Demon Days

(We were told to write a story about something that had happened to us)

Demon Days

Min turns over in her bed. She is awake, and has been for some time. She, however, does not wish to get out of bed. Her eyes scan the darkness, and come to rest on the intruding green digits on her clock. 4:23am. Its much too early to get up. The green digits feel as if they’re burning into her eyes, she looks away trying to define objects in the darkness. Thin rays of light filter into the room, the elongated fingers illuminate a column of photos on her wall. Turning over she bends her left arm back and rests her head on it, allowing a better view of the photos. She knows this position can’t be kept for too long, soon the familiar tingle of pins and needles begin as her arm fights for clearance to its blood supply.
Ignoring it, she continues to stare at the photos of old friends, family and pets, her world; everything she wouldn't see once she escapes. She likes the idea of updating them on her progress every once in a while, she thinks to herself.

“I’m watching you watch over me, and I’ve got the greatest view from here”

She lives in a glass jar. Like the butterfly you caught when you were eight. She can see freedom but there’s always the glass to contend with. Most days she can ignore her limitations, but on some days - her demon days, she can see every restriction and flaw in her tiny world. Those are the days when she escapes into her mind. She can spend hours there lost in her thoughts. They tell her its not normal, it’s not like her. She laughs, and what exactly would they know about her? She puts on a show for them everyday: they know the character – not the actress. Even then she has fun, she has perfected her role as the ingénue. They think she doesn’t notice the small details. They don’t know that she enjoys watching them. It’s the voyeur in her, she loves eavesdropping and observing the interactions of strangers.

He met her only once. They spoke briefly before she was whisked away by a group of friends. In his mind he can see her face, every feature perfect in its placement to him. On his computer he has hundreds of images of her, in an age of social networking he lets his inner voyuer indulge. She inspires him, he’s written poem after poem in her honour. But he does not wish to possess her; he merely enjoys watching as she performs. She laughs but the amusement doesn’t reach her eyes, she holds the groups’ attention dramatically retelling her latest experience. He watches as intently as they do.

At the end of the day when all is said and done they board the same train, he always finds a seat close by her. It’s during these moments when he see’s her mask slip away. He observes as she loses herself in thought, he can see the exact moment when her eyes glaze over and the scenery outside the window becomes just a place to rest her gaze.
Feeling the familiar surge of inspiration he pulls out his notebook, his hands scrawl words feverishly across the page. His need to express himself is so great that he doesn’t notice her eyes watching him from the reflection on the windows.

She remembers him.