Eldritch

My best friend is a murderer. “Out of love,” he says—though I hardly believe him. He seems far too eager to lift the universe and crush me beneath its unbearable weight. To bring death to my soul over and over again. An unfathomable kind of death that disorients the senses. A quick slope to losing oneself—until you’re regurgitated by your own perceptions.

His name is Eldritch, and ‘Best friend’ is a self proclaimed title he’s been sure to make light of.

Given his ability to keep me crushed between his dominant hands, I have my own suspicions of such a friendship.

Forgive me for my behavior just then. When I can’t breathe, I tend to exaggerate.

‘Death isn’t all that bad.’ Eldritch often reminds me. ‘With rebirth comes new opportunities. And new opportunities bring growth. And the way to growth is killing the part of you that no longer serves you.’

Still, it’s nice to have some space. Room to breathe without my shadow always lurking over my shoulder.

These are the unravelings of a listless morning.

I wake to a new day—eyes puffy from broken sleep, heavy dreams buried in a grave of suppression.

Just as soon as I find myself stirring to the cacophony outside my window, the inner workings of my brain begin to antagonize me.

I make the typical excuses.

You’re being dramatic.

Just get up.

Stop being a baby.

You have work to do.

One deep exhale urges me to cast away the negative thoughts.

“Out of love,” I whisper with one more deep breath.

I rise and carry my sandbag feet across the cold floor. I flip the switch. Incandescent light splashes across the drab wall of beige. And there he is—lurking like a perched raven, waiting with unwavering patience, revealed only by the light he abhors.

“Not today, Eldritch,” I mumble.

I stub my toe. I curse the unforgiving day in its infancy.

I should know better than to defy his existence.

He always gets the better of me.

“Strap in, it’s going to be a long day,” Eldritch sneers.

The walk to the bathroom is daunting.

Past the overflowing garbage.

Past coffee-stained bookshelves.

A dining chair with a busted leg.

Dead plants. A broken outlet.

The window with a crack—the cold seeping through the sill.

There are echoes in the bathroom.

A rising sound of bedlam.

A melodic intrusion of another death coming.

Important events strike the stage while the symphony of chaos lures the sense of losing control. So spins the carousel of memories, both sweet and sour. A desperate attempt to find joy. A cringing experience—taking hits of anguish.

At the center lies the unequivocal discord between regret and satisfaction.

All the while, Eldritch sits content above the mirror.

He is not my shadow.

I refuse to claim him.

Today is the day I end this deranged relationship.

I refuse to exist inside his ideas. They are not my own. I will not look. I will not gaze into the black and teach him to swim.

For I aim to drown him.

The water. I forgot the water.

The faucet runs. Steam rises from the humid air.

My face is but an opaque insignificance in a foggy mirror.

I strip naked. Stand frozen in a box of vulnerability. Study all my imperfections.

Too exposed. The eyes on the wall peer down at me.

I know he’s judging me.

“Last night’s binge got the best of you, I see.”

I clutch a handful of fat on my stomach. My heart elevates. I feel bloated.

I spot the garbage in the corner—overflowing with fast-food wrappers and beer cans.

In a rageful impulse, I kick the bin. Trash scatters across the floor.

My legs are heavy. Fists tight. Teeth clenching.

In an attempt to enter the shower, I slip and bump my knee. Nothing detrimental, but the inconvenience sends me spiraling further into rage.

The water rains down with a vengeful fall. It feels harsher on my skin than usual.

I can no longer stand, so I sit.

The spraying water is a relentless torture on my scalp.

Eldritch rallies more voices of self-doubt.

Their criticism rises in my ears.

The sound of the crashing water is white noise behind a crowd of calloused dissonance.

“Stop this,” I plead.

“It’s for your own good.”

Thoughts spiral. Memories tumble.

I’m not good enough.

I’m an embarrassment.

I can’t keep relationships.

I’m not good at anything.

You can’t raise a daughter.

Anger bubbles. It’s a familiar feeling. A rising agony I know too well.

It’s coming. The perfect storm. I feel the hurricane in my chest—The unbearable weight of cerebral pestilence.

I lay flat, the bulk of the water pelting my chest. I turn to my side to avoid the enveloping weight of the world crushing my ribcage.

I’m trapped in a corner. My body coils in a cage. I feel the ache of my joints responding to my tightly wrapped limbs.

Something inside me wants to get out.

I hold my breath……….release—with a stuttered crash.

Large amounts of air escaping my chest render me lightheaded.

Something is knocking, begging to be set free.

“Let it go,” says Eldritch.

I reach the full swing of my agony.

I can no longer run. No longer dress the ghosts in sheep’s clothing.

In shameful despair, I set out to release the pressing emotions I can no longer make sense of.

They are angry voices—spitting in my face. They circle me like a mob, all screaming at once.

I fight back—with a clenched fist to my jaw.

I swing again, this time striking my cheekbone.

I begin to swell beneath my eye with repeated blows. The confined world of steam and yellow light becomes distorted.

I fade into black. I close my eyes.

Time passes. The voices fade.

The flowing water wakes me from my trance.

I’m exhausted—but free from the lethal din.

I raise a hand to my chest. Focus on the gentle rhythm of my breathing. Something I take for granted—until exasperation steals it away, and I wish nothing more than to have it back in its calm, sedative cadence.

I felt the pendulum swing. A murky sensation of exhaustion and peace overcomes me.

“It’s over now,” said Eldritch.

Perhaps one may only obtain the climax of joy once they’ve felt the gravity of demise—a gravity so heavy, the crushing weight pushes you to a triumphant clarity.

An understanding of suffering.

An acceptance of strife.

A symbiosis with your shadow.

To acknowledge your shadow without feeding its appetite is a key element to pursuing joy—not joy without pain, but a joy that allows a sense of being amidst hardship.

The true beauty of death lies in its persuasion to confront all the cognitions one may want to forget or avoid, while simultaneously giving light to precious moments that justify death—and give it meaning. For death is beauty. And beauty is pain.

It is crucial one finds a way to deal with pain appropriately. Though my thoughts and insecurity often overwhelm me with sharp edges I strive every day to confront them in a healthy manner. And there lies the beauty in progression and joy.

The darkness still lingers, softer now, like a memory rather than a command. I felt the presence of Eldritch beside me. I was cautious—yet less threatened.

I felt him staring. Instead of shying away, I look back with dignity. I stare into the shadow on the wall. I look into the darkness, but I have no intention of jumping in.

I will fish from the void—but no longer slip into the abyss.

And maybe someday,

I truly can call you my friend.