No Harm Must Come

You pull the curtain back, look out the window. It’s a street view, the road below slick with spent rain. You smell the rain, like rust. Caught in the light from a streetlamp overhead, a single moth filters in and out of the saturated light, the faint ping from its finite frame hitting the glass emanates softly through the still streets, its pockmarked shadow cast below, stretched across the sleek cars and puddled road. You watch the little bug, its simplistic beauty.

You lean back on the bed and rub the eyes with thin knuckles. Small crusts in the corners flake away. You look to the hands. They’re small, youthful. You feel good. This being is back, for the moment. Back in this place, this place in time.

You move the hands to your sides and feel the cushion of the bed. It’s soft. You’ve forgotten comfort. You only remember darkness. And pain, pain from the place you’ve been, that place of torment you dread to return to. But here, you’re free of pain. The body will feel pain, but not you. The only pain you will feel is from the scorched memory of your last visit. The scorched memory of Saundra, with her delicate hands much like these. And her dark chestnut eyes. Her hard eyes. No shit taken. You long for her already.

You shake it off and sit up on the edge of the bed, preparing yourself for the work ahead, this job you must do. Possession is not a job for everyone, not even yourself, but it’s your job, it’s what you do. It’s what you have to do. So you fight through the pain and endure, as always.

The room is small, simple. There’s the bed, a nightstand beside it to the right, a lamp resting on the corner of it, that window arched above. There’s an oak dresser pushed up against the wall across the way, a closet to the left, the cream-colored walls covered in pictures of sportsmen wearing helmets and holding bats with a bevy of balls tumbled about, faces blurred, mutated together, the faces of a thousand different men. All the same.

You think of your last visit, of that man’s face you once wore, grizzled and worn. He worked for U.P.S. That you remember clearly, the painted picture of that time hardened in place. His name is lost, but not the job. You always remember the job, inside your own. And this last one is burned there, because this job, his job, supported Saundra. So you keep your mind there, and think about the United Postal Service.

The United Postal Service is an interesting concept. Something that’s somewhat new to you. You understand that correspondence is important. Always has been. You understand that. But how intricate it is, how vast and expanding, is something that remains with you still, even after all this time. You think about those intricacies. You think about delicate hands wrapping a gift. Small hands. Not unlike your own now. Or Saundra’s. You think about those hands carefully placing the gift in a box, taping it tight. Secure. This gift is precious. This gift must not be harmed. Fingernails click together as a post-it stamp is pulled from a smooth pine coffee table. A red tongue licks the stamp. A thumb presses down on the stamp as it’s placed in the corner of the box. The box is ready to go, cradled in the crook of an arm, black lint from a sweater catching the edge. Then it’s placed on a cement patio where it awaits its destiny.

Time passes.

The box is clutched in meaty hands, the skin coarse, black hairs on the knuckles. The box is raised in these rough hands, leaving the confines of the patio, tossed in the back of a truck with a dozen other boxes, all different shapes and sizes, but resembled in the likeness of this one lone box, all the same somehow. Like the faces of the men with their bats and their balls and their helmets and their frowns. The truck rumbles along, more boxes tumbling in, tossed carelessly inside. The truck keeps steadily ahead, the box on its way to its unknown destination. The box doesn’t care where it’s going, the box is indifferent. The box simply moves along.

Steam sticks to the window pane in a thin film. It’s cold out, but warm inside this room. You’re thankful for the warmth. You’ve missed it, and this place. The warmth brings you back to the U.P.S. truck again, to those boxes stuffed back there, huddled together. You think about the man driving the truck. You miss being him. You miss his life with his simple family, his kids and his two dogs, and Saundra. You’re not sure why you feel this way. Maybe it’s the lost time, the centuries wearing you down, but there it is, there’s Saundra with you, always now. And you miss her, and the way she used to look at you. Or more accurately, him. Regardless, you miss it, the looks she gave. And you miss staring back at her. You miss seeing through the lenses of that man. But he’s long gone, and here you are now, in this person with the tiny hands.

You pry yourself from the edge of the bed and walk over to the dresser, looking back in the mirror resting on top. You stare at the face for a while, disgusted, disappointed. You’re a hideous child, about ten to twelve years old, a hideous little boy. And now you’re stuck here with him. Stuck here to do your job. You sigh and move back to the bed, then clock in, and slowly take over.

It’s a process, this job. It has to be slow at first, a gradual turn. You can’t let on from the start, which is a shame because everything inside you screams to just get it over with and move on. You no longer take any joy in this work. There was a time when you did, but now it just seems redundant, and cruel. This is no longer a job for you. Yet here you are.

One of the first things you do is piss your pants at school. That’s a classic. They bring the parents in and tell them that you’ve been acting strange of late. The parents agree. They take you to therapy. The therapist asks how you feel. You tell him to go fuck his mother. You don’t continue with therapy.

You start to feel comfortable with the new body. It feels good to be youthful again. But you can’t really enjoy it for too long, the kid’s sick. The kid has a disease. The disease is you. But every day you get more and more comfortable. And when the parents and others look at you with trepidation, a sense of reproach hidden behind the stares, you can’t help but revel in it. You’re good at your job.

Days pass, the time with it.

You fit inside this little person more and more, growing accustomed to it, like a tailored suit. The skin and flesh belong to you. And you embrace the affliction you bring to everyone around this poor creature, wearing them down little by little, jabbing at them, a ‘fuck you’ dropped here and there, a stream of vomit on occasion. Everyone grows worried, concerned, and you simply sit back and laugh as they try desperately to help the little bastard, because no one ever thinks about you inside, do they? No one ever considers that: you. So all their efforts are ill-fated, energy flushed away. And you just can’t help but chuckle at it all. 

One day you possess the kid’s toys and his assortment of sporting goods. You watch them float about the room, the parents screaming in terror as they enter, pulling at their hair, clawed hands covering mouths, frustrated and frightened, unable to grasp the staidness of the situation. Then the next day you cover the walls in blood. And you can tell the parents have had enough, because then the priest comes.

It’s always just a matter of time before they give in to the reality of what’s actually happening to them, but by the time they do, it’s too late. So you let them scramble as you sit back and enjoy the show. But this time is different. This time just doesn’t feel the same. There’s something missing, and you’re not sure what that something is. You don’t want to harm the boy, but you have no choice in the matter. Everything has already been set in motion. So you brook the disquiet, and carry on.

You watch the priest run his routine, his little dance, his magic trick. And yeah, it stings. And yeah, it burns, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. It’s just part of the job. So you let him sear this little boy’s flesh with each splash of tainted water. You let him bleed the kid’s ears with each passing sentence he bellows from his big book clutched in his trembling hands. And you can feel the push coming. You can feel the harm.

You move back to Saundra. You try to go back to those few days spent together before you really had to go to work. They were nice days, lovely days. Lazy days spent lying around the house or at a park, watching the kids and the dogs run and play and laugh. You remember grocery shopping with the family, making dinner together at night. All smiles. The perfect family. Then you clocked in and ruined everything. But those first few days, those early auspicious days, those are cauterized in the back of your skull, and there they will remain. And your only wish is to go back there, be back there with Saundra. But that’s just simply not the case. There’s no probability of that ever happening. You’re here now, and you have to do your job.

The flaming water hits the face and chest. You curse the priest. You curse his family and his God. You call him a whore, and tell him that his father sucks cocks. But he carries on, shouting from his big book as he flicks that filthy water. And you’re okay with it. You understand. You understand that he too has a job to do. And he seems to be pretty good at his job, because you feel the push again, and you realize that you’re running out of time.

You cling onto Saundra while you’re still here. You remember sitting in that little restaurant in the city, her red glittered dress sparking in the candlelight. Make-up overdone. Hair stiff with product. You remember her sending back the Fettuccine Alfredo and scolding the waiter. You can see her yelling at the manager, cheeks puffed, face reddened. She’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Then she gets the meal comped, and you’ve never been more in love.

The little boy screams and writhes in pain, and you’re brought back. The priest whips that water. Smoke sputters up from the little boy’s chest, the smell of burnt flesh filling the room. The mother and father hide behind the door frame, stuck in the hall, shivering with fright, tears hung in their eyes. You laugh at their cries. You don’t agree with the laughter, but it comes out effortlessly, so you keep on laughing, your heart breaking all the while at the pain strung in their disconcerted faces. They just want their little boy back.

They’ll have him. Soon enough, they’ll have him.

You think about their lives without you, moving on, absent of you. You wonder how those lives will turn out. You wonder if this conflict will bring them closer somehow, and the role you played in that. You see them living long, happy lives. You see them grow old, watching their son win sporting awards and graduating high school and college with honors. He gets a good job at a firm in the city. He marries, has children. The children grow up to be happy and healthy. And none of them ever speak of you. They try and forget the tragedy that struck their lives so long ago. They try and forget about you.

The push comes again. This priest knows what he’s doing. Times almost up.

You feel the weight of sorrow for the family you’re currently tormenting. You feel sorry for this little boy that you have scarred. But maybe that’s the only way you will remain, remembered only by the scars. You think about how they all feel about you. Will they forget about you as soon as you leave this body, this earth? Will they think of you, when you’re gone?

And what about Saundra and the kids and the dogs? Will anyone think about how you’ve felt love, how you’re capable of that? Will they care? Will anybody? Or will you be buried, forgotten, lost in the sea of brown boxes in the back of a truck?

You’re almost gone now, you can feel yourself being ripped away; a sting in the chest, a scratch in the throat, a pull from the organs. And yes, it hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as the loss. It doesn’t hurt as bad as leaving this place again, or as bad as not seeing Saundra once more.

Then the priest belts out the final words from his big book, and you’re torn away again, back to the darkness, to the lost time. Then it’s all smiles and handshakes once you’re gone, congratulations to the priest. Condolences to the mother and father. Hugs and kisses to the little boy. It’s all over now. They’re safe. They can return to their lives, living out the rest in peace. Everything’s okay. It all worked out in the end.

But does anybody think about you, when you’re gone? Will they ever? Will anyone think about this being that knows only torment, both how to give, and to receive? Does anyone think about your pain? Or Saundra’s? Or the kid’s? That memory of loss you hold so close, stuffed in your breast through the embittered time? No one ever considers that. Just like all the rest who have felt your wrath, no one ever recognizes that this being is real, and the harm that has been put upon you. No one thinks about that pain. And it’s all too late now anyway because you’re whisked away from the priest’s magic, back to the darkness where there’s only pain. And you carry that pain with you, always. You can’t let it go. Because it’s real, strong and poignant. You, this being, are precious. No harm must come.