The use and publication of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Mary Ruth

  Cover model: Dylan Horsch

  Cover photography by R. Dodson Photography

  Editing and Formatting by Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  A Letter to the Reader

  Acknowledgements

  Playlist

  About the Author

  More Titles by A.M. Johnson

  Connect

  To those who can’t stop the voices… paint them, write them—set them free.

  For Sarah S.

  Thank you for giving Declan a paint brush, and let’s always say cheers to our dark days, because without them, the light wouldn’t be as bright.

  I would blow the flame out of your silver cup,

  I would suck the rot from your fingernail,

  I would brush your sprouting hair of the dying light,

  I would scrape the rust off your ivory bones,

  I would help death escape through the little ribs of your body,

  I would alchemize the ashes of your cradle back into wood,

  I would let nothing of you go, ever…

  “The Book of Nightmares”

  Galway Kinnell

  There are real reasons to be afraid. I learned that at a young age. I learned that no matter how hard you pray, or beg God to save you, the Devil sends demons. They whispered in my ear, they formed in my heart, and they walked this Earth as spirits—ghosts. You’d never know it if you saw one. They changed, they shifted, they burned right through you until you were ruined, until you were no longer the man you thought you once were. They scratched, and left you shaking. I’d seen it first-hand as a child, and I’d felt their presence, but it wasn’t until her that these impressions took form, becoming more than just the voices in my head.

  My devil… my curse… had pale blonde hair and a pair of blue eyes that captured my soul with one look. Her one kiss, I’d thought it would last a lifetime…

  It wasn’t until her that I really knew fear, loss, and a fathomless darkness that swallowed me whole. It wasn’t until she possessed me, sank her claws into my flesh, showing me how worthless I could feel, that I found out what it felt like to be truly alone.

  The sun had just set, and the heat was slowly evaporating from the steel of the street lamps, hovering over the surface of the concrete. Summer in the city, it was fucking exhausting. The tattoo shop’s neon sign, Avenues Ink, blinked before it finally blacked out. My older brother, Liam, was still inside cleaning, counting the cash of the day, and working—always working. The bar down the street was already spilling people from its front door. It was only eleven-thirty, but the night owls and the intoxicated jocks had begun to stumble onto the streets. Drunk on easy women and smiling with vodka-tainted lips. It wasn’t my scene, but the bass of Bellows always called to me. The hard thump… thump… thump… quieted the voices, if only for the evening.

  A tall, thin girl in an electric-blue dress giggled as she passed me, and her eyes skimmed the muscles under my shirt. To them I seemed attractive. My blond hair and light eyes, the hours at the gym evident under the sinew, the swirl of ink on my arms, hiding away under the soft cover of cotton. I was a spectacle, and their eyes poured over me like I was a goddamn Rembrandt; unaware of the poison that brewed deep inside the decay of my heart. The dangerous whispers that rotted my brain, and the lost soul that muddied the water blue of my eyes. Ever since her, since Paige, I’d never been the same.

  She isn’t coming.

  The whispers inside my temples had grown louder each day. My mother called Father Hollard last week, and I’d lied to him and said I was fine. He still marked my forehead with oil and murmured some shit under his breath. I’d been forced to do several rosaries that night. It wasn’t until my dad staggered in drunk, smelling of whiskey and stale tobacco that my mother gave me leave. My knees had become sore from kneeling for so long. The memory almost made me rub the now phantom pain from my knees, but I thought better of it.

  The charcoal stained my fingers as I painted my last nightmare across the paper. Dark black eyes met mine from the stiff, white parchment. The building behind the specter crumbled, and one word floated in gray swirls of ink above the brick that I had drawn.

  Paige.

  She isn’t for you.

  Over and over the voice advised me.

  I closed my eyes and listened to the kids mumble outside in the courtyard. I tried to discern words, and separate what was real from the hell that was leaking through my brain.

  My class had about fifteen minutes left of the lunch period. I’d hoped that once I started high school I’d have learned how to hide it better, but the older I got the worse it became. I’d heard voices since I was thirteen, seen things, in life and in dreams, I was sure other kids couldn’t. I’d paint them, bleed them onto paper. It was the only way the toxic thoughts were purged. My mother had said I was possessed, trapped between worlds. My older brother, Liam, said I was just fucking crazy, my father… wasn’t sober enough to care. No one really paid me any mind until my younger brother, Kieran, found me with a noose around my neck. It had taken a failed attempt at death to get their attention.

  Depression with psychotic features was the diagnosis.

  I was psychotic.

  I was rare.

  I was a freak.

  The warning bell sounded and I raised my eyes from the drawing on my lap. Had it really rang? Some of the kids stood and emptied their trays, but the rest still continued to eat—shoving their faces with gossip and idle bullshit. It was then the light of the sun glittered in the way it always did when it caught a glimpse of her. The facets of light shone and drew me, pulled me from my dark world of black inks and sad murals. She painted the world in color, and her pale skin was almost translucent in the mid-da
y sun.

  She isn’t real.

  But she was, of that I was sure. She was lonely like me. The girls around her smiled and laughed and she’d nod her head in agreement. Her eyes gave her away, they were blank, void of real emotion, but every day, she’d gift me a glance, just one, and I’d watch the emptiness of her clear glass eyes fill with a brilliant shade of blue. She’d come alive and today was no different. The voices in my head raged, screamed, and pounded my pulse faster. They told me I wasn’t good enough, told me she was a figment of my imagination, told me I’d never get the chance. They tried to force my eyes shut so I couldn’t see the masterpiece in front of me. I wouldn’t blink. I couldn’t miss out on the moment. The moment when her lips would finally separate into a small, timid smile, and those alabaster cheeks would turn a slight hue of pink.

  She dropped her gaze and the girls around her giggled, never really seeing her, never really understanding how lucky they were to be near her. I kept my eyes on her as I pushed the earbuds deeper into my ears, and pressed play on my hand-me-down mp3 player. The deep bass of the beat drowned out all the voices as I flipped the paper to a blank sheet and began to draw her. I’d buy some colored pencils today, try to make the likeness of her more real. My head was down, and I was sketching her eyes—always her eyes. I hadn’t been prepared.

  A dark silhouette cast on the ground before me and I lifted my head. My voice caught in my throat as she smiled down on me. Her friends were walking toward the building and she pointed to her watch. I removed the earbuds.

  “You’ll be late,” she said and the color in her eyes moved and liquefied under the rays of the sun.

  I nodded.

  “Don’t you speak?” She laughed, it was easy, soft—perfect. “It’s Declan, right?”

  Was she really standing in front of me, or was this my crazy finally raising to a whole new level of fucked. I glanced behind her, and the rest of the students dumped their trays, grabbed their packs, just like every other day, but instead of watching her small frame retreat into the glass building, she stood before me.

  “Come on, Paige.” One of her friends lingered, waiting, looking at me with a frown.

  Her eyes flicked to the paper of my art book and back at me. I’d just barely begun to outline the unearthly pair of eyes and now, seeing the real thing up close, I realized I’d never recreate them, never do them justice. I swallowed and found the courage to look at her, really look at her, each pore—each detail. The hair on the back of my neck stood as she drew her gaze from the paper and her lips tipped down.

  “Those eyes look sad.”

  “They are.” My voice was scratchy from lack of use, and her lips opened with a small smile.

  “Why do you draw such sad things?” she asked as she pushed a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. It was then I noticed her hand was shaking.

  “I just draw what I see.” I draw sadness, evil, hate, love… you.

  Her feet fidgeted inward as her eyes sparked with questions and her brow knotted. “Don’t be late. Mr. Ferris is giving a pop quiz. My friend, Lana, has him first period.” She fought her nerves by biting her lip.

  There were a million things I wanted to say, to ask, but I’d learned the normal social shit. “You can’t just blurt what you’re thinking, little bro.” “Smile, Declan.” “Just say hello, shake hands, and move on.” “Don’t stare.” “Stop whispering.” The words of my family embedded in my brain as I stared at the one thing I’d ever wanted, and I’d never have.

  “Thanks for the heads up.” It sounded normal in my head, and when her lips spread farther I chanced a smile, as well.

  She nodded, and her friend called to her again, my eyes fell from hers to the paper, to the misinterpretation of her eyes. She hesitated for a moment, but once she walked away I raised my head. Her heat still hovered around me, and the smell of clean air filled my lungs.

  It was just as the door to the lunch room shut that I noticed the quiet. Not one word whispered, not one sound rumbled in my thoughts. I’d taken pills for the past year, therapy, priests… but Paige… she silenced them, she brought the still, simple silence with her, and only in her absence would I feel the weight of my depression; the chatter of my demons.

  She’s salvation.

  The bass of the club vibrated in my chest as I sipped from my glass of water. At times I wished I could drink. I wished I could lose myself in a bottle, a glass, a moment, but I’d never be like him, like my father, and the meds I took didn’t mix well with alcohol. Instead, I’d sit in a dark corner and sketch, just like always, just like when I was a kid. My subjects changed. My landscapes more urban. I’d traded beauty for realism. Traded her, for fantasy. Traded reality for fiction. It was open mic night at Bellows. The wannabe hip-hop kings of Salt Lake made an appearance. White boys bred on wealth and luck. The sideways hats, the low-rise jeans—it was hard not to laugh. On occasion, I’d be surprised. Someone with actual talent would grace the stage, and I’d stop what I was doing, catch a glimpse of purity. Tonight the pickings were slim.

  Tonight I cowered in my corner and sketched my latest dream. My work over the years had become darker. Like film noir on paper. The colors chosen were always specific, but the black ink, the slate color of my pencils, they covered the paper with smooth illusions and shadowed flickers of my thoughts.

  Can’t you hear them, they’re whispering.

  As an adult it was easier to ignore the voices and to convince the doctors that I was actually hearing shit. Eventually, I got a new label: Schizoaffective. My meds helped mostly with my depression, but tamed the beast inside my head enough to survive the day-to-day. I felt like a zombie most days, rowing through the motions of life, and I hated it. Lately though, the more I thought about Paige, the more they erupted past my walls of defense I’d spent so many years building.

  I lifted my eyes and scanned the room. Two younger women were sitting at the bar. Their eyes trained on the frat boy on the stage giving some cheesy fucking rendition of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself”. They indeed were whispering, giggling, and smiling at each other as if they had a plan. But, there was only one of him and two of them. My lips twitched with a smirk. Sometimes being an observer wasn’t half bad. The one on the right was tall and curvy with big tits, but she was trying too hard with her red lipstick, low-cut tank top, and short skirt. The other girl was soft, small, and her eyes held a certain sadness I’d seen a lot of in this place. She needed that guy on stage for her own security. Needed him to tell her she was special, to make her feel something other than just being the friend of the girl who always got everything. She’d tell herself she’d never have a chance with Captain Tool Bag on stage because she’d never be easy enough, pretty enough.

  You see the world, Declan… you see it.

  My throat narrowed and my jaw clenched. The voice in my head mocked me with Paige’s words. I was so intent on sifting through my own thoughts that I hadn’t noticed the small, shy girl noticing me. Her smile was tentative as she caught me staring. I didn’t have the heart to drop my gaze, to let her know I wasn’t really looking at her, that I was lost in the haze that was Declan-fucking-O’Connell. I lifted my chin at her and gave her a slight smile. I was polite, if nothing else, and I brought my attention back to the drawing. Her eyes always had a way of showing up in every piece of art I’d created since the day I met her. Whether it was the actual shape, or the color, or just the feeling they’d produced in my soul, they would bloom on the canvas, the paper, my flesh. My pencil stopped moving, and I turned my arm over. Scrolled in thick black ink, the words I’d heard earlier were there… You see the world. The O inside ‘you’ was in the shape of her eye. The ghostly light blue of her iris was the only color I had on my body. The rest of my ink was black or with shades of gray and white.

  I fell into the pupil and let the power of her stare swallow me whole.

  “Do you write comics?” a quiet voice trembled.

  I closed my eyes briefly, just for a second, to gather
myself before raising my gaze. She had a Meat is Murder t-shirt on with tight, dark blue skinny jeans. Her hair was black and shiny under the dim lights of the bar. She was shorter up close, maybe not even five feet.

  “I’m a huge nerd for all things comic book-related.” She bit her glossy lip at the corner and surveyed my drawing.

  I’d barely started it. The alleyway was dark and shaded by nightfall. I’d depicted a looming figure in the background. A set of empty eyes peering from a window. I glanced over her shoulder; her friend had made her move with the shitty watered-down version of Marshall Mathers. He was already standing between her legs, his lips at her ear. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to lose yourself in a stranger. The girl’s smile started to fall as I brought my attention back to her. The overhead music was loud and it took me a minute to find the words.

  “I’m not much of a writer,” I said with little interest in the hope that she’d move along.

  Her small hand rested on the table as she sat in the chair across from me.

  I want to use you to make myself feel better, make my friend jealous.

  I blinked and my eyes landed on her mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “I said is it okay if I have a seat?” Her brows narrowed at the expression on my face.

  The music, the thin layer of e-cigarette smoke, the pungent odor of vanilla all blended together and fucking confused me. Her voice was too reluctant, and I had a hard time hearing her. She was speaking now. The words flowed from rapid lips, but not a sound broke through the anxious ringing in my ears. I began to tap my foot, breathing through the panic. I didn’t talk to people. Just my brothers, just my clients at the tattoo shop.

  “Hey, I think… yeah… you did my brother’s back piece. You work at Avenues Ink, right?” The high keen of her voice broke through the barrier.

  I found myself, gave her a nod and a tight smile. “I do.”

  Her smile broadened and the white of her teeth felt too clean for this place. “I knew I recognized you. What’s your name?” She leaned in, eager for my words.