The Demoness of the Hall

After a night of celebration and congratulations abound, Franky and I remain the only two members of our household still awake just past three in the morning. “Would you stop using the holy hand grenade!? You know how much I hate that damned thing!” Yes, it is quite juvenile to complain about a totally viable strategy in a video game, but when it seems like you’re always blown to smithereens by the same damn weapon… Well, things start to get personal.

My brother laughs at my pain in his now deeper voice. “Maybe you just need to get good, scrub.”

“That was cold, bro.”

With a glint in his eye immediately recognizable as a look of triumph and mischief, Franky chuckles. “One could even say… cold-blooded.” Ugh, all night he’s been at it with his damn tortoise jokes. They are slowly working my last nerve. Franky turns back to the TV and starts plotting his next diabolical move, but I can’t seem to shake some thoughts from my head. After another of my poor characters is sent flying to their death by a well-placed airstrike (like I said, diabolical), I hit pause on my controller. “What’s up, tired of getting absolutely wrecked?”

Asking for help has always been a problem for me. I don’t know why, but admitting that I’m not strong enough or smart enough to handle things myself chips away at what little confidence I have in a way I recognize isn’t healthy. “How did you do it? How did you get the change to trigger?” That being said, given enough desperation even a stubborn fool like myself can flounder my way to reaching out.

Immediately realizing that playtime is over, Franky tosses his controller onto his bed and shrugs. “Honestly, I have no idea. It just sort of happened, man.” That’s what they all say. It’s bullshit. Complete fucking bullshit. There’s no way people can just casually accept themselves in a meaningful enough way to change. It doesn’t make sense!

“Can you just tell me what you were doing, or thinking, or anything? Just tell me what happened right before you went to sleep.” There has to be some trick to this. Some secret code that I can crack to finally get it.

Franky rubs his neck and stretches it far out of his shell. “I mean, I do remember, but it’s really boring and probably won’t help much.” I turn my full attention his way and gesture for him to continue. “Alright. I had just pulled an all-nighter playing games with my friends. Kind of ignored the fact that it was a school night and accidentally saw the sunrise. So I turned the games off, hopped in the shower, and started getting ready for the day. I heard you and mom tearing through your morning routines at the last second as usual and smelled the bacon dad was frying in the kitchen. I remember just kind of smiling at the familiar chaos of it all and looking in the mirror at myself right before fading out. Guess the last thing I thought while going under was that I was… happy. I don’t know, man. The day didn’t seem remarkable in any way until it happened.”

He’s right, it’s not much to go on… but it is something. “Thanks, Franky. I mean it.”

“Anytime, brother. Now, can we please get back to your regularly scheduled ass-whoopin’?” And whoop my ass he did… many times. Yeah, laugh it up, shellshock. Next time it’s my turn to choose the game, we’re playing a fighter and I’ll make you drink from the same chalice of pain I’ve emptied tonight.

***

The familiar orange blaze of the freshly risen sun peeks through my blinds as morning finally arrives. I am not built for this staying up all night thing. Lord knows how Franky manages to keep this up and get better grades than me. Freakin’ nerd. Anyway, step one of W’s amazing and totally foolproof plan for forcing metamorphosis is complete! A round of applause echoes in my own head as I realize how close to a total mental shutdown sleep deprivation has brought me. It’s okay, if all goes to plan, I’ll be sleeping pretty in just a bit. Hopping into the shower, I blast myself with cold water, hoping hypothermia will help me stay conscious just a bit longer. The predictable sound of profanity and heavy footsteps commence as mom wakes up, late as usual, and frantically sprints through the house to collect everything she needs for the day. Alright, wonderful, the recreation is almost perfect now to just look in the mirror and feel… happy.

Staring at the large sheet of glass before me, I feel hollow. That isn’t me, is it? I know I’ve made a habit of avoiding reflective surfaces like the plague and only taking curt cursory glances for the sake of basic hygiene, but I really don’t look like this, right? I mean, I guess it’s okay. I wouldn’t say I’m horribly ugly, but there’s just something... off. Come on, metamorphosis, just work your magic already! Chop chop! Don’t make me keep staring at this all day. Please… just do something.

Goddamnit! What’s my problem!? This worked for my brother, why isn’t it doing anything for me? What does it matter how I feel while doing the exact same fucking thing? Is it because I hate my boxy shoulders? Is it the unkempt stubble that I wish would just fucking fall out and never return? Maybe it’s the shitty expression on my face. Honestly, how do people go a single day without wanting to punch me, looking at this stupid mug?

All of this is wrong, yet here’s the kicker… I don’t know what’s right. Should I start working out more to bulk up? Maybe start shaving every day? Get a haircut? Would any of it really matter? I just -- I just have no idea how to even get to a place of contentment, let alone happiness. Why the hell can’t I just metamorphose now and figure this crap out later? At least that way I’d know what I’m working with and have a jumping off point. Why does the egg have to come before the damn chicken here? It’s bullshit!

My hands slam into the countertop to brace me as my whole body starts trembling. Ever since my classmates back home started metamorphosing, I’ve felt inadequate. I’ve felt like I’m less than them all. Watching them smile and laugh and live their lives with radiant joy. At first, seeing them gave me hope, something to look forward to when it’s finally my turn. Unfortunately, time is rarely a kind force, and as the years pass by I’ve grown more and more resentful of them all. My jealousy festers like an infected wound slowly tainting everything around it. My throat burns as I try to silence a pack of sobs, clawing to escape from somewhere deep inside me. My eyes sting with the familiar burn of tears as they well up and stream down my face. Pathetic, like always. Having exhausted the last of my strength, I let myself crumple onto the cold tiles of the bathroom to joyfully embrace my non-transformative sleep.

“Honey, are you oka-- Honey!!” A high-pitched shriek manages to stave off my impending unconsciousness as my mom pokes her head into the washroom. “What’s going on, what’s wrong!?” 

Between the migraine, the exhaustion, and the existential crisis, I seem to have lost the ability to keep pretending everything’s okay. “W-What’s wrong with me!? Why can’t I do something everyone else can? How -- How can I be the last one in my grade to fucking change? Am I that broken? That useless?” My words tumble out messily amidst the pained noises I can’t seem to stop making.

Shelving her mad rush for punctuality, Mom drops to her knees and pulls me into a hug. “Honey, you’re not broken. Everyone in their own time, right?”

“But -- But what if it never happens for me? What if this is all I’ll ever be? A freak without an identity.”

“Walt, dear, you’re far too much of a character to not have an identity. You’re just a late bloomer is all. I’ll have you know that I didn’t change til I was in my twenties. It will happen for you too.” Mom never talks about her own change and always skirts the subject when it’s brought up, so hearing her offer that up freely is surprising. She loosens her grip as I try to shimmy away to look her in the eyes.

“So… you were in college when it happened for you?” Dad’s always been totally upfront with his experience. He was a teen in a rural neighborhood who liked books more than people and didn’t give two shits about how others saw him. So, one day, while enjoying a particularly riveting mystery novel, he just nodded off and changed. He always said that he was more annoyed that the whole process interrupted the best part more than excited that it had actually happened. “What -- What was it like?”

My mom has one of the most expressive faces I’ve ever seen. The face has hundreds of muscles in it and every single one of them gets a workout as she shifts from happy to sad to excited to hungry, all on a dime. Somehow, amidst the myriad of faces I’ve seen her make, I’ve never seen her look quite so conflicted as she does right now. “I… I had a different experience than most. Where most people have to discover something about themselves, I knew who I was from young. It was the accepting that threw me for a loop. You wouldn’t know it now, but I came from a small family… strict and religious.” A family I’ve never met or really even heard of much. “They had their own idea for who I should be, and when you’re a kid, an adult's word sometimes seems like law.”

Mom leans back against the spackled wall of the bathroom and makes herself comfortable. “So I followed their plan for me. I acted stoic, and rigid, and I kept everything inside. They wanted me to be strong, so I worked hard at that. They wanted me to be cruel, so I tormented classmates and even friends that didn’t fit the mold. They wanted me to be like them… and I was. I hated every last minute of it all. Everyone around me started metamorphosing and I kept playing the role I’d been given. Every time even a small part of who I was managed to slip out, there would be consequences. No singing, no dancing, no talking in a squeaky voice. All the real me was ever met with was ‘no.’”

Mom takes a few seconds to compose herself as a stray tear manages to break through her stone-cold stare. “Then I met your father. He fell into the category of ‘mold breaker’ that I’d been taught to antagonize. I put that poor man through hell, and do you know what he did? Nothing. Not a damn thing. He shrugged off everything I threw at him. That’s when I realized he wasn’t weak, like my parent’s standards had painted him as… he was so damned strong. He was unapologetically himself, and it was incredible. So one day, when he and I were alone and he was bracing himself for whatever fresh torment I’d devised… I sang to him. The poor man didn’t know what was going on, you should have seen his face. But after I was done, and I felt lower than dirt, like someone who had committed some grave offense… He told me I had a lovely voice.”

Finally brightening to her normal self again, Mom laughs at the memory while wiping her eyes. “Trust me, hun, I did not have a lovely voice at the time. But he was so genuine when he said it. After that, I started spending more time with him. He never judged me, or made me feel wrong for how I wanted to speak or act. He just listened and smiled and made me laugh. I didn’t even know I was capable of laughing at the time. So one day, while we were out watching the clouds or something else incredibly frivolous, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was me. For the first time in my life, I was whole. I knew I’d never be welcomed home again; the people who had already rejected who I was would never condone who I had become. So the two of us skipped town together and never looked back.”

Snapping out of her dreamy haze, Mom remembers that I’m also in the room. “Oh, shit, I kind of lost myself there. Sorry. I just… I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’ll all work out. I never thought I’d get to be myself, but life can be incredibly generous sometimes and might just put you on a path to meeting your own personal miracle. And just know, no matter who you are or who you become… you will always be loved here. So take your time, don’t be afraid, and if you ever need anything, never hesitate to ask. Okay? I love you.” Quickly jumping to her feet and pulling me onto mine, Mom dispensed the standard hug and kiss combo customary in our home when she is in ‘Holy crap, I’m totally going to be late’ mode. 

After Mom and the rest of the bunch clear out, and the house falls into a steady quiet rhythm of creaks and hums, I trudge back to my bed and flop down into it as I should have hours ago. I’m sure taking a single mental health day won’t irreparably tarnish my reputation. Besides, now that I know exactly what other people are seeing of me, I’m quite keen on being alone for a bit.

Mom always knew who she was, and it was a matter of accepting the little things she’d suppressed that set her free. So what am I suppressing? What is it I truly want to do? My eyes are drawn to a dusty and unkempt corner of my room. Oh, don’t judge me for that, we all have that one corner where everything we don’t need finds refuge. Amidst the scattered papers and boxes, a single spiral notebook juts out from the pile like a sword peeking out of a stone. Maybe when I wake up, I’ll try sketching again.