Black Flags

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Recognise the abuse and understand why it happens to you

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The Haunted Chamber

 

the-haunted-chamber

Your heart has its haunted chamber,

Where the silent treatment falls,

On the floor are stalking footsteps,

Malicious whispers along the walls.

Though your perfect love is manifold,

This chamber will still persist,

Its lingering hurt and sadness,

Is decreed to always exist.

No matter how you shine and smile,

‘Tis a place of frigid cold,

That now no love, no joy, no care

Can relinquish its endless hold.

Your heart these times is haunted,

By phantoms of our past,

So insidious is the infection

It seems it will always last.

A form sits by your window,

Always in your corner eye,

Waiting and watching all night long

Yet never answering why.

I sit there in the moonlight,

Hatred etched across my face,

And point a blaming finger,

To avoid my own disgrace.

I haunt your heart and memory,

My poison flows yet still,

To remind you of your treachery,

And to scold you for causing me ill.

Each lonely darkened midnight,

You will hear my accusing wail,

The bitter and twisted arguments,

Still remain beyond the pale.

This phantom’s baleful glare,

Seems to absorb and drain your will,

The remembering of torment,

Places in your heart sick chill.

My haunting clouds your remembrance,

All else becomes thin air,

The shadows form and twist now,

So you always see me there.

The knock upon your window pane,

Wrenches your thought from me,

A relentless drumming announcement,

From the gloomy darkened tree.

There stands our oak, rain-slicked, boughs bent,

A place that was sanctuary,

We climbed it often together,

To imagine being free.

Yet now near lifeless monument,

It serves only to torment,

The greying bark and sorest wounds,

Form the night’s empty lament.

I know you look there still each night,

I know you see me there,

The haunting of your aching heart

Ne’er relieved by earnest prayer.

Your chained and weighted pensive guilt,

Is naught to my own hell,

But yours is bound in silence,

Since you can never tell.

Beneath the oaken branches,

Is the grave of that little child,

Who fell from grace so violently,

And never wept nor smiled.

So your heart remains an empty chamber,

Where my hatred will reside,

And evermore I will punish you,

For what you have always denied.

What once shone bright and golden,

Is dulled and tarnished deep,

And the memory of your failings,

Will steal away your sleep.

I blamed her then so I blame you now,

It all must  wither and turn bad,

Since I have no hope but to see you

As the parent I never had.

All Alone

 

all-alone

Do you ever get that feeling that something isn’t right? What was that noise you heard just now? Was it in a dream or was it real? It sounded like an engine. A deep, throaty engine that you recognise and have heard many times. You sit up in bed and see that it is nearly three in the morning. You tilt your heard and listen, ears straining for that familiar, dread sound. You hear nothing. Perhaps the engine has been killed and that vehicle is sat outside now. Am I say in the pool of darkness cast by a fence, alert and watching your house. That knotted sensation is quick to take hold of your stomach as you slowly emerge from the bed. You move carefully feeling as if the rustle of the duvet or your bare feet on the floor will make a sound that I can hear. You know it is foolish for my hearing is not that sharp, but you are placed on tenterhooks and accordingly move in the same way. You make your way to the window where the curtains are drawn. You feel like flinging them back in one sudden motion hoping to make me jump. You see an image of my face pressed against the window, devilish leer prominent and unnerving. Carefully you move the curtain a fraction and peer through the gap. Your range of vision is limited and you cannot see everything but my vehicle does not appear to be there. Am I watching those curtains which I used to gently pull apart once upon a time? Or am I prowling about the outside of your house, looking for an open window or an unlocked door? You have held your breath, not daring to breathe, your drumming heart loud and roaring in your ears and you wonder if you mistook that sound for the one of my car engine but you know what you heard. Perhaps I had just driven past? How many times have you seen an anthracite black Mercedes from the corner of your eye as you have walked to the shops, headed to a bar or emerged from work? Your heart leaps every time you see one and your eyes dart to the registration plate to ascertain whether it is my car. Of course, I might have changed cars now. You do not know for sure. You want to drive past where I live and ascertain which vehicle I drive so that you can keep an eye out for it, but you fear that I may see you doing this and derive satisfaction from your appearance. Something does not feel right. You experience this sensation often these days. The hairs on your neck stand up as you feel that you are being watched. When you are about to emerge from your office building you stand behind the glass and chrome scanning the plaza outside for any sign that I am stood there. You think you have spotted me twice but then I departed, evidently alert to your perception. Once you walked leisurely from your place of work to the car park but now you scurry, hoping not to be spotted and hoping that your car has not been tampered with. Your eyes follow the same drill. They flash over the windows to ensure they have not been smashed. You look to the windscreen wiper to see if a hate-filled note lies tucked beneath one of the blades. There have been several although they are always printed so you were never able to demonstrate they were from me (you wouldn’t be able to anyway – I have them printed on a lieutenant’s PC not my own, I am no amateur). Your eyes look over the external bodywork for signs of scratches, dents and lights smashed before you check the exhaust and tyres. You never get in without ensuring nobody is lurking in the back seat and once in you lock the doors automatically and then allow yourself to breathe.

Something does not feel right. It is the same sensation as when you walk anywhere alone. Your steps are hurried, furtive glances cast over your shoulder, alleyways scrutinised, walking by the kerb, away from gates and hedges. You cross the road when a shadowy figure walks towards you. Often you have someone accompany you but it is not always possible. You pull the curtain aside a little so your range of vision is increased. You can see all to the left of your house but nothing appears to be amiss. You look to the road but you cannot see any vehicle but then again I might be parked around the corner and now stood in the shadow of a tree watching your pale face peering out. You look to your mobile ‘phone, always charged and ready and consider calling the police, but what would you tell them? You think you heard my car engine? They have been out once this week and although they are always polite you gain the impression that the officers are beginning to think that you are hearing and seeing things. You can tell. Their polite reassurances do not entirely mask the resigned tones with which they speak. Should you call the police? It might be sensible. Even if I am watching, the arrival of a patrol car should send me slinking away and what about if I am caught lurking outside at this time? That would be good. Then again, perhaps you should wait until you have some concrete evidence, until you see me and then you should call. You do not want the police labelling you a time waster, but something does not feel right.

You shift your position so you can look to the right and silently curse a kink in the curtain as it is obscuring your view. You will need to push it aside and this will surely alert me to your presence. With trembling hand, you move the curtain and then crane forward so you can look over the garden. With experienced ease you let your eyes drift over the garden, the wall and the fence, looking for shapes that do not belong. Your eyes stop on something in the corner of the garden, where the wall and fence meet, a pool of shadow. Is there a figure there? You stare, eyes adjusting to the darkness and wait. You feel light-headed as you stare trying to see if that inky shape is me or just the imagination that these days seems to be out of control. No, you cannot see anybody. Your eyes scan the garden again from your lofty vantage point but you see nothing. What if I am underneath the window, tight against the front door and hidden from view? What if I have gone around the rear of the house? You did lock the side gate didn’t you? You cannot remember. You think you did but you have so many repeated checks before retiring at night that it has become something of a blur. All gates need to be checked, windows closed and locked with keys removed – even during summer you endure the heat rather than keep your windows open. Door handles are tested twice and twice more. French doors pulled and pushed to ensure they are secure. It is a nightly ritual but a necessary one. A friend suggested a dog but who would look after him whilst you were at work. You once felt safe here, especially when I lived here with you, but no longer and moving, in the current market is not an option. Maybe a lodger would be answer? The money would be welcome and so would the company, but this is your home and you resent being forced into these steps by my lingering presence.

Every day when you return from work you sweep the house making sure there has been no entry during the day. You look for anything that has been moved or is out of place which denotes whether a listening device or camera might have been placed in your living room or bedroom. You were pleased you changed the locks straight away when everything went wrong. You ought to have the place professionally swept. You used to wander about the house naked but no longer, you even feel uncomfortable standing in the shower, nervously glancing upwards looking for the winking red light denoting that a camera has been placed on a shelf and you are being watched. Nowhere feels safe from me now. Your sleep is fractured and this had led to you struggling to gauge whether your fears are real or imagined. There are too many withheld calls still, the empty texts from unknown numbers and strange voicemails left at work. You know I am still out there somewhere and you have no idea what I might do.

You can see nobody outside and consider whether you ought to check the rear but you really need to sleep. You lower yourself and sit on the edge of the bed, listening for something, anything. You are met by just the blanketing silence. No throbbing engine, no footsteps on the drive outside, no creeping advance up the stairs, no shattered glass, no jemmied door. You continue to look outside but nothing is moving. Maybe it was a dream? No, you definitely heard that distinctive growl of the engine but maybe it was further away or someone else with the same vehicle. That is possible isn’t it? Your breathing slows and you begin to convince yourself that it was another false alarm. Still, you have that feeling that something doesn’t feel right. You feel as if I have been near. Your eyes shoot to the wardrobe, mind suddenly filled with the thought that I am inside it, peering through the slats and amusing myself at your fearful expression. You try to shake the thought but you cannot. A sudden ball of anger forms inside of you and with a cry you jump up and fling the wardrobe doors open and drive your hands into the clothing inside, you push and pull but find only dresses and tops, suits and jumpers carefully hung up. I am not there. You close the doors and run back into bed, jumping into it, like a frightened child who has to run from door to bed so the monsters under the bed do not grab her ankles. Once in that bed, you are in a cocoon of safety. You pull the duvet over your head and lie there, curled up tight in a ball, cursing me and breathing hard.

Eventually you emerge, face warm from breathing under the duvet and you are grateful for the cold air of your room. You lie back and allow yourself to gradually uncoil, ears still listening out for a sound but there comes none. You glance at the clock and see it is now 3-15 am and you really ought to sleep. You roll on to your side and adjust the pillow, praying that slumber visits you soon. If only that feeling that something is not right would leave you.

Morning arrives and you emerge from bed bleary eyed but thankful that you have at least slept. You attend to your usual routine in the bathroom before dressing and heading down the stairs ready to prepare some breakfast. As you descend the stairs you halt as you see something is lying on the mat underneath the letterbox in the front door. It is square and plastic. It is only 7am and the post man has not yet been although you did not hear anybody put anything through the letter box. You slowly pace down the stairs as that sensation of something being wrong engulfs you. You see it is a CD case that has been deposited. That is not right. Nobody has borrowed any of your CDs. Something is definitely not right. With churning stomach and laboured breath, hammering heart and rising nausea you pick up the CD and turn it over to read the cover.

The Police: Every Breath You Take

That was one of your favourite songs wasn’t it?

Until I told you what the lyrics really meant.

Buried Alive

 

buried-alive

 

 

One of our aims when we entangle you is to cause the equivalent of you feeling as if you are being buried alive. Doing this keeps you in our grip and under our control. For some people, the thought of being buried alive causes them considerable terror. The concept of being bound and dropped into a prepared hole in the ground, lying against the cold, damp earth as the first shovel load of earth lands on you, dirt cascading over your face as you blink frantically trying to avoid it going in your eyes. A second shovel load lands, this time more compact and it hits your torso with the equivalent of a moderate punch to the ribs. You shout out but your unknown assailant does not respond as more earth cascades down on to you. You kick and wriggle but soon the earth begins to heap around you, your movements are constrained and you are trying to back up so you can keep your head as high as possible, just as you might do during our devaluation of you, trying desperately to retain some dignity. You continue to shout and scream and you begin to wonder whether you are making any sound at all as there is no response. Your legs are now covered and you are unable to move them now, the weight of the earth on them pinning them into place. Someone else has now taken control of how much you can move and they have deemed that there is to be no movement, at least from the waist down. Still that steady and rhythmic motion can just about be heard above you as the dirt continues to fall, a steady curtain of earth which is creating your tomb. The encroaching earth has moved over your chest and you look down, arms tied in front of you as you lift them up and down breaking the layer of earth for a little longer.

On it continues as more and more dirt tumbles onto you now making it seem as if the ground is swallowing you. How many times had you wished that would happen when you were on the receiving end of one our vicious tirades? You try to move your arms but the weight is too great and now the terror has taken your voice so that your once hearty yells and piercing screams are replaced by a strange strangulated rasp as the cries for help become lodged in your throat, just like the earth will do so very soon. Your pleas to be spared, your bid for clemency and begging for mercy has gone unheeded as the earth continues to rise and you shake your head from side to side, trying to fight off the onslaught. The whole of your body, save for your head, is now paralysed, trapped by the significant load of earth which has been dropped on to you. You can feel your lungs being squashed as your breathing becomes harder. You wish you were dead. A gun shot to the head, quick and instant. That would be better than this lingering, slow and crushing descent into suffocation. Sounds suddenly become muffled and you realise that the earth has now begun to cover your ears. You still twist your head but the room for movement has become even more reduced. Your eyes are shut now otherwise they would be filled with grit and crumbs of dirt. You spit and blow away the earth which lands across your mouth as just an oval of your face breaks the surface of the soil.Your terror and panic is at its zenith and then there is a cessation in the onslaught. You cannot feel anything dropping onto you any more. There is a spark of hope. Is this it? Have you been spared at the last moment? Have you perhaps been rescued, your tormentor now pinned to the ground by the timely arrival of law enforcement? Will it be only a matter of moments before the shovel tentatively digs around you to free you? You blink furiously and open your eyes hoping to see the glare of a flashlight.

Your vision sharpens into focus and you see the silhouette of somebody leaning over the edge of the pit, shovel in hand, peering down at you as if scrutinising you for the last time. You cannot make out any of their features against the darkening sky behind them as they stand and then the earthen rain begins again. You manage to muster a final scream of defiant protestation as the soil begins to gather over your face, covering your eyes, blocking your nose and sealing your mouth as a thousand thoughts flash through your mind, mixing with the terror as you wonder how long you have left?

Such a thought of being buried alive by an unknown aggressor or waking in a coffin having been mistakenly thought dead and thus buried alive, hands scrabbling at the smooth wood, yells and shouts unheard through the coffin lid and heaped earth above, causes considerable anxiety in many people. Such an imagined experience is akin to the way we treat our victims. We control them and restrict them, steadily and effectively, through the always used slice, slice, slice technique as we little by little reduce their movement, just as if we were heaping soil onto them. We create that sense of rising panic as there remains some movement but it is insufficient to escape the looming threat. Through our manipulations we keep you rooted to the spot with nowhere to escape to, nowhere to turn,just as if you are lying helpless in the bottom of a pit.

The steady and repeated accumulation of our manipulations make you feel as if you are being slowly suffocated. You cannot speak without approval or reprimand, your thoughts no longer feel your own as you are left to second guess what we want in order to try to avoid a further consequence. You close your eyes hoping it will all end and then your heart sinks as it does not. Each day you feel the air being drawn from your body, your strength sapping away, the will to fight back being diminished and stolen from you. The walls seems to close in on you, the air becoming stale and foul from you being kept indoors for so such long periods of time, prevented from seeing other people and leaving our sphere of influence. We invade your spaces, reading your messages, your e-mails and post. You have nowhere to go to in order to escape our incessant and all-consuming presence. We are like a weight on your chest, around your neck and about your heart.Your identity is steadily squeezed from you as we impress our thoughts, needs, desires and demands on you. Every day the pressure increases, just like the weight of the earth piling on your chest. You beg and plead for relief from this incessant pressure but just like the silent and unresponsive wielder of the shovel, you receive no respite from us either. The panic rises and the anxiety robs the breath from your lungs, forcing you to gasp as the panic attack takes you in its grip. You are suffocating. You cannot breathe. We are all around you, pressing against you, holding you, pressurising you, leaning on you, invading your space and driving the breath from your body. Being with us is just like being buried alive.

If You Go Into the Woods….

 

if-you-go-into-the-woods

It is a beautiful late afternoon as you open the front gate and step out onto the path. Birdsong fills the air and you can feel the warmth of the golden sun that hangs in an azure sky embracing your shoulders and neck. Flowers grow about your feet, nestling at the side of the path marking the route onwards, a colourful guide so that you can readily view the way ahead. You adjust the basket that hangs in the crook of your arm, a basket that is stuffed with delicious fayre, forbidden fruits and other enticing goodies that are meant for another. You smile and begin walking, a spring in your step as you hear a voice call out from behind you,

“Stay on the path, do not stray from the path.”

You smile again at this warning. You know all about not straying from the path, it is all you have been told for some time. The warnings and the cautionary tales about what happens when you stray from the path began as frightening tales told before bed time but their foreboding content has lessened as you have blossomed. You still smiled politely as older heads than yours warned you about what lay in the forest beyond the path, of waiting predators that are red of tooth and claw. These once dreaded fables are no more than an opportunity for you to curry favour as you kneel next to the wise one and listen, showing attentiveness, but your mind has drifted elsewhere. Your thoughts dwell on whether those supposed savages do exist deep within the darkness of the forest or whether they are just lost souls, poor fellows abandoned by the world who lurk amidst the shadows of tree and bush, not because they seek to do harm but because they have been shunned and know no other way of behaving. You contemplate whether if they were shown love, caring and affection that these wild folk might just be welcomed back and then be able to prove they are not the threat that they are always held out to be.

The tales from those older and more experienced had less of an effect on your reasoning and this soon gave way to listening to the stories from your peers. One of your friends swore she saw one of these supposed savages watching her from a hillock within the forest. She spoke of how he watched her intently with the most mesmerising and piercing eyes which made her feel wanted but in a good way. You all giggled as she recounted this tale, a flush of desire making its way up her chest and neck. Another of your group recollected of how she also saw one of these apparent beasts. He was gathering firewood and she stopped to watch his lithe and frankly alluring figure as he stooped amongst the foliage, gathering logs. She smiled as she told how he turned and caught her watching, but she felt no alarm as he too fixed her with a most penetrating look and then slowly ran his tongue across his lower lip. Your friend places her hand to her mouth and confesses to ‘that’ warm feeling down below as he continued to regard her. You admit you felt a pang of jealousy as the gathering desires of womanhood began to flow through your blossoming body and you longed for your own encounter with one of these mysterious forest dwellers.

You skip along the meandering path as you recall these stories and others, wondering how much is truth and how much is just the product of an over-active imagination. You like to think it is the former and with that in mind you chose your best dress and stole a little of your elder sister’s make-up, carefully applying the blood red concoction of beeswax and crushed bright red berries to your lips as you formed a cupid’s bow wondering if he too waited amongst the trees ready to fire one of his love arrows through your heart. You shrugged off the disapproving look from your father as you explained your appearance was such to look your best for your grandmother. The small smile that your mother gave you as she handed you the laden basket told you she knew otherwise.

Some time into your journey through the forest the flowers become less as the amount of light which percolates through the canopy above becomes reduced. The trees are numerous, stretching up high into the sky and occasionally you stop and look up towards the tree tops, feeling dizzy as you do so. A breeze gathers and the trees sway a little as the eddies of wind disturb the bushes that grow besides the path. You can still see the way ahead but it is not as a pretty now, but you are not concerned, you have walked this path so many times before. Admittedly, that was with your parents or later with your elder sister and now this is the first time you have been allowed to venture out into the vast forest yourself, hence the warnings to stay on the path.

You scurry along, almost tripping on a long thorny vine which has grown across the path. The route through the forest is less distinct now, the moss and wild grass obscuring it in places, the bushes encroaching on to it but you press on regardless. You feel the first splash of rain land on your nose and then another. You halt and set the basket down so you can lift your hood about your head and keep your carefully pinned hair dry. You stoop and collect the basket once again, moving neatly and efficiently in the manner that you have been taught, bending at the knees and straightening carefully. You are about to continue your walk when you hear a noise, a strange guttural sound which seems to come from nowhere and everywhere. You cock your head but do not hear it again as you step forward and resume your journey.

The noise comes again and you spin around before letting out a gasp. There is a man stood right behind you on the path, tall and handsome and your surprise immediately gives way to round-eyed admiration at this elegantly dressed stranger clad in emerald green. He lifts his hat and gives an exaggerated bow. His gaze returns to you, a pair of dark, dark eyes which seem to bore right into you but you can help but stare at the glinting and mesmerising pupils.

“Good day young lady,” he says with a deep and rich voice which makes you feel strange inside but in a good way, “what are you doing alone in the forest on the cusp of evening?”

“I am going for a walk, to my grand mother’s house,” you answer firmly and stand as tall as you can.

“Alone?” he asks again.

“Yes. What of it?” you ask as those glittering eyes dart left and right.

“Oh nothing save that a young lady so pretty as you should not be left unaccompanied.”

“I know the way,” you answer.

“Perhaps you do but the way knows you better,” he answers and smiles showing a toothy grin.

“My what a lot of teeth you have,” you cannot help but remark.

“Yes, all the better to eat the beasts of the forest with,” he answers.

“You eat the animals in the forest?”

“Of course, how else am I to survive, anything that comes through this forest belongs to us.”

“Us? There are more of you?”

“Indeed, this forest is ours, it is our hunting ground.”

“So the stories are true then,” you declare in a tone that is a mixture of wariness and delight.

“Very true.”

“So where did you spring from, how did you know I was here?” you ask as your eyes never leave this handsome and beguiling stranger.

“Oh nearby, but it was not difficult to miss you,” he says and reaches out a hand to touch your blood red and vibrantly coloured cloak.

“This made you stand out from everything else,” he adds.

“My grandmother made it, she told me she chose red because it is the colour of danger, a warning if you will,” you reply.

“So it is and such an attractive shade of red if I may say so, so recognisable and obvious.”

“Recognisable as what?” you ask.

“Oh that does not matter,” he says quickly, “may I escort you ? I know a short cut to your grandmother’s house, just through here,” He proffers his arm as he points through the trees. You peer into the gloom and then look back at him. You pause for a moment but that gaze of his, those eyes which seem to promise so much of that which you want to experience draw you in and you have to, you want to obey.

“Of course, that is most kind of you, ” you say politely. He nods and he stands by your side as you begin to walk. You look ahead and fail to see the red glow around those dark eyes and the especially long tongue which has slid from his mouth and run across the top of all those now sharp, white teeth. He begins to talk as he steers you towards the trees and off the beaten path…..

 if-you-go-into-the-woods

A Fearful Terror

 

a-fearful-terror

Fear comes in many forms. It has the capacity to cause dread, anxiety and nervousness. Fear is one of the most powerful tools that exists to facilitate control over somebody. Think back to when you were a small child and the things that frightened you. Many of them have a universal applicability. How many times did you cry out to your mother and father in the night because you were frightened of the “monsters under the bed” and you were terrified that once the bedroom door was closed that something would come creeping out of the wardrobe and induce utter fear throughout you? Perhaps it was the strange shapes that formed once the light was turned off with only moonlight streaming through the crack in the curtains so that the shadow thrown across the room appeared like some old crone waiting to come and take you away and eat you. How many times were you warned as a child never to speak to strangers, never to get into a car with somebody you did not know and never to accept sweets from a stranger? Do you recall how this conjured up images of smelly old men in stained raincoats who waited to abduct you and spirit you away to be locked up who knows where? Perhaps there was that house on your walk back from school which had attracted a certain reputation. It was run-down, the garden overgrown, with bushes spilling onto the path, the windows grimy and paint peeling. You were never sure whether anybody actually lived there. Some said that a witch resided there and she waited for children passing on their own before grabbing them and stuffing them in her cellar to starve to death. Others told tales on stormy afternoons which made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, about the spirits that haunted the old house. A friend would swear that he had walked past, one wet and windy evening, just as it was going dark and he saw the face of a ghostly child staring at him from an upstairs window, the child’s spectral hands knocking against the window as if requesting help. After hearing that tale you took a different route home from school so you did not have to pass this particular house anymore. If that was not possible, you would run past, head down, shouting at the top of your voice to drown out any strange sounds that might come from the trapped ghost child, as you dared not even look towards the house. Fear often stalked your childhood and resulted in sleepless nights, nightmares and a reluctance to go to bed. Do you remember being sent to bed and staring up the stairs towards the darkness wondering what was waiting for you? How you did not want to appear scared in front of your parents (especially since they had let you stay up a while longer because you were a “big boy/girl” now). You wanted to hand those words back as you hovered at the base of the stairs, the hallway colder than the living room from which you had ventured. How many times did the noise of the house settling, resulting in strange groans and creaks convince you that somebody was waiting out of sight in a doorway, their heavy booted foot resting on the squeaky floorboard, rusty axe clutched in greasy, long-nailed fingers?  Did the sight of a clown have you running to hide in the folds of your mother’s dress, that strange leering and accentuated mouth creating panic in your tiny mind? What did that eerie clown have in mind for you?

It might have been a reluctance to paddle barefooted in the sea or a river because you could not see where you were putting your feet. You felt something brush your foot, most likely seaweed, but in your mind some razor-toothed fish was about to take a bite from your ankle or a crab was about to affix a pincer to your big toe. You turned and ran hollering from the edge of the sea back to the safety of the sandy beach. There may have been a murderer’s alleyway in your town, a badly-lit passageway between two roads which was a convenient and easy short cut during the day but a night the purported preserve of lurking knife merchants and yellow-toothed stranglers who were just waiting to pounce and take your life. You stood staring down the alleyway trying to drive the rising fear from you but it just would not go and instead you opted to walk the long way around. It took twenty extra minutes but at least you got home safely.

Fear continued to stalk your life as you grew older. You might not be worried about the bogeyman anymore but he has shapeshifted into the fear that comes with finding a lump about your body and not knowing what it is. Uncertainty about the business for whom you work has you tossing and turning at night. Wondering where the next pay check will come from has you similarly fearing for the future. Walking alone along a road at night and hearing footsteps behind you still causes your heart rate to increase. A glance over your shoulder as you cross the road to the over pavement only serves to heighten your worry as a hooded figure also crosses the road. Your step quickens as your fear increases and your mind floods with images of robbery, rape or murder. When alone in the house at night the sound of a bang from downstairs has you sat bolt upright in bed. What was that noise? Did you dream it? Was it somebody breaking in? Was it something not of this world, a poltergeist perhaps hurling a book against a wall. You cannot see what caused the noise and immediately the fear forms in the pit of your stomach, your racing mind conjuring up a score of unpleasant scenarios as you debate creeping to the top of the stairs and peering down to see if you can ascertain what it was.

Fear takes hold of you and makes your reasoning faulty. It tightens around your throat stopping you from calling out and turns your legs into stone so you are figuratively petrified and unable to escape that unseen tormentor. Fear withers you, paralyses you and you will do anything at all to escape that sensation of fear. It is pervasive, damaging and controlling.

Your greatest fears always stem from the unknown. It is that which you cannot see which causes you the greatest terror. When you cannot see something you are plunged into fear, its icy grip takes hold and you crumble. The unknown and the unseen create the fear. That is why we are so devastatingly effective in our control of you. That is why we create such numbing fear in you.

Exorcise the Ghost

 

 

medieval

 

Banish the beast !

The narcissist may be physically gone but his or her influence remains and it hurts. Whether you have escaped the narcissist or you have been cruelly discarded, the period thereafter is difficult, worrying and painful. Why can’t you move on? Why do you keep thinking about them? How can we exert such a hold over you for months afterwards? Why can’t you get him or her out of your mind? Why do you see them everywhere you look? Why does it feel like he or she is still buried deep in your heart? Most importantly of all, what can you do to get rid of this feeling? This is the answer. Through the narcissist’s perspective you will understand why you have been infected, why it is so effective and how you can successfully exorcise the narcissist from your heart and soul.

US  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01I5I8BZE

UK   https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01I5I8BZE

CAN  https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B01I5I8BZE

AUS  https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B01I5I8BZE

Ghosts

ghosts-2

 

Whether you believe in ghosts or not, we certainly behave with certain similar attributes. We appear out of thin air. It is similar to how you can never remember the beginning of a dream can you? You cannot remember quite how we appeared. We just did. We seemed to coalesce into your life with the ease of a ghost walking through a wall. We arrive and ghost into your life. In the same way as seeing a ghost, when you experience us, it is not an event that you will forget in a hurry. We sidle up to you, insert ourselves into our lives and make connection after connection with you as we feed from you. Like some wraith we attach outselves to you and steadily begin to suck the life force from you as we gorge on the fuel that you provide.

Often we will vanish just as we arrived, without any warning or announcement and try as you might you cannot find us again. It is as if we have disappeared off the face of the earth. Naturally we chose the moment of our vanishing act without any concern for its effect on you. We slip away like a mist evaporating. Once we were everywhere, woven around you and captivating you. Much in the same way as one might be transfixed by the appearance of some spirit. You are entranced by our appearance, there is something ethereal and mysterious about us that causes you to be drawn to us and then we are gone.

We are that elusive spirit that can now not be found. You might go to the same place where we first manifested but there is no sign of us. We have left no footprint, no trace of our existence when you try and seek us out, just like our spectral cousins and then suddenly we have returned. We ghost back into your life and continuing our haunting of you. We are incessant and ever present, drifting about you as we resume our extraction of fuel. We resume our draining of your spirit, leeching it from you as our cold, dead hands take hold of you once again.

People have many theories as to what ghosts are if they indeed exist. Some suggest that where there has been a sudden explosion of emotion, a heightened experience, then an imprint has been made on the fabric of existence. This imprint appears to those who are attuned to seeing it. That imprint is seen doing the same thing over and over again. It walks the same route, passes through the same wall and then vanishes only to appear the next night in the same place. The spirit follows the same routine like a piece of video film stuck in an endless loop. Just like such a ghost we engage in the same behaviours over and over again. The same actions all designed to haunt you as we extract our fuel. The same gestures, the same actions all of which must be replayed. Some believe that a ghost is the soul of someone who has suffered eternal damnation. He or she has been denied entry to heaven or hell and instead has been consigned to walk the earth for eternity, stuck in an unceasing routine. Our endless quest for fuel finds us in such a similar position. We must make our way through life, restless and never finding peace. We move from place to place, unable to rest and be satisfied. Instead we are driven onwards, plagued by the curse of our need for fuel. Thus we must haunt others, our appearance bringing dread and fear in the same way as terror follows the appearance of a spectre.

Unable to quite fit in we are ghost at the feast. Even when we have vanished there is a lingering coldness that strikes you to your core. You still sense us, able to feel the effect of our chilling appearance. You are wary and anxious as you know we will appear once again. Quite when is a mystery but as we first arrived and as we first disappeared we will ghost into your life and continue our haunting of you. Better consult that exorcist.

Read and understand all about narcissists from the best source possible. A narcissist himself.

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