I can’t see him, not really, but I know he is there. The man.

​

A year or two ago, a disease began spread among my friends. And before you jump to any conclusions it wasn’t Covid or tonsilitis or any sort of flu. No, it was an army of men. A powerful army you cannot see and you cannot hear but you can feel. The men weigh heavy as they work, turning your insides blue and your mind grey. An uncontrollable, unimaginable force that I never expected to cause quite so much damage.

​

The men enraptured my friends as if by magic and drew them into their comfortable darkness. A one-way path down an unlit alleyway. It was secretive and silent and, by the time I noticed, the men already had full control.

​

I hurried around begging for answers. My sanctuary had been invaded and was now overrun with shadows and a lingering sense of decay. I couldn’t understand it, I couldn’t control it and I couldn’t heal it. I fought and I loved and I cared as hard as I could but it never felt like enough.

 

One day, after all this fighting, I felt a new presence. I don’t remember when it was exactly but I do remember that he rested lightly above my head like a halo. His arms were widespread and hopeful, his smile kind. He offered me shelter and protection and control. I’m afraid it was an offer I simply couldn’t refuse.

 

I knelt to the floor and begged the man for his solace. In that moment the darkness was still dark but it felt new and different. There was promise of reassurance and advice and relief from the pain. So, I lay complacent and still, as the man took mercy and burrowed his way inside my head.

 

At first, I barely noticed he was there. He was like when you get a new haircut; a change so subtle you forget about it until you look in the mirror. He was like that moment when you finally have the courage to snip off those extra inches and realise maybe short hair suits you a whole lot better. It felt natural and it felt good- at least at the beginning.

 

Back then, it was rare that the man would take over your body. Mostly it would be in the eyes. ‘Eyes are the windows to your soul,’ a lot of people say and I guess they are sort of right. Even though my smile would be extra wide, I could never make my eyes shine bright. They remained lifeless among a backdrop of colour as the man dominated my soul- a reminder of my deal with the devil.

 

Later the man started to grow. He began to weigh down my muscles and bones. I could feel his sticky, slimy hands and his cold skin melting into mine. My body began to feel alien, and my thoughts became strangers.

 

After a while me and the man fused to become one and the same.

 

I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want anybody to know what I had done and who I had become. All this sacrifice for just a little comfort. I was pathetic.

 

Sometimes people would check in. Friends would check if you were okay and that the men hadn’t got you too. When that happened, there’d be a small whisper in my ear. One of selfpity and discouragement. The whisper would be so compelling and appear so logical that I’d have no choice but to accept it. Staying silent simply felt like the right thing to do.

 

The whispers started out small. They weren’t very often and incredibly quiet- like listening to someone breathing next to you in a silent room. Not overpowering but simply there, grabbing your attention. I couldn’t help but listen. Their soft sounds were inviting and exciting and I followed each one through without a second thought.

 

Over time these whispers shifted and warped my perception of the world. They would point out how my smile looked more like a frown and how my stomach rolled over my jeans. They would remind me of all the mistakes I’ve made and all the people I’ve hurt and how nothing I did or said would ever be good enough to fix it.

 

I used to carry rose-tinted glasses around with me. I’d look up to the sky and it would be a brilliant blue. That brilliance was gone now: stolen, smashed, and thrown into deep, murky water by the whispers of the man.

 

Under the dull, grey sky I would see things. New things I hadn’t seen before. A roll of the eyes when I opened my mouth, a judging eye watching me as I walked. The man told me that it was because nobody liked me much. He sung it into my ear, soft and sweet, like an angel. These were some of my favourite people in the world and I didn’t want to listen. I shut my ears and closed my eyes and rocked back and forth for hours and hours, blocking out the man’s words.

 

But he was relentless and, ultimately, more powerful. The man was me and I was him. We were connected and I was helpless against his wrath. So, one day, I couldn’t fight anymore. My hands had grown shaky and legs were weak. So, I stopped rocking.

 

It got louder. The whispers became low mutters. The mutters became raised voices. The raised voices became screams and shouts so deafening and wholeheartedly brain-splitting that I was paralysed.

 

I couldn’t do anything. So, the man did it for me.

 

The man had arrived with a promise to help me be in control. He had offered me protection.

 

So why was that familiar, drowning feeling back?

That feeling of being completely and utterly helpless.

Why do I feel so alone?

More vulnerable and exposed than ever before.

​

On the ground I lay; screaming, shaking, sweating as I begged the man to leave. I told him of prosperous lands and new territories that he should leave to conquer. My throat was slowly closing up, the noose growing tighter and tighter around my neck.

 

I tried more brutal methods. I tried to sleep him off. When that didn’t work, I tried to drink him to an incoherent stupor. Each time, the man would bounce back with more power than before, punishment for my betrayal. I tried to starve him out and cut him out and, yet; he stayed.

 

I lost track of time. I started to feel remorse. These desperate acts felt violent and harsh. Removing the man became a crime of treason I was both unable and unwilling to commit.

 

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t articulate my thoughts or move my muscles where they were meant to go. My mind was grey and my insides blue.

 

So, one day, after fighting in so many ways for so long. I lay on my bed. I propped my head against the pillow and kicked off my shoes.

 

And I gave up. I gave up fighting the man.

Instead, I prayed.

I prayed that one day, if I really tried hard enough,

In a day,

or a month,

or ten years,

maybe the man won’t ever return.