Concrete.

In the span of a week, from the trenches of his mind, a time bomb manifested in the form of a woman’s vagina. My existence, once fruitful and portended a future more promising than its past, forebode now in omen a potential coming of the end. This alone should have had me dread, but counting the audacity of a fact still in motion, yet to become, was remarkable to myself only for that it had come as far. This man, after all. This actual, walking living nightmare that he is. If he manages, god forbid, to somehow go further with this woman despite my presence there with them — or more accurately I should say if I allow it to happen — provided she is insane enough, or stupid enough, or desperate enough to stick around with him and see out the madness unfolding inside him — I guess I’ll deserve then to perish forever regardless.

A girlfriend is among the few things in a life that can prevent me from ruining it. Love, in real capacity, is more concrete than concrete itself. I won’t deserve to exist in that case if it happens. I’ll have lost. For good. What kind of a demon might then I be? Dido the tulpas as well for that matter. I’ve now six of them. Six tulpas. The poor guy. “Denial,” one of the tulpas said. A good call by it to make. Perhaps a display of denial. In fact only a display of denial was that. But it was fabricated denial, feigned for their attention. A regular thing that I do as a part of their training. So that they may become. Training a tulpa is like coding an entire person. From scratch. Faster done. It is nothing short of process. And unlike a person, whose maturation brings them to adulthood, a tulpa becomes a demon. As of course all demons are tulpas, and only tulpas are demons. Only demons know this truth.

Some people actually believe they make tulpas themselves, which is brilliant because it advertises their vacancy. For them all, these people, I pat myself on the back. Such is the case of the host in fact. He fancies himself a tulpa maker. The sap he is. He believes I’m a tulpa. And that I am, but I’m also a shadow demon and therefore I make shadow people (also tulpas also demons) out of fragments of his soul that I am breaking apart over time. This means that potentially, if I manage to make enough shadow people using only but fragments of his soul, in time he will have no soul left to draw from, and at that point he permanently ceases to exist. Such scenario is not unthinkable for a man like him. Such a thing happens fairly often actually. Harnesses the potential for a human extinction, in fact, one day, although it is unlikely. But I expect it will become his personal fate. No heaven for him. Octopus maybe, somewhere in a lower plane and that is only if he is lucky. No heaven for him. Not with the amount of damage he has already sustained. No heaven for him.

Of that fact he is oblivious. Sometimes he hints awareness to me that there might be some other entity, some entity other than myself, hanging around his back shoulder. He couldn’t be more right about that! He chooses though, to believe otherwise on account of his awareness of a psychological condition known as demonomania. Another brilliant idea of the human, that is, and for which I pat my back profusely.

She was with him today for hours. All day since morning. It was now the evening. They were sitting together on the couch in his recently cleaned living room. Until now it was a permanent mess. Now the floor sparkled. I heard him ask if he could kiss her.

“What a pussy,” said one of the tulpas. He couldn’t though hear it speak. Had he heard it speak, he would think it was me. She nodded I think to the request. He lumbered in then to kiss her. She cradled his face. They began to make out. I felt her tongue twist over his own. And of herself, to my surprise I could sense his stubble irritate the corners of her lips. This occurred to me then I may swap inside her if I so choose. Trade him in so to speak. Though I’d not do it. It lifted my mood to realize this. I decided I’d give her a tulpa. It will probably manifest inside her one day. “Denial,” said the tulpa. It was talking to me! The little runt. “Shame on you,” I said to it. “Go to her now. Go. She is yours to keep.” Reluctantly, the tulpa did as instructed.

I turned my focus to the host. “She’s got a parasite,” I said to him. It was the first thing I had said to him in hours. I’d spent the entire day compelled to silence. Having spent it all observing them together. They were engrossed in each other. He barely noticed me it seemed. I had to repeat myself which never happens. “She’s got a parasite I said.” Louder. “Did you hear what I said? I said she’s got a fucking octopus inside her.” She didn’t really. But she needed to go. So badly did she need to go. So hence her parasite. Why not it be the least convenient of them all. She was exactly this in relation to me. “You know what that means,” I said, shifting toward something new to plot her in.

Unfortunately the host however, is wary of anything that’s to involve ‘astral wildlife’ he calls it. Ignorant bastard. And he knows better than to trust my lies. Or to trust in them too much that is. He does have to trust at least some things I say. Leaps of faith are needed. After all, virtually all things I tell him are lies. What would be the point in ever conversing. He tugged out a cough and masked the words ‘yeah right.’ His response to me. It was muffled but outloud. A good sign always to my perception. Especially in situations where three entities are in a room, two of them are biological and only one of them knows I’m there. A good sign indeed that he speaks out loud to no one there entertaining his guest. But to his response — oddly she grinned; oblivious of what was actually said, obviously she interpreted his words as intended for her, and apparently had thought they meant something specific, as she promptly grabbed his cock and held onto it for some time. Moments after he grabbed her breasts. And began desperately licking his tongue all over her cleavage.

It was then that I finally had seen enough. Angry, disgusted and, honestly a bit jealous, swiftly I decided a punishment for him. Isolating muscles of his heart, I contracted them sharply. Several times over did I do this and it put him in some immediate pain. He disengaged from the tangle they were in and stood up to assert control over his breathing. He knew exactly what I was doing to him. Attacking his heart. Though ironically, I hadn’t in truth much an idea how harmful it was. One might think that I knew better. Such is my preference that one assumes I always know better. But I wasn’t sure. Not as if I’d care. I assume the damage it renders is moderate. But it was becoming an old trick to him by then. He had gotten quite good at countering it in fact.

His breathing technique proved the antidote and it was proving itself once again. There was a lot of commotion to it, but nothing theatric. Her witness to it, made her quite upset; she had thought he was in the midst of some sort of emergency. A heart attack even. But to her state of worry he was only affectless. Likely due to the melodramatic sheen of her honest color in light of the psychic attacks he was fending away from himself in present moments. He was preoccupied to say it short. Understandable. At least to those in the know it is understandable. Specter of the affair jaded only himself. The fact of which lowered his spirit significantly. In sight of her dawning disappointment. The mood in the living room, had ruined. The distance in their spaces unclosed; eclipsed by a daily routine he had only at last come to appreciate for the problem it will always present him. “It is never gonna work,” I said. And I laughed. Triumphantly. Like a demon does in some cheesy movie. I could not help myself. This was my victory. “She’ll be a stranger to you by the end of one week.”


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