I’m not sure the proper way to post this or where to post it, but I’m doing this on behalf of my brother and this seems like the best way to get his story out. He’s always been kind to me and others, but he’s battled something I can’t explain any better than the words you’ll read below. By the time he talked to me about this, it was too late to do anything. I feel helpless. I’m sure he did as well for all these years. Other than this post, I really don’t know what else to do.

He asked me to transcribe this exactly as he told it and let his story speak for itself. I made a promise to my brother, and I intend to keep it. Word for word, this is how he dictated it. If you finish reading this and want to help, I guess the least I can ask of you is to pray. Please pray for my brother. No one deserves this.

​

I guess the best way to start is at the beginning. Ever since I was a little, and I mean real little, like the toddler years, my existence on this pathetic excuse of a rock has been miserable in some form or fashion. Growing up, life felt off. An insurmountable umbrage during the day, especially bright and sunny days. I didn’t really enjoy playtime like my parents said I would. Running around felt hopeless. Toys were just lifeless objects whose only purpose was to placate me for a moment. When my parents looked at me, I could see it in their eyes. They were tired. Hopeless even. There was always a spark of hope that blew out the second I didn’t react in some way they would come to describe as “normal”. They kept trying, though; in the end, it never worked. While the day had its own trials to battle, the nighttime was the worst of it.

I couldn’t dream.

And when I did, I would awake screaming and terrified.

My parents took me to doctor after doctor and child therapists and psychologists in an attempt to garner literally any modicum of a sense as to what was wrong with me. Some prescribed sleep medications. Some called it “night terrors”. One suggested I’ve had depression since I was about the age of 4. Mom and Dad found it hard to believe that was possible, but the doctors assured them it was a possibility. The amount of time and effort and strain they exerted trying to help me never ceased. All that did was make me feel guilty. Around the time I started to recognize this, the voices started.

I grew up in a lower middle-class family, so we didn’t exactly have enough money to afford all the visits I would have to the aforementioned doctors. Hell, they couldn’t even afford a sitter when they had to go to work. My sister, a few years older than me, used to watch me when mom and dad were gone as both of them had jobs to keep us afloat. Mom and Dad would pick up graveyard shifts from time to time to get a full 8 hours during the daytime; the times when I was more manageable. The night time made it impossible for both to sleep; so, much like work, they took turns bearing the weight. Mom would try to comfort me as I screamed bloody murder. My Dad just held my hand and cried, at least according to my sister.

I think my sister saw the most of it, and thus she tried the hardest to figure it out. She would pry a lot, which I knew she was just trying to help; but it didn’t. Describing emotions and thoughts I had wouldn’t remove the crushing weight I felt from them; on the contrary, it built them up. I stopped speaking about them around age 8, when the voices started.

Along with feeling off each day, I would hear them. At first, it was just whispers on the wind. Telling me my life has no meaning. That it was pointless, as were my endeavors. No one actually loved me. Their lives would be better off without me.

Despite all this, I did ok enough in school. I tried my best to excel, and usually held a decent average. Not high enough to stand out, but not low enough to place me in a special class. English was my best subject and was typically the biggest discussion during parent-teacher conferences. Based on my writings, my teachers knew there was a good kid inside, they just didn’t know how to “break the mold” so to speak. They noticed my quiet demeanor and tried to get me to play with others and see if they could get me out of my shell. They used that phrase a lot. I tried my best to be what my parents called “kind” and “polite” to the other kids, and they were always nice to me. Their words, though, were always drowned out by the replies of the voices. Because of this, I didn’t really make any friends through school. My parents shared my medical history with my teachers and the school board in hopes that someone would notice something and figure out the problem.

Hell, you’re reading this, so you already know nothing ever came to fruition.

They couldn’t pin it on anything specific, so they could do nothing.

Around 10 years old my teachers started to notice I was squinting a lot whenever I was sat at the back of class, and I often sat back there to “avoid being noticed” as they put it. They mentioned to my parents I might need to see an eye doctor, and I went shortly after. Turns out I was near sighted and was prescribed glasses. I’d be remiss to ignore it felt better with them on for those first couple hours as I could finally see the sharpness of the world around me. I’d just always thought things were blurry the further they were. Like the human eye could only see so far.

For a few moments, things seemed ok. Mom and dad said I’d actually smiled, genuinely, when the doctor tested out my vision with the glasses on. We’d stopped and got ice cream on the way home, and I remember for just a second enjoying that ice cream. For the first time actually enjoying something.

It didn’t last long though. When we got home, the temperature started to drop as a cold front was moving in. The man on the radio had said the front was bringing a thunderstorm with it but that it would be gone by morning. The sky to the West grew darker as we made our way home. When we got out of the car and walked towards the door, I heard them on the wind. Angrier. More sadistic in nature. They spoke as if through gritted, snarling teeth. Like they wanted me dead. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep at all that night. And neither did my sister.

I had complained of pinching, itching, even scratching and scraping feelings I had while laying down trying to sleep. My sister had looked over my arms, legs, torso, and back but found nothing. I knew it was the voices, but I didn’t know how. And there was no evidence that this was happening. I told my therapist about it the next day, and the following night they were worse. I logged that in my mind as another thing to not speak about. They wouldn’t let me.

I continued to visit the eye doctor in the coming months. It seemed the longer I wore the glasses, my peripheral vision was degrading. When the doctor moved his finger further past my line of direct site, it would fade and disappear. Each time I went back, it would fade sooner and sooner after leaving the site of the lenses. Around the lenses there was just a void. The void diminished when I removed the glasses, but it was still there.

Around 12 years old I started to feel as if something was in the void, watching me. Perched in the background. Waiting for the night. Waiting for me to remove my glasses.

I was willing to try anything at this point. My sister, my mom, and my dad were all exhausted anytime they looked at me. There wasn’t malice in their eyes, but I could tell I was an anchor hanging around their collective necks. So I went to bed one night with my glasses still on my head. That night I had slept through, dreamless but a full night’s sleep nonetheless. I felt better in the morning, but couldn’t shake that feeling of something hiding on the edges of my line of sight. I kept on this way for the better part of that year.

Shortly before my 13th birthday, my glasses broke sometime in the middle of the night. Both lenses. A shattered spiderweb of clear images. Where the cracks weren’t I could see just fine. At the cracks though?

I saw them.

You can call them “shadowy figures”, “demons”, or any other verbiage that basically means “dark visions”, it doesn’t matter. They were there.

And they were furious.

I don’t know how I knew, but I knew I was right.

On the way home from school, one outstretched its hand towards me, one finger proudly protruding forward. It reached my glasses and scraped straight down the center of the lens, digging a rough trench straight down, cracking the right lens further. I saw more of them from my right eye after that.

Mom and dad were none too pleased to find my glasses in the shape they were in. They scheduled a visit with the optometrist the next day. My dad was irate. Mom just sat in silent worry.What little sleep I got that night was plagued with nightmares. I was at the age that I could finally recall them by the next day. I was running down a road, flanked on all sides by trees and shadows. I couldn’t stop. They were behind me. If I stopped, they were going to get me. I would wake up screaming the second they were on me, clutching me in an embrace that was suffocating. I awoke to find my sister holding me and stroking my hair, wet drops falling on my head. That morning, I awoke and the left lens had a similar slash across it.

I refused to take them off until the doctor basically forced me that morning. He gave me some glasses of my prescription to test my vision before proceeding with his consultation. My vision was still the same according to him, but my peripheral vision was almost completely gone for some reason. He spoke to my parents on the side to figure out how exactly the glasses broke, but neither they nor my sister had an answer. The doctor thought it might’ve been a bully at school but that it didn’t matter in the end as the glasses were still broke. My dad had asked about tougher lenses that wouldn’t damage so easily, if that was the case, but the doctor said I’d already been prescribed the best lenses on the market.

At this point he recommended we try contact lenses, and after a brief discussion my parents conceded. He showed me as well as my parents and sister how they’re put in on himself, as he wore them daily.

I took the sample glasses off and immediately the shroud around my peripheral vision gained strength. The voices started in strong, and the shadows were reaching for me. In a rush almost as if my life depended on it I put the contacts in, my breathing shallow and frequent. The second I got the left eye’s contact in something happened.

My head went quiet.

I could see the world around me in such sharp resolution.

My peripheral vision returned as if my eyes had opened for the first time in years.

The shadows were gone.

I smiled so widely the doctor flinched back, and then returned my smile.

“I think we might’ve found a solution.” He blurted out.

I turned to look at my parents, and I saw them staring in amazement. Mom started crying. I didn’t notice until I looked into their eyes that I was also crying. Smiling. It felt as if a thousand pounds had been lifted off of my shoulders, my chest.

My soul, maybe?

I jumped up and hugged my mom. My dad embraced me from behind. Their warmth spread through me, and I was filled to the brim with this feeling of ecstasy. It was the happiest moment of my life. I let go and my sister looked down at me and grabbed my shoulder and rubbed gently, tears welling up in her eyes. She could see it, could feel it. I don’t know how I knew but I knew.

We got lunch on the way home at a fast food joint down the road. I hadn’t realized until now but I was starving. I ate two hamburgers and a large fry, and even finished off my sister’s scraps. From the restaurant to home and all through the day, I could not stop talking about how great the food was, how wonderful it smelled, how much better I felt after eating. I even commented how gorgeous the day was. How great the house smelled. How beautiful trees sounded with the breeze playing at their leaves.

I went quiet around dinner time, mainly because I didn’t want to speak too much and annoy my family. I was quiet for about 10 minutes before mom spoke up.

“Are you ok, honey?”

I couldn’t help but smile, “Yeah, mom, I feel ok. Great even!” I elated.

Tears welled up in her eyes, one breaking the dam and streaming down her face to her wide-open smile. She reached out and grabbed my hand but said nothing. I don’t think she could muster any words. None of them could, but I felt their happiness around me. I knew then and there that all I wanted was to see my mom smiling. To see them all happy.

I don’t know where the shadow people went, nor do I know where the empty, off feeling I’ve had since I was a child went. I only knew one thing.

I couldn’t take my contacts out.

That night I dreamt. I dreamt of waterfalls and mountains and of ocean waves lapping at my toes and the warm, ethereal feeling the sun enveloped me in. Of that warm embrace at the optometrist office. Happiness, encasing me entirely.

The contacts the doctor had given me were supposed to last only for one day, and by the time I had woken up my eyes were red and slightly irritated. I went to the bathroom and opened the brand new box of contacts the doctor had given as samples, as the ones we ordered wouldn’t get there for a week. I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. I don’t know why, but I saw myself for the first time as I truly was. My black hair was thick. My eyes the same piercing blue of my father’s. My smile and facial structure matched my mom’s almost to a “T". Despite how insignificant and degraded I felt day to day before that, it felt good seeing the face in the mirror this way. This feeling pervaded me to my core, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

I wasn’t sure what was going to happen when I removed my contacts and put the new ones in. I thought back to how quickly the beings in the shadows started to invade once my glasses were off, so I could only imagine it would be similar to that.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I opened the two new contacts and set them beside the sink so I could grab them quickly. I hesitated, looking at my reflection one more time, taking deep breaths. I reached up and removed my right contact.

Their onslaught was immediate. My right eye’s vision started to get swallowed in darkness, and I saw them clearly. They weren’t just angry. They were pissed. Several of them reached out and started slicing at me, cutting my arm and chest and cheeks open. I couldn’t see the blood but I felt the warmth leaving my body, felt the pain and irritation at their shadowed claws. I stifled my screams and sobs as hard as I could, only a few whimpers escaping.

I tried my best to fight through the pain as I reached for the new contact and put it in. I almost couldn’t get it into my eye as their attacks heightened. At one point, one of the demons sliced my pinky finger off, or so I felt. I rushed and jammed the contact in my eye and closed my eye, hoping that it seated properly and wouldn’t fall out. The pain all over my body stopped. I blinked a few times, the relief spilling into me. They were gone.

They were only going to get stronger. It was an ironclad thought in my mind, as clear 2+2. I knew the left would be just as hard. It had to be done, and I took several long, deep breaths before making my move. This time, I perched the left contact on my middle finger so I could swiftly put it in without taking an extended amount of time reaching down for it.

Good thing, too. The second I removed my left eye’s contact, they sliced my pinky and ring finger off of my left hand. I started to scream but suffocated it with all my might. I flipped my middle finger over my left eye and shoved it towards it before they could reach my hand again. The contact seated and I closed my eyes. I blinked, and the pain once again receded. I looked at my hands and body. No missing fingers. No cuts. The shadows were gone.

I exhaled, a few tears streaming down my face and onto the bathroom counter that I was clutching as if it were a cliff wall, and I would fall if I let go.

The redness in my eyes retreated, but the slight irritation that was present that morning persisted. The best way I can describe it is that it felt like something was in my eye. Like a piece of dust or something. My dad’s allergies were horrible in the spring and fall, and he’d sometimes rub his eyes when his sinuses acted up. It was kinda like that. I wasn’t sure this irritation would go away, but I knew one thing.

I can't take my contacts out.

Not again.

Not after this.

I went a week with the contacts in, and other than the inflammation I felt in my eyes that pained me in bright sunlight and windy days, I was fine. Happy even. Being able to sleep through the night and not have the voices plaguing my every move was far worth a steady headache and soreness in my eyes. Or so I thought it was at least.

I went to the eye doctor for my follow up visit, and needless to say he was aggravated at what I had done. He explained to me, as well as my mom, that I would need to take the contacts out and replace them daily. He explained, in detail, the types of infections and bacteria that could form under the contact if I left them in for long periods of time. He spoke about the painful conditions that can form and how it can worsen. He did say it wasn’t a guarantee, but that it was pertinent that I replace them. I asked him how long someone had gone with contacts in, but he refused to tell me. Somehow, I think he knew if he told me a threshold before issues could arise, that I’d try to beat it.

He stared at me, “Son, you have to replace these daily. No exceptions, ok?”

I told him how difficult it was for me to remove them, that it was painful to do. He asked me to elaborate, but I didn’t know how I could tell him. So I didn’t. I knew no amount of sophisticated vocabulary would convince him, and I couldn’t say anything anyways.

They would hear me.

He offered to remove them himself, but I declined. I promised him I would replace them as soon as I got home. He protested, citing that he needed to inspect my eyes and take a sample of the inside of the contact to ensure no bacteria had formed nor would form. I assured him I’d be ok, that I didn’t feel anything like what he had described earlier. I promised my mom I would change them and she could hear the resolve in my voice.

“Doctor, I believe my son. He’ll change them out.”

The doctor threw his hands up in capitulation, reached under his desk and grabbed a bottle of “gel tears” and handed them to me. He told me to use them to help with the redness once I removed my contacts. We picked up the box of new contacts from his assistant and left. When I got home, I went to the bathroom with the new contacts and stared at the two new contact packets that sat on the counter. I would have to be quicker this time.

I put the new contact on my middle finger again and positioned it next to my forefinger, in hopes I could place the new one on at the same time I removed the old one. I reached with my right thumb and index finger and grasped the old contact. As I squeezed it to remove its suction to my eye, I could tell they were surrounding me. As I pulled it away from my eye, I felt something grab my wrist and hold it in place. I strained against the force, trying to push my middle finger forward enough to touch the contact to my eye. Maybe my eyelid could’ve grabbed it at the edges and pushed it onto my eye. It was worth a shot.

I barely moved my middle finger forward when the shadow figure that was holding my wrist grabbed my hand to stop all motion. Anger filled me, a fire that raged inside my chest, along with the pain of the demon now starting to claw at my back, ripping chasms into my skin. I yelled furiously, almost cried, when I jerked my head forward towards my finger.

The contact seated immediately, and the grasp on my wrist was gone as fast as it had appeared.

They were getting smarter, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do this twice.

The left contact I decided to try a Hail Mary. I put the new contact on my left index finger and brought it up to my eye. I looked to the left as hard as I could and place the contact on a bare part of my eye. It settled onto the side of my eye, and when I looked forward I felt it slide into my eye socket. Instant pain shot into my head, but I worked as fast as I could to remove the old contact. It peeled off my eye, a sticky substance trying to hold it in place. Almost as if it had glue on it to keep it there. The pain seared but I held the contact tight. When I pulled it out I threw it into the sink in defiance and spat at it. The headache that had started was now building into a migraine, and it hurt to have the lights on. I shut them off and grabbed the bottle of gel tears the doctor had given me and squeezed two drops into both eyes. The pain subsided some, but my left eye still hurt a bit. I left the bathroom and my sister was standing at the door, staring at me with concern.

“Are you ok, Tommy?” She asked, a reserved look on her face.

“Yeah, left eye just hurts a bit.” I replied, “I think I’m gonna lie down for a bit.”

She muttered ok and watched me as I walked down the hall into my room. I grabbed the bottle of over the counter migraine pills on my bedside table and took two. I laid in bed and closed my eyes. Sleep didn’t come, and my thoughts circled me.

I could feel at the edge of my mind the off feeling starting again. I thought about other possible ways to replace my contacts, but none came. I knew if I tried the Hail Mary tactic again, they wouldn’t just stop me. They might try to kill me. I don’t know how, but it once again felt concrete in my mind. I don’t know if the beings or demons or whatever the hell they were could kill me. Hell, maybe death would be welcome at this point.

At some point I drifted to sleep. When I awoke, I felt tired and exhausted. Drained of energy. My left eye still hurt, but the migraine had died down to a manageable level. I walked to the bathroom and looked at my eyes. They were bloodshot red, with the left visibly worse off than my right.

I stared at myself. I debated my future, my life, the existence we purvey to each other that it’s all worth it in the end. What about this was worth it? I debated taking the contacts out and letting the beasts that hid in the shadows to rip me apart. The voice of doubt in my mind spoke up.

What if they have no intention of killing you?

The years that had passed came to mind, and I knew I couldn’t survive any longer than I already had. It was too much. Even if the painful attacks stopped, the overwhelming weight of nothingness that swallowed me before the contacts would reach a point of unbearable and I knew I’d have to kill myself to make it end.

Does Hell exist? If I ended my life, would the demons finally have me for eternity?

I shook the thoughts off.

The future was uncertain, and the now only mattered.

And all I knew now was that I’d never be able to take my contacts out.

Months had gone by, and the condition of my left eye continued to degrade with my right eye following suit. The gel tears had ceased to improve the burning, itching feeling I had every day I kept the contacts in. Each day I awoke there was a thick, crusted substance built up on the edges of my eyelids. For the last few weeks, I had washed my eyes and scrubbed my eyelids with warm water and a wash cloth, doing my best to hide the condition of my eyes. This morning, though, my mom had woken me up and took one look at me and called the doctor immediately and then called school to say I would be out for an unforeseen amount of time.

When I walked into the doctor’s office, he let out a frustrated and defeated sigh from his first look at me. He examined my eyes thoroughly, the bright shining lights on the machine he had to use reinforced the steady headache that lumbered around in my eye sockets and frontal lobe. Aside from the pain in my eyes, I could feel blood loss from my right hand where my mother gripped it, holding on as if her life depended on it. The doctor took several samples of the fluid around my eye to confirm what he already knew. After leaving the office for what felt like an eternity, he returned with a piece of paper in his hands and a look in his eyes that confirmed I was screwed.

My mom stared at the doctor and I could feel all strength and resolve leave her body.

“Please tell me it’s treatable.” Her voice sounded miles away.

“I’m past sugar coating anything, ma’am, and you need to hear this straight.” He started, looking down at the paper and back up at her, “the contacts in your son’s eyes have now begun forming into his eyes. They have almost entirely replaced his cornea, and underneath them blood vessels have started forming into what’s left of his cornea. There’s a bacteria forming here as well, probably exacerbated by the gel tears. In short, we cannot take the contacts out now.”

“What are you saying?” She said, exasperated and beginning to cry.

“Surgery is the only thing we can consider now, and I’m recommending it immediately if we’re to attempt to save your son’s vision at all. If the surgery is successful, and that’s a big IF, he will have diminished sight in his right eye and lose sight in his left eye. If we’re unsuccessful, and his eyes are too damaged, we’ll have to remove both his eyes permanently.”

My mom broke out into sobs and a sharp pain shot through my chest. I couldn’t watch her, and I looked back to the doctor.

His glare said everything I already knew, that I had done this to myself and caused this pain, that I had once again become a burden to my family.

I felt horrible, belittled, small. The only solution I thought would fix everything ended up sowing my fate.

I asked my sister to transcribe this, and she’s sitting next to me as I lay on this hospital bed pre-operation. Mom and Dad went to get some food and to “talk” they said, and they’ve been gone quite some time. It feels pointless to try and put words to what has happened to me the past few years, but it needed to be said.

My family has never been spiritual, nor have they prescribed to any theology. We never really talked about a higher power or being that created all of this, so I’m not sure if anyone is listening beyond this plane of existence.

But please. Just please. Please. Someone? I know I don’t believe in a God, but surely there’s someone out there. There has to be right? Maybe some deity that is unlike anything described in the multitude of religious texts out there. Something or someone truly powerful. Anything?

Whatever or whoever the hell is running this fucking abhorrent shit show, can you please help? Please. Take my fucking eyes for all I care, and take this curse or hex or demonic possession or whatever it is away from me. Please.”

​

That’s when he stopped speaking and asked me to let him rest a little before the operation and I reluctantly agreed. He was in surgery for hours when the head surgeon finally walked down the hallway to us. As he was walking towards us, his gaze dropped to the floor for a moment and my heart sank. He reached us and told us there were several complications. The first being that the attempts to save my brother’s eyes were unsuccessful and that they had to remove them entirely. My mom’s face twisted into a horrified, agonized shape as my dad clutched her with one arm, the other rested on my shoulder in a grip that was hard enough to bruise my skin. The surgeon continued to deliver the bad news, stating that my brother had reacted negatively to the anesthetic they administered. He threw out a few medical terms I’m now Googling next to this document to understand what the hell happened, but the gist of it is my brother succumbed to something called “Locked-In Syndrome”.

Nurses and doctors frequently come in to test his reflexes and check in on his vitals, but say little and provide no warmth or comfort. They know the score, and I feel as if I do now as well. His pulse and blood pressure spikes occasionally, but he shows no signs of communicating with us.

Dad is asleep in the chair next to his bed, and Mom left to get some cigarettes awhile ago. She hasn’t smoked since my brother was conceived, and I’m not about to tell her not to. They’re both distraught, and neither of them fully understand what my brother went through. I have no intentions of telling them this story, because what good would it fucking do? It’d only compile the hurt they have into a whirlwind of depression and helplessness.

Please pray for my brother. I don’t know if he’s still fighting these “shadow people” as he described them or not, but please. Pray that he finds peace.

All I can do is say thank you for reading this, and thank you for the prayers if you’ve given any. – Susan