The Spirits Within

I feel its presence before I hear it speak to me. Its voice greets me with more familiarity than I’d like. Though I despise the monster, I have to admit: part of me enjoys its companionship. I shouldn’t, I know, but I am its master after all. My slave is a formless spirit; a vile cretin that has claimed more lives than anyone knows. There’s an uneasy comfort in its company. Like it could end me at any moment if it wanted to. It has taken stronger men than me.

“’Lo, devil,” I acknowledge.

“Come now, is that any way to greet a friend?” it replies.

“Friend? Is that what you are? I could use one of those right about now, but you are not what I’d call...a friend. Don’t you have anyone else you could bother?”

“Yes, but there’s no one else I’d rather bother. Besides, I came because I knew you could use the company.” It pours me a drink of my favorite spirit. Two fingers of whiskey over a solitary cube of frozen water.

“I don’t want company. I said I could use a friend. I’d rather be left alone than be in your company,” I lie. There’s more harshness in my tone than I intended.

However, instead of leaving, the beast recommences pouring, stopping at about three-and-a-half fingers. My demon knows me better than any friend. “Nice act, my good man,” it says as I take the whiskey, “but I’ve owned you since you were a teenager. I know you better than any friend.”

It’s like it can read my mind.

Sitting in my black, leather recliner, I swirl the amber perfection in the stout glass cylinder, eyeing it with rabid intensity, momentarily hypnotized by the ice cube caught in the eddy. I gulp down nearly half of the contents before my brain processes what my company just said. “You mean known. You said, ‘owned.’ You misspoke.”

“Whatever you say,” it says, brushing off my commentary.

“Don’t ‘whatever you say’ me!” I yell.

“Or else, what? You gonna keep trying to self-medicate me away?”

My eyes jerk to the glass in my hand. “Wait a minute, who the hell do you think you are?!”

“Just a friend, my good man.”

“You are no friend, demon! How dare you barge into my house uninvited and make such false accusations!”

“Whoa now, calm down, sir.”

“I am calm! Now, I command you to leave!”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then I’m going to have to make you.”

“You sure you want to go toe-to-toe with me?”

I’m seething with anger. Too much. Why won’t it just leave me alone? I don’t want confrontation, but the whiskey’s already removed my restraint.

“You will not win. I have conquered the likes of Nero, Van Gogh, Robin Williams, Hemmingway, Marilyn Monroe, even Cleopatra. I’ve taken the lives of politicians, artists, athletes, and emperors; rich and poor; the young, the old; men and women of every ethnicity throughout all of history. Millions of them! What makes you think you’re strong enough to beat me?”

Horrified, I set the glass down, suddenly unaware which of the trio is master and slave. Woozy with the revelation and the emotions swirling within, I’m not sure I can win, but I have to try. I take out my phone and dial 1-800-273-8255, the national suicide prevention hotline.