Falter Kingdom (24 page)

It kind of makes sense that Nikki got the longest death spell, or whatever you want to call it. I'll go with that. But yeah...

I'd say that it's sad, how her life will fall in line only to kind of fall to ashes, but I have to believe that she made it that way. It's all based on choices, trusting your instincts, you know? And it's kind of the same as anyone else—they're so afraid of and fascinated by “demons” that they forget that we can create a darker and more disturbing demon just by running away from our problems. Hmm...

Yeah. It's really like that for most people.

We're all going to die.

But we don't have to die alone.

Father Albert and Becca hold hands in prayer, while Father Andrew explains to Dad how I had been terrorizing others. “It's an indication of severity,” Father Albert says. But that doesn't really say anything.

They've strapped me down to my bed.

Dad still can't get past the fact that my room has been stripped clean. Father Andrew doesn't have any real answers. And I'm not going to say anything. You won't either, because by now, I'm beginning to see that there is no “plural” version. We are the same. And I mean that in the best possible way.

Never have to be alone again, unless I want to.

Dad shakes his head. “I don't understand how even half of this is possible!”

Father Andrew explains, “Your son is in the latter stages of possession. There are three stages: infestation, oppression, and possession. Your son's condition has quickly risen from oppression to possession.”

Father Albert and Becca chant prayers.

Dad asks, “Have you seen anything like this?”

Father Andrew nods. “Not exactly, but something similar, yes. I have witnessed full demonic possession. Typically, the human host falls into a coma and the demon assumes the role.”

Dad says, “He... he was in school days ago, healthy as usual. He's going to graduate soon. I... oh my god.”

“But what's incredibly puzzling about your son's case has to do with the fact that the body itself should be in tatters. In all accounts, your son should not be of the living.”

“Jesus.” Dad buries his face in his hands.

“I've never witnessed this before. However, if I do say so myself, it is more encouraging than tragic. Perhaps your son is still trapped in this body.”

“I hope. I hope so.”

Father Andrew gestures toward the far side of the room, where the other two remain standing, praying and chanting. “Please, join them. We need as many prayers as possible.”

Dad joins them.

You join me.

Be strong.

Wait, what are you implying? I'm sensing that you're hesitating...

Father Andrew, he knows not what he's summoning. He needs to stop. Be strong.

He...

Hold on to the clearest image you can see. What do you see?

I see a field... at dawn. A car parked by itself. Someone... sitting on the hood of the car, looking at something in the distance, can't see what.

Hold on to that image. It will help.

Okay.

Do not let go of the image.

Father Andrew approaches the bed.

Keep your eyes closed. Do not open them.

Father Andrew places a hand on my forehead. It stings, scalding to the touch.

Be vigilant. Be strong.

Father Andrew blesses the bed, my body, holding a rosary in his right hand. He opens up his copy of the Bible but doesn't read from its pages. Instead, Father Andrew recites prose of his own, what I guess he wrote for this exorcism. It goes on for whole paragraphs, recited in weird intonations, like he's traded in his voice for someone else's.

Be strong.

But there won't be any party. No one is in attendance. No one cares about me anymore. No one will be toasting to my newfound “health.” If anything, I'll be drinking to drown a new loss. I can't lose a friend, and they can't make me.

Be strong. Be vigilant.

Father Andrew begins with the guttural commands.

“The power of Christ compels you!”

Becca and Dad and Father Albert in the corner praying.

Be strong.

I can feel the skin on my face beginning to boil.

“The power of Christ compels you!”

The prayers continue. They don't stop.

I feel the room around me turning, stretching thin.

“The power of Christ compels you!”

The room gets warmer, the cold starting to leave. The warm cuts through my skin, making it feel like my skin has grown thin. I think I'm bleeding, but I can't be sure.

Be strong. Be vigilant. Hold on to the image.

I am. I am holding on.

You mustn't speak.

My mouth is stitched closed. I can't say anything.

“The power of Christ compels you!”

I can feel my body start to separate at the joints.

Be strong. Be vigilant.

I know that it's imagined. It's an inner force that tries to take back as much of this body as possible. But it makes me think about Becca. Like I can see her for who she really is, and I maybe start to think that I was wrong to break up with her. Maybe I was wrong to haunt her. Maybe it was all wrong... She actually does care for me and just tries really hard to make the best decision for me.

Hold on to the image. Be strong. Push all inflicted emotions away.

I am.

“The power of Christ compels you!”

It makes me think about Mom and Dad.

They live separate lives and maybe that's okay. I'm their son. I'm still their son, no matter what. Even if they aren't really there, they still put a roof over my head. They still get me the things that I need. I never needed a job, you know, because I got some kind of allowance. It's embarrassing, but maybe they really work all the time to pay for the things they actually give me. Maybe I was wrong...

Keep to the image. Hold on to it. Be strong. Push all inflicted emotions away.

I am...

“The power of Christ compels you!”

It makes me think about Brad and Jon-Jon and Nikki.

Maybe I'm the one who's been fake and too hard on Brad. He's just a guy who really wants to get along with the people around him. Maybe I was wrong... maybe he really does care and just has a weird way of showing it. Maybe he's just depressed, really depressed. Maybe...

And Jon-Jon's just a fickle person; he's worse off than most. Maybe he acts all like a gangster because he doesn't know what else to do. Maybe I was wrong to think that he's horrible...

Like Nikki, they're just as confused and lost in their relationships. They're, like, confused about how to meet people and they are more confused about how it seems more impossible the older they get. And they're young. We're all young. But already it feels like meeting and making real, true friends is as crazy as thinking we can figure people out with one look.

Maybe I'm getting it all wrong...

Push all inflicted emotions away. Hold on. Be strong.

. . .

“The power of Christ compels you!”

It makes me think about Blaire.

How she was always there, standing to the side, watching. She's always been there, ever since we were kids confused by how we couldn't just play kickball with the other during recess. They didn't let us, so we sat on the side, watching. Not a part of things. Just people on the side, not really there, the real attention on the kids in the game... What happens to the people who never get looked at? I can barely see Blaire, but she's been around longer than almost everyone else I know. She's been there more than my mom and dad. Maybe I wasn't looking in the right direction...

Maybe
I
was too busy watching people playing kickball, the people who I wanted to be friends with because they were popular. People who I had nothing in common with and nothing at all to really offer. Just kids, people, thinking that being around them would make me a better person.

I've been wrong...

Be strong. Push all inflicted emotions away. The image, remain there, on the hood of the car.

. . .

“The power of Christ compels you!”

Be strong. Push all inflicted emotions away.

It makes me think about the first dream, when we first met at the kitchen table.

You looked just like me.

You spoke just like me.

You thought just like me.

But you weren't me. At least not until later.

You remained around, like anyone else. But we got along. In videos we watched and tricks we played, we became fast friends. It's the one reason I have that makes me certain that I'm better for being your friend. It's like we're close enough friends now that we're living the same life. It's all the same, shared, joined, and it's not weird, awkward, or anything like that. We're just like anybody else. But we're good friends. Really good friends.

Indeed, friend.

“Leave!”

I want to hold on to the image, but it's too bold. I can feel my body shaking, spasming, and the spit in my mouth is boiling hot, foaming. I'm a wreck and I don't know how to fight back.

What is happening to me?

It tastes sour, the spit and bile that comes up from my throat.

It's like I want to say something but I don't know what.

And I'm having trouble hearing you. It's like I'm back to wondering if you're really there...

Are you there?

“Leave him be!”

I... I... something's pulling my grip loose.

There are tears dripping from my eyes. They go into my mouth and I taste copper. It's then that I get that it's blood—blood from my eyes.

Skin tearing, wounds bleeding, all across my body.

I...

. . .

“Leave! By the power of Christ, leave His son!”

I...

Hold on! Be strong!

. . .

. . .

“Be gone!”

. . .

. . .

. . .

They have inflicted a grave pain upon this body. Wilted, much like having been run over by a vehicle, the priest exhales, wipes sweat from his brow. The support network spouting prayers continues, though they have far surpassed fear and trepidation. It is now that they fail to understand what is going on, the gravity of performing an exorcism on a being that is one spirit.

We were one in the same. The priest's prayers and commands have torn us, loosening a grip on the actual.

I must use what energy I have left to silence the prayers, silence the commands.

I draw from every energy source, rendering the room, the house, the entire block a cascade of complete darkness.

Never have to be alone. A friend is always there, waiting to help.

The body must be healed. The body has withered, the body is in poor shape.

The one thing you say before disappearing in the dark of the room is what they are all able to hear so clear and plain:

“Hunter's gone.”

And then you are.

Into the kingdom you roam. But you needn't worry. I will find you. When I find you, I will make sure that we shall never falter. Be strong, my friend. In the kingdom, you are incapable of the being's truest needs. Be strong, for the kingdom may break you.

I won't be long. I'm right here with you.

13

WITH ITS LAST OUNCE OF ENERGY, THE BODY WALKS
with buckling knees and a trail of blood, collapsing in the backyard of Blaire's residence.

Blaire is an interesting individual.

Years of history, a true friend.

“I can count on you.” It is repeated so that Blaire might fathom what has happened. The body being what it is, she is able to take it indoors, letting it rest on the guest bed, where there is a discussion, quick, frank, and mutual.

“I trust you. Do you trust me?”

Blaire understands.

Blaire, in tears, understands what has happened.

She nods. “Can you save him?”

“I must have your trust.” The body needs to rest. The body needs a hiding spot. The body must not be found by the priests and those who have only inflicted near-fatal wounds to its form.

“You can trust me,” Blaire says. “You can always trust me.”

Perhaps that is all that is needed, and yet, there must be more.

“Hold my hand.”

Blaire glances down at the yellowed skin, the brittle bones, but there isn't a single fleck of fear. Hand held, Blaire looks into my eyes, and the image, the conditions, the location, the need, everything is given to Blaire.

It could only happen if the trust was real.

Blaire invited me in.

Blaire made no assumptions about the nature of the invitation.

Single blink, Blaire understands.

“You have to help him,” Blaire says, and shivers.

With hand held, there is a physical, corporeal link.

“Good night.” It is said not to end things but rather to begin again.

With hand held, Blaire looking into both eyes, she is given the truth to the legend. The kingdom has no name. It maps to wherever there is empty space to fill. The kingdom is far yet close, near enough to explore, yet impossible to master. The kingdom is everywhere when human eyes are closed, shut out from the realm that makes pain possible.

The legend of Falter Kingdom, which had been given the name by the various graduating classes that have frequented the site before moving on to forget, exists as a touchstone for the many who travel too far.

Be it human.

Be it “demon.”

It is just a place with some history.

Anything with enough foreboding and energy will be a place where the conditions of corporeal things fail to apply.

But at the same time, it depends on the viewer.

It depends on whether there's enough trust. With enough trust, the veil of skepticism can be pulled and the full reveal is given, much like it is given to Blaire before leaving.

Blaire holds on to the hand, holds on to the body, long after I go searching. The search lasts a split second, and yet it might feel as much as fifty years to the human subject if the level of trust is low.

Body hidden, I must go. It won't last long.

I will find you. And later a new body will find us.

Blaire understands, as much as one who has held a demon before is able to understand. I understood this upon my first sighting of her.

Blaire does not want to let go.

She speaks: “Don't leave me.”

She was haunted, but during the haunting, the demon had lost interest. The demon had left, and in such a departure, a human is left forever lonely, missing a key part of herself, perhaps never to be recovered.

She remains amiss, so I let her stay. It isn't so much as an offer as it is a plea. She has seen it—the kingdom, like the world of the living, is full of promise. Demons make mistakes too. Demons are needed as much as a human. To be wanted is to look for what was lost.

She found you. She found us.

As long as Blaire holds on, all will be okay.

Blaire does not die. It is my promise to you. She does not die.

She walks on, footsteps later to be heard by you.

See you soon.