Lifelike

Almost Life. But All of Hell Fits Into That "Almost".

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Childhood memories have a sort of dreamlike quality to them. You could be forgiven for fudging the details a little bit because who really knows what happened? Then there’s repressed memories.

Big fad in the 80s. Supposed recovery of repressed memories of ritual Satanic abuse. All of which turned out to be fabricated. With the smallest suggestion, in that state the mind fills in the blanks with whatever it pleases. Sometimes, whatever it fears.

I’m not an expert in any of this. It’s just what I tell myself so I can go on with my life. I had some unfortunate formative experiences that until recently I doubted were real. It is still the easiest option to conclude they never happened. My life stays simple that way. The alternative opens up a can of worms I would’ve left shut, if I’d had the choice.

I remember the cabin on the island. Vacation home my father helped his mother build when he was thirteen. The land was passed down through the generations, originally costing mere pennies. The cabin didn’t get built until the mid 1970s though.

This was real wilderness. A treat for young me to explore. I was sternly reminded time after time to stay close to the cabin. Bears were after all numerous out here, as were wolves and other assorted animals. Nobody warned me about the 'little ones' though.

Childhood is also the time when you have the most difficulty separating fantasy and reality. When I was younger still, I had imaginary friends who were absolutely real to me. My fantasies engulfed my perception so completely that when I encountered them for the first time, I wasn’t even surprised.

They vary in size but none were smaller than my pinky and none larger than my middle finger. Two arms, two legs but shriveled little faces which looked neither human nor animal. Emaciated, and blackened everywhere as if burnt.

They complained of a hunger that food could not satisfy. Looking feeble as they did I felt sorry for them and eagerly listened to their pleas. I was to bring them any sharp things I could find which were small enough for their use. So I did.

Dad complained of the missing scissors. “Shit seems to grow legs in this place” he grumbled. Mom noticed her sewing needles were gone and questioned me. I feigned ignorance. All for my little friends.

When I began to find the mice, shrews and squirrels out in the woods, I had second thoughts. All were pinned to the ground with the sewing needles the way you’d mount a butterfly in a collection case, or the way you’d restrain a frog during dissection.

They were cut open groin to neck. All of the insides were missing. I could see footprints of dried blood leading away but they faded after very few steps. It was enough to realize what I’d done. I dearly loved little animals, so the thought that I’d indirectly brought them to harm was troubling.

They came to me that night. I lay in my bed, lights off, scanning the corners of the ceiling for bogeymen. Then came the tapping at the window. I did not react. Scraping followed. They’d brought tools.