Run
He ran. He ran as fast as he could because it was RIGHT BEHIND HIM. At first he didn’t believe the angel, why would God want to talk to him again after not speaking to him for months but sure enough he recognized the quiet whisper. She came to warn him this time, Satan had found out he was the next prophet Damn the Devil and preserve the lineage of Elijah and had sent something after him, something BAD, the angel wouldn’t say, started CRYING when he asked WHAT IS IT WHY ME? The angel Grandma? only said to be prepared stop taking the med the RIS-PERI-DONE the med makes you slow can’t be slow or it’s going to get you. For weeks, for months he had bided his time almost jumping in class when he heard the scratching of the chalkboard or the rustling of the trees when he walked home from school. He knew it must be watching, waiting for him to trip or fall or get distracted and then it would pounce on him. It was safer in the room he could patrol it every hour every day no WAY could it get in without him finding out. School was dangerous the room was safe. But to be safe he kept his shoes on and wore the crucifix Please Mother Mary protect me because he knew that it would somehow get closer, that one day no matter what he would be sitting down and then when he least expected it the goosebumps would matriculate up his skin, his hair rising and then …
It breathed softly on his neck, warm, and intimately reeking of rotting flesh and the Pit.
In two steps he cleared the room, five took him down the stairs, he was out the door he didn’t scream couldn’t waste the breath, needed it for RUNNING past the house, down the street couldn’t hear anything but the furious beating of his shoes against the pavement but knew it had to be following, had to be close. He ran past the couple and their dog who whimpered and backed away must smell it dogs can tell nearly bowled over the old woman trying to cross the street Grandma? only stopped when he heard the scream, the screech of rending metal as it tore into its kin with the alarms blaring and now he was surrounded by people, angry people gesturing at their ruined cars putting fingers and mean words in his face. Good they’ll protect him and he tried to tell them what he was running from but couldn’t, his lungs made him take in deep agonal breaths and when the words came they spilled out like overflow from a dam, train off the tracks, tumbling over one another. The police came over talking very calmly hands on their guns good they could shoot it! he tried to explain but everything was spinning he lunged forward reaching for a pistol they’re not listening I have to do it and then incredible pain shaking his brain and blessed darkness.
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The inpatient psychiatry team stepped outside the room as the first year doctor rummaged in his white coat for his notes, the attending physician waiting impatiently. “This is Jonathan Summers, a 17 year old Caucasian male recently diagnosed with schizophrenia, prescribed maximum dose Risperidol who was brought in by police escort for running into traffic and attempted assault of an officer saying that he’s running from a demon.” This one sentence told the experienced attending everything he needed to know and the rest of the presentation, “parents think he’s stopped going to classes…holed up in his room…not sure if he’s taking his meds…audiovisual hallucinations with possible tactile components in setting of negative urine drug screen…active psychosis” went quickly concluding with the intern stuffing his papers back in his white coat and opening the door for the team.
The clinical pharmacist screamed. The social worker retched and threw up as the rest of the team stared in wordless astonishment and horror. What was left of Jonathan Summers was spread unevenly on the bed, slathered on the walls, and dripping on the floor. They would never find out what happened to him, but he could have told you.
He had stopped running.