The demon inside of me stirs. She is awake, which invariably means I too must be awake. She is restless. She leads me around and around, weaving an erratic patten through this city of mine. I think she's hungry, but I can never tell with her. Like a fussy child, my demon refuses to tell me what she wants but turns her nose up at all of my suggestions.
She nips at my toes until they ache, cold and damp from Halifax's wet winters. She pleads with me to take her inside. I know how she hates the cold and I try to steel myself to the weather as best I can, but nothing seems to be enough for her. Beads of sweat gather in the small of my back under layers upon layers of cotton and wool, but she still finds something. My demon bites my face and ears or chews idly on my fingertips. The only place she is content is buried under a mountain of blankets, curled up in bed.
If that was enough to satisfy the monster inside me, I could manage her much easier. That would be too easy for her. My hidden imp instead must lay in wait for the perfect moment to pick a new fight with me. The bathroom is too far, she cries. She won't relinquish her safety and comfort. Instead, she waits until the urgency is overwhelming and I may not make it. She feeds on moments like this, I think. My fear and shame give her strength.
When she is strong like this, she needs little sustenance. She turns her nose up stubbornly at most forms of food, or lets it land heavily in my stomach in protest. She twists and squirms uncomfortably inside of me when I eat things not listed on her brief list of acceptable edibles. She isn't cruel to me in this way. My demon will not make me nauseous or reject my meals, but there is a sickness to it. A heavy, weak, unhappy sickness. A hamburger for lunch will upset her for the rest of the day, which means she will upset me for the day in turn. My demon likes apples and muffins best this year. last year, it was toast with jam and the year before that was crackers and peanut butter. once in a while she is content with a cheese sandwich or a chicken strip, but it is best to stay with the safe bet. Carbs are always a safe bet.
The limited diet isn't so bad. To be frank, the loss of appetite is the greatest of her tricks. I love food and I love to eat. She insists I'm not hungry. After leading me past grocery stores, convenience stores, fast food chains and restaurants, she'll simply change her mind. "You aren't hungry anyway." She tells me in her small voice, soft and convincing. "You just wanted a coffee all along." As always, I am obliged to agree. Coffee is her true weakness. To stay in control, she must be awake. Who knows what a good night's rest will do to me or her control? So she hides sleep from me in that secret place she stores my appetite. She truly is a demon.
Why don't I fight her? Why do I let this tiny, demanding imp control me? It really isn't that simple. My demon is not an unseen parasite that is eating me alive. We co-exist symbiotically. Most days I am a mere vessel for her, my own mind hiding in some safe corner for the spring thaw. My demon thinks and speaks for us both but she needs me to act. She is a mere muse.
Two minds in one brain. They dance and swirl around each other inside of me, sometimes colliding but rarely conflicting. Some days that are harder than others, it can be difficult to differ between the two of them. On these tough days, we don't bicker. She doesn't make demands of me and I don't push her. Hard days can shut us both down, leaving my body abandoned as a hollow shell staring off into the middle-distance of nothingness. Hard days are void.
My demon can be dark sometimes. She can say hateful things and urge my body to act cruelly. My demon has a temper, especially when left ignored for too long as I have been doing now. She demands her caffeine fix that I have been avoiding. She is rapping her knuckles against my forehead in annoyance. The ache is a nuisance. My demon is a pest.
Second Cup has served me a nice, hot honey tea latte. my demon is already settling back in the warmth. her protest to my decision of a cheddar scone instead of the morning glory muffin she had immediately chosen is evident in the thick, groggy feeling in my abdomen, but there must be compromise, even when dealing with demons. maybe now she'll be satisfied enough to let me work productively. please, imp, let me be inspired. Let me create a world and develop a plot. Let me write about more than your nagging. Don't make me wait for spring again, I want to be me sometimes too. I'm not asking much, just a little time to create without the wave of depression ushering me back to bed.
Maybe I have it backwards. maybe I'm the demon after all and my muse is merely fighting to the surface. Maybe she is floating in this abyss with me, suffering as I do. Who do I think I am?
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