Head Under Heel

© 2004 Scott Coates
All rights reserved.

I spend much of my idle time thinking up new tortures for my demon. I take another drag off my cigarette and blow it out into the cold night air. The smoke holds together longer than the frost of my breath and floats up, vaguely obscuring the bright winter stars. I stand alone on the back porch. Distant gray streetlights are dimly reflected in the glaze of ice that coats the snow, making it look like cheap, fake plastic.

Down below, in the basement, my demon is waiting. Waiting in fear, I think, of the pain of my vengeance; trapped in the grip of an alien emotion, so used to delivering hopelessness and despair, always in control. I have taught it to fear.

Wizards of old trapped them in gems (nothing more than shiny stones) that would release them if shattered, but they were much more insidious while imprisoned, preying on man's greed to incite slavery and murder. Modern-day alchemists have learned the trick of imprisoning them in little white rocks.

I carelessly released my demon with the touch of a flame: his prison melted and he was released, taking form in a cloud of smoke. In my blindness, I was not aware of him until it was too late. He was a fleeting shadow, a prick of desperate misery at the root of my brain. Sometimes I heard his laughter in the sharp sizzle of the pipe. I once thought I saw him swimming in the brown poison in my syringe, mouth gaping to receive my blood as it was pulled in a crimson plume from my vein.

I was caught long before I realized it; its hunger became my own, controlling me, driving me to places I never thought I'd go, hurting everyone I loved, destroying my dreams. With every hit, every drink, every prick of the needle, each insane act committed in the name of obsession, I lost part of my soul. The demon bit and tore and devoured it piece by piece until it resembled nothing more than a tattered scrap of tissue caught on a dead branch and whipped, directionless, by the wind. Right at the increasingly blurred border between reality and delusion I could hear the wind whistling mournfully within my empty flesh, like the sound that's made by blowing across the lip of an empty glass bottle.

I remembered being a strong man, with principles and morals and integrity solid as a block of granite. These were slowly ground away to powder between the mortar and pestle of my addictions; and I knew it. I could see it happening so clearly but was powerless to stop it. This realization was fuel for my demon's glee. I was tormented cruelly with thoughts of "what if" and "if only." How can I describe the pain? How does one scream on paper?

Addiction is the Fifth Horseman, a servant of Pestilence, and I was his steed, his slave. But the world was not ending: just my world, like fireworks sizzling in cold water; like a rainbow sinking, hissing into a wide, dark river of hopelessness, insanity and death. But I could not die—I was not allowed to. My demon was enjoying every waking moment and even learned the trick of invading my sleep with nightmares of battle with forces too strong and opponents too large to conquer; of devouring monsters that bled through the walls with gaping jaws and needle teeth.

There was no escape. Everywhere I went, my demon was with me. People would look on me and pass judgments of hurt and disgust, and all the while my eyes screamed: it's not me; not me!

But it was me—me and my demon. I was trapped in an invisible cage of loneliness and despair. And so the world moved on without me, spinning through infinite space, supporting real lives that seemed to have meaning and direction.

After a time, I realized that I was becoming my demon. I swam with him in the bottom of the bottle. I walked with him down dark, forsaken streets, always searching, constantly hungry, driven by a need that was as destructive as it was irrational. There was no such thing as faith and hope; there was no God. I became the one trapped in the little white rock.

The end came in a tiny motel room in a broken part of the city. I sat on the edge of the bed staring at the ruined carpet, vaguely anxious at the sound of familiar chaos in the street just outside the door. The threadbare curtains were shut tightly and braced by pillows.

My works sat on the nightstand, waiting.

I held the pistol between my knees in both hands and thought about what I had become. I remembered all of my failed attempts at escape. There was no way out ... well, I knew one way.

I raised the gun into my field of view and felt the weight of it—the weight of freedom, I thought. Thus I had sat, on many occasions, trying to think of some other way. I always found a reason, some small ray of reason, not to do it. That feeble ray had finally dimmed and turned as black as the cold, unfeeling steel that I held in my hands.

I had heard in a movie somewhere not to put the barrel in your mouth. It might not kill you that way; you might just end up a vegetable—just another burden on family and society. I had had enough of that already; that was why I was doing this.

I checked the gun yet again for the saving bullets (all there) before pushing the barrel into the soft flesh under my jaw. The demon climbed higher for a better view. It was heavy now, and its weight bowed my head, increasing the pressure against the barrel.

As I closed my eyes for the last time, I thought of all the things I had never done, never seen. The children I never had. The dreams left to litter forgotten alleyways. I applied pressure to the trigger. Tears forced their way around my clenched lids and ran down, falling, soaking into the stained carpet. My demon hissed eagerly at my ear, and shifted his weight to the side so it could read the pain on my face and still be able to view maximum gore.

As I increased the tension and the hammer traveled back to its critical place, my mother's face appeared in my mind: patient, loving, kind; afraid. What would it be like for her when the long-expected call finally came? Would she feel anger? grief? Would she be relieved? I pictured her standing over my casket cursing me, cursing God, that her son should die before her, after having lived so little. In that moment, I hesitated.

Grunting in frustration, the demon loosened his hold and smacked the back of my head, afraid of being robbed again of this final victory. Already so near the firing point, the sudden jerk was all that was needed. The hammer snapped home ... and nothing. A misfire. I know now that I was saved by a God that at that time I didn't even believe existed.

We froze for a moment—me and my demon—and then I struck. I dropped the pistol and reached back with both hands, grabbing him by the neck and under his upraised arm. He twisted and tried for a new grip, but it was too late. I pulled and ripped him from my back. It hurt—badly; he was strong and well-entrenched, but I was fighting for my soul. I threw him to the floor and stomped down as hard as I could as he scrambled to get away. I smashed him again and again, hearing bones snap, years of anger breaking loose all at once, my hopeless despair suddenly converted to blind rage. The boots I wore, and still wear today, are equipped with steel toes and hard soles. I put them to use, taking fierce satisfaction from each crushing blow, each cry of helpless agony. I had suffered more humiliation and pain than any human being should ever have to bear, and now, right at my feet, was the source of my torment. Each bitter memory was punctuated by the hammer blows of my boot: This is for my mother's pain; for making me hate myself; for shattered hopes, and lost dreams. For my shredded soul, and broken mind. This is for making my father cry. This is for Jennifer; for Kristen; and for everyone else I ever loved and lost. For all of the stolen days and tortured nights of my poor, lost, pathetic life, I hammered him.

I would like you to know that I am not a violent or hateful man. I have never sought to hurt anyone or destroy that which wasn't my own. But I loved the sound his helpless cries, the feel of my merciless brutality; and it would never be enough—never enough to repay him for all I had lived through. The satisfaction was enormous, and I never wanted it to end. Green demon blood joined the mosaic of stains in the filthy carpet.

Exhausted, I collapsed onto the bed. My demon lay quiet and unmoving, but I knew that it wasn't dead. I'm not sure if its really possible to kill a demon. They are by nature resilient and self-perpetuating, but I take great pleasure in this fact today: it prolongs my enjoyment.

The motel room, once so familiar, seemed suddenly alien and frightening. I had to get out. I lifted his broken form and stuffed him into my backpack, then went and washed the blood from my hands. I threw the key on the bed and went out into the chill dark. I left my works on the nightstand.

I live in the bowels of the city, in a house with a broken porch and peeling paint; it's all I can afford. Over time, I've grown comfortable here. It's my home.

I returned to my house that night and locked the door. I could feel small stirrings through the canvas that was pressed against my back. I flipped the switch at the top of the basement steps and went down. The pack hit the floor heavily, eliciting a muffled groan. I undid the straps and spilled him face down onto the dirty cement floor. He struggled weakly to push himself up on broken arms. I pinned him down with my foot as I scanned the room for some way to contain him. My eyes fell on a sheet of dirty plywood that leaned against the far wall. I stomped down with all of my weight and gave kind of a little hop, the sole of my boot staying in contact with his back, smashing him flat. Reasonably certain that he wasn't going anywhere fast, I went and got the plywood.

On a shelf overhead was a dull gray metal box that contained a few miscellaneous tools. I took the wood and the toolbox and went back to where he lay still. I laid the plywood on the ground next to him and turned him over onto it with the toe of my boot, then planted my foot squarely on his chest. He seemed so much smaller than I always imagined. My size twelves nearly covered his entire torso: the toe at the top of his breastbone and the heel at his crotch. From the toolbox I took a ball peen hammer and a few four-inch finishing nails. I crouched down, my foot still on his body, my other knee next to him on the wood. The feel of the first nail piercing the bones of his wrist brought him to abrupt consciousness. He writhed and hissed, but I held him firmly in place until he was nailed securely to the wood.

I removed my foot and knelt there looking down into his hate-filled eyes. He was fully awake now and becoming increasingly aware of this unlikely turn of events. I lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke as we both contemplated the situation. He did not take it well. He was not used to being the one that felt powerless, and he didn't like it. I, on the other hand, was enjoying it immensely.

Defiant, he hissed and spit, trying to frighten me with fierce snarls and sharp fangs. But all of my fears had been burned from me long ago through years of suffering that had become the norm: familiar pain. He became even angrier when I blew the next cloud of smoke into his face.

I knelt, smoking, while I fingered the deep and aching wounds on my shoulders and back.

Through his snarling, I realized I could hear words: "I've got you; I'll always have you. To death and beyond I will own you."

On impulse, I jammed the lit end of my smoke into his left eye. It sizzled and gave off a tiny puff of steam. He howled in pain and rage as I leaned over him in fierce satisfaction. Abruptly, he let loose a steaming stream of hot piss. I pulled back my head and threw my hands before my face. It burned like acid. To this day, I bear the scars all down my arms and on the backs of my wrists and hands.

It laughed through its pain: "Ha, ha! Got you again! Ha, ha!"

The ball peen hammer put a stop to its arrogant glee. I smashed down repeatedly on the source of the offending stream until I was certain that nothing more would be coming at me from that direction. His pain was excruciating and a joy to see. His black demon eyes rolled in agony; his abrasive screams echoed across the concrete.

It felt amazingly good.

I had a new purpose.

I went to work with the hammer, smashing knees and elbows into fleshy pulp and shards of bone.

What a rush!

That was several weeks ago, and I feel that I have hardly begun to pay him back. I have since moved the plywood onto the worktable against the wall. His head is clamped securely in my vise—how fitting.

In the beginning, I used the small inventory of tools that were there at hand. The needlenosed pliers were perfect for capturing his forked tongue. I thought of all the lies and evil words whispered into my brain as I tore it out by the root. The hammer is great for venting on the days when the memories of my past come back strong and hard—almost unbearable. I feel a powerful sense of justice when I ram the long Phillips screwdriver deep into every orifice, repeatedly, tearing up his guts as he chokes and cries.

Later, I searched my garage for new sources of inspiration. I thought at first that I would like the blowtorch the best. But when I used it, the smoke of his charring flesh smelled sickly sweet, like burning cocaine. Enraged, I grabbed the belt sander and ground the meat away from his chest right down to the gleaming bone. Pleased with the effect, but not quite satisfied, I jammed it into his crotch and hit the button.

I like to use music to set the mood, like how Beethoven inspired Little Alex to a bit of the old ultra-violence. But unlike Alex, I find Slayer and Celtic Frost to be more fitting.

Sometimes a more civilized part of my mind cries out against this torture. I am distantly afraid that I may be a sick man; that I have, once again, passed the point of no return.

But no; in my heart I know that I am not truly demented, that my enjoyment of these atrocities does not carry over into other areas of my life. No, these feelings are special—they are reserved only for my demon.

With each scream, each cry of agony, tiny scraps of my soul escape like fragile wisps of vapor and flee to rejoin me, filling the agonizing void inside. And so, slowly, I become whole again.

But he doesn't die. Not that I want him to—yet—but it is very strange. No matter what I do to him, he always seems to have regained enough strength to mewl in fear when he hears my boots thumping down the wooden basement steps.

I take a final puff off my cigarette and flick it out into the dark. It bounces on the hard crust of ice and lies there in stark silhouette on the snow underneath. I stand staring at it for a moment, thinking.

It's time to move on. Time to pick of the shards of my shattered life and get on with it as best I can.

Ironically, with the decision comes confusion. I feel lost and directionless; without purpose.

What is life, anyway?

What makes it all worthwhile?

Is it too late for me?

There's only one way to find out. Just do it. Venture out and do the best I can. With all that I have been through, what can anything in this world do to me? I should be dead, or worse (I spent a long time worse than dead), so what is there in this world to be afraid of?

I turn, decided, and enter the house. The back door opens right at the top of the basement steps, and I notice right away that something is wrong. Below, the basement is dark. I flick the switch a couple of times, but only the light at the top of the steps responds. At the bottom, the darkness stays firm.

Perhaps the bulb at the bottom has burned out. I dismiss this thought, remembering that I had left other lights on down there and I am sure that they didn't all burn out at once. Although my demon hates the bright light, I use low-watt bulbs to set the mood for torment; but even these would shed enough light to be easily visible from where I stand.

A sense of dread fills my heart as I stand frozen with my hand on the light switch. Somehow he has broken free. He's somewhere down there in the dark, waiting.

My first thought is to leave; just open the door and get out. Fuck the house, fuck my possessions (not that I have all that much, anyway)—none of them are worth going back to the torment of my past existence. Inside, I can feel my soul tremble.

But then I realize that is how I have always dealt with fear: Fuck Everything And Run; a fitting acronym for my past behaviors. A sense of calm settles over me. I know in my heart that I can't run anymore. Never again. I will face my demon head on and with eyes open. Whatever it takes, I will never relive the hell in which I dwelt for so long. From now on I will Face Everything And Recover.

I retrieve a heavy black flashlight from the cupboard at the top of the stairs. Its weight feels good in my hand, evoking a sense of confidence. The stairs creak loudly beneath my weight. I pause near the bottom and push the button on the flashlight. The beam is strong and bright. Tiny shards of glass reflect pinpoints of light back at me from the floor of the basement: the remains of the light bulb. I turn the beam toward the ceiling to get a look at the light socket. It is empty except for a few sharp points of glass that surround the burnt filament.

I step down onto the cement floor and push the door the rest of the way open with the toe of my boot. I step forward and slam it hard against the wall in the hope that I will catch the demon hiding behind it and pin him there. Nothing.

I gather my courage and enter the basement, sweeping the nearby floor and ceiling with the beam of the flashlight. Still nothing. I focus it next on the worktable across the room. There is my toolbox and the empty vise. From this distance, I can see no clue of how it escaped, but it is clearly no longer there. The final shreds of hope and denial fall away—my demon is loose.

I step fully into the basement and shut the door, cutting off all light from the top of the stairs. I can no longer live like this. It must end here.

I would like to believe that the only outcome can be that just one of us will leave this basement; that this is going to be a fight to the death for which life will go to the victor. But there are worse things than death. I know. And I feel in my heart that my demon does not want me dead now. He wants to pay me back for all I have done to him. He wants to be in control. If that happens, all of the things that I have done to him, the tortures, the agony, the humiliation, will pale in comparison.

I say a silent prayer, my first real prayer since childhood, and advance into the dark.

In the cupboard under my worktable I keep a lantern, an antique relic that uses kerosene. I keep it around in case the power ever fails. It is actually quite bright and will be of more help in this circumstance than the narrow beam of the flashlight.

Halfway across the room I think I hear something: a brief, stealthy sound that is so slight that I can't be certain if it was real or just my imagination. I stop and hold my breath, waiting for it to move again, but the only sound is that of my blood rushing in my ears.

My heart hammers my ribcage as a double dose of adrenaline is released into my bloodstream. I must not panic. I have to keep my cool, no matter what. Demons thrive on fear and anguish—it makes them stronger, and they have learned tricks to multiply it many times in the hearts of their victims.

I tell myself that I am not a victim, not anymore; and I almost believe it.

I can't allow the demon to sense my uncertainty. But it's already too late for that. A hiss steeped in malice bounces, sourceless, about the room. I turn and shine the flashlight all around me; at the floor and at the ceiling.

I can't see him, I don't know where he is.

The hiss becomes laughter that brims with hateful arrogance and confidence.

I'm starting to panic.

I speed across the remaining width of the room to the worktable and frantically scrabble at the front of the cupboard, my back horribly exposed. I can't find the damn handle!

There is a loud metallic bang and the sound of quick movement, and I realize too late that he's been hiding on top of the ductwork just over my head. In my rush to turn and get away, my feet become tangled and I fall to my knees—damn size twelves!

The ductwork pops again and I turn halfway around and look back in time to see my hammer spinning down into the dull glow of light that is reflected from the basement floor. There is a burst of color and then momentary darkness as it hits me right in the forehead. I'm falling, and I hit the floor hard, which jars me back to consciousness. My vision clears almost instantly, but I wish that it hadn't. Following the trajectory of the hammer is the demon, claws outstretched, eyes wide with hatred; its face made all the more horrible from the disfigurement that I have inflicted upon it. It's going to fall right on my back! I roll quickly, but this only brings my face in line with its descent. I throw my hands up at the last instant and the claws hit my palms, piercing straight through, like the God-man who died so long ago for sake of my Salvation. Where is He now? I cry out to Him, in reflex. I have denied Him for so long that I am sure that even if He exists, He will turn His back on me now.

The demon is growling ferociously as it tries to work its claws loose, but my hands have reflexively tightened into fists and we are temporarily locked together. I feel drops of blood splatter on my face. One drop hits my eye and I'm half-blind. There are terrified animal sounds emanating from my throat, but they seem distant and unreal. I try to push him away, but we are faced with the same dilemma: locked together again in a struggle of life and unlife.

The claws on its feet are shredding the sleeves of my thick, black leather, and it occurs to me that I should have pulled them out long ago. I don't know—I guess I was saving them for last, never realizing that this could ever happen. Once again, denial had blinded me to the realities of my war-torn life.

Frustrated, the demon bends down and bites my hand. Had I not broken out most of its teeth, two of my fingers would surely have been severed. As it is, the jagged shards that are left are enough to penetrate to the bone. I cry out in pain, and my body reflexively does what I hadn't the sense to do: sit up.

For all of the ferocity of its attack, the demon is still small and weak from its long ordeal. I instinctively time my response to his struggles and pull my right hand back and away. The claws and teeth tear loose, ripping out skin and muscle, completing the Christ-like hole. The pain is incredible but distant as survival takes priority.

I move my left hand crazily, avoiding his teeth. The back claws have found a better purchase in the tops of my thighs, and my blue jeans are no match for them. He fastens his free hand to my left forearm and lunges with his head toward my wrist with the intent of severing tendons and arteries. I roll sideways and pin his head to the floor with my ruined right hand. I place my knee over his shoulders, immobilizing his arms, and rip my other hand free. Now my palms match, finishing the illusion of crucifixion.

The demon is struggling wildly, ripping at my leg, threatening serious damage. As I look down, I see his eye roll toward me with a look that is powerfully familiar. It's a look I have seen many times in my reflection on the occasions on which I had the stomach to look at it, or saw by accident in a dirty motel room mirror as I hit the pipe. It is desperation.

Focus and resolve settle over my mind and still all traces of panic. The flashlight lays close to hand and I grasp it with my left hand and bring it down hard, moving my right hand just in time to allow the blow to land on the side of its head. Pain shoots through my hand, and I almost lose my grip on the rough metal cylinder. It is slick with blood, and my fingers are not working properly; they will not close tightly enough to do the job. I place the heel of my right hand at the butt of the flashlight and throw my weight into next blow.

The demon twists and tries to escape, but I push it flat and pin it to the floor with both knees on its shoulders. Its gruesome face stares up at me, helpless and desperate. Then rage fills me and my mind is detached from my actions, and I'm pounding, pounding, pounding down with the heavy flashlight. Bones crack and snap; the demon's lower jaw breaks loose from its pinnings and twists over to the side, unnaturally.

I finally stop and let loose an bestial cry rife with anger, fear, and desperate relief. I just want it all to end. I'm tired of the pain, the memories, the self-deprecation and self-pity; I'm tired of the anger. It's time for it to end.

My body is wracked with loud, heavy sobs as a nearly unbearable flood of feelings pours up from my soul.

Incredibly, I begin to feel horrified at what I have done. It's not pity, or sympathy for the evil beast—I don't think I will ever be capable of that—but I no longer wish to be the bringer of pain for anyone or anything. It's time for it all to end.

The demon goes back into the sack, and I carry it up and out into the back yard. I have a fire pit prepared for just this purpose. A large can of kerosene sits close-by.

I rest the pack on a bed of sticks and wooden pallets, then cover it with more wood. I use the kerosene to ensure an easy light. The pyre burns high into the night sky, and even the melting snow on all sides is not sufficient to slow the blaze.

As I watch the flames leap half as high as the house, I realize that this may be a bit of overkill, but then, I suppose that overkill is in my nature.

I somehow manage to pull out a cigarette, and I retrieve a burning stick from the fire to light it. The filter is blood-soaked, and I can barely get a hit. I puff it hard, completely focused on the glowing ember and the puffs of smoke that rise from my mouth. In the smoke, for only a second, I see a familiar shape. It is broken and lacks definition, but still I recognize it. I want to believe that it was just my imagination, but I am beyond fooling myself now. I will never blind myself to anything again—especially the things that I don't want to see.

I throw the cigarette into the fire. The half-empty pack follows, and with it, the last of my chains fall away. I feel strange, an alien in my own skin. After a few minutes, I realize what it is. It's a feeling I can't remember ever having before. I realize that it is peace.

No one calls the fire in, and the police don't come through this neighborhood at night so, I watch it until it burns itself out, then I stir the ashes and add more kerosene. I light it up three more times, just to be sure.

Today, I sit outside on the front porch with the morning sun warming my face. It's hard to hold the pen, hard to grip it with my crippled hand, but with some effort, I make it work. I want to write all of this down so that I will never forget. It may seem strange that I worry that I might not remember where I came from, the hell I lived in every day; that I might forget the tortures of my escape—a miracle, really. But the days pass and life goes on, and the feelings are not so fresh anymore. Not fresh enough to frighten me. Perhaps this is a healthier form of denial that will allow me to get on with my life with a measure of security and dignity. An assertive voice in my head tells me that I must never lose sight of my past, lest I run the risk of repeating it. And as ridiculous a prospect as that sounds, I am going to take it seriously. I have good reason.

I still see my demon sometimes. I see him in the desperate eyes of addicts who walk down my street and pass my house, their shoulders bent under the weight of their jailor. Sometimes I try to reach out to them; try to tell them that they, too, can escape; but they avoid my advances, sometimes becoming angry and defiant; trapped within their poisoned thoughts. And when I look into their faces, I see myself, just as surely as my reflection will appear in a dirty motel mirror should I ever choose to go back and look. And it reminds me.

But there's more, and I feel that I have to confess: sometimes I miss it. Sometimes. I miss the chaos, the danger and excitement; the escape. Life is full of sensations and emotions that I never knew existed; some are good, some bad—almost all of them are strange and uncomfortable.

I pray a lot. I pray for new ways to cope with a world that I never learned to be a part of; that I make it through the hard days, and find a greater appreciation of the good ones—even to learn how to find the good in the bad ones, if you see what I mean.

Actually, now that I stop to think about it—there really are no bad days, after all.

I am alive; I am free. Today, I have a something I never had before: a chance. With all I've been through, I now have something to keep the rest of life's troubles in perspective.

I like that idea.

And so I write this all down. So I will never forget.

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