Colin Has His Demons
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Three to be exact. They are following me now, taking great enjoyment from tripping me up, shoving me over the one who’s snuck behind, snickering on all fours as I topple backward.
People think I’m clumsy or drunk. In the café, they swap the sugar for salt, collapse into fits when I spit out my tea. I christen my demons Gaspar, Melchior, Balthasar.
They scupper every position I apply for, gurning in my eyeline behind the interviewer, dropping their trousers to fart in unison– the tuning of a foul orchestra. I receive no offers.
At the tube station they block the train doors, prevent me from boarding, jump off as they close. We stand on an empty platform, staring dumbly into the tunnel. They imitate the train’s receding hoot like a pack of idiot wolves.
We return home late. They abuse strays, upend wheelie bins. Neighbours twitch at their curtains: Here he comes. Pissed again. I grab Balthasar’s lapels, scream into his face: “Leave me alone!” This is the best thing they’ve ever heard.
My demons rattle each other, taking turns to lampoon, though their slit tongues will not flit or roll to form the human words. Their mockery delivered in feral barks, wet hisses, accordion laughter.
My demons barge through the entrance to the flats, swipe pictures from walls, trample glass frames. My demons have their routine. We sit on the sofa, four crammed onto three seats. Melchior offers me a beer.
The can of lager spurts into my face, and they roar again, slapping me on the back. This is one of their favourites. They like to shake the cans up, but my demons do not drink. Gaspar snatches the remote control, flicks through every channel,
settles for soft porn. This is when they play with themselves. I clamp my eyes shut but cannot blot out the grim competition of their deranged strumming. Finally, stretching and yawning, they decide it’s bedtime.
Two to my left, one to the right, I’m straitjacketed. They hog the quilt, swipe my pillow; break wind, fight. Then the tortuous choir of their snoring, lungs whistling like fucked bagpipes. I haven’t slept in months.
Enough’s enough. When they think I am dozing I spring from the bed, scramble for the window. Howling at such betrayal, their claws rake my back as I leap, ditching my demons for the accepting dark.
Wake wired in a blinding ward. The clamour of machines. A nurse checks my vital signs, reports I’m still alive. I cannot move. The grinning faces of my demons loom–
a three-headed beast eclipsing the artificial light.