In honor of some younger versions of myself that Hecate is helping me reclaim this month, I share with you three stories I wrote several years ago. Any short fiction pieces I was inspired to write back then were no doubt the beginnings of a future Dark Lord Show Me the Way.
6
People knocked on Sarah’s door all the time. Sometimes she lost consciousness as a result.
Sarah sat on a hard bench. It was cold, like the night he went. Dating for Sarah was equivalent to the exact moment everyone rushed the opposing quarterback on defense. But the day she met James, she knew he was a 6. Every 6 years Sarah suffered a severe form of Stendahl Syndrome. Every 6 years she met a soulmate - there wasn’t just one, not for someone like her. I just want to know him, she thought, the very first time they spoke. She didn’t have to touch him. To be near, to care. It is what she desired the most, and she knew exactly why. Her sexennial disorder never served her. Present since adolescence, she learned that whenever exposed the life was drained from her. She’d walk with the fear of falling. Yet she still introduced herself, as she shook his hand, already afraid to lose him. She always lost them, and she could do nothing to stop it. Sarah knew nothing of real love. When she felt, on an intuitive level, the emotions between other couples, she wondered what it was like. To be treated the way she deserved. To be seen as her mother saw her. Instead, the disorder de-identified her, and hand in hand she’d paint false fantasies with all the wrong people. Like clockwork she’d hand over her ethereality, kidneys, flesh, and other parts of her that mattered. As afraid as she was of 6s, she was just as fascinated by them. She could never look away. On that hard bench, years after he was gone, she wondered if James was the one who, like Walter Scott, could finally "steer her within the fewest points of the wind, unafraid to exact a motive power out of her greatest obstacles."
The Room
Lyla felt as though she had garnered resentment in her lungs since birth. It was only when she met the Doctor that she was able to enter recovery. Her suffering was not unique he told her. He knew her disease well. He’d spent years trying to help people just like her. Many successes and few failures. He’d try to lead her to a permanent relief with his theory.
Doctor: What is it?
My heart feels black like it could never turn to color.
My skin crawls when there’s no response.
I lose my breath if 24 hours come full circle.
I wait in the dark and perpetuate this fate.
A back walking away is the running symbol in my life, it’s all I know and all I expect.
It grows and grows and worsens and worsens.
My relationships are suffocated, snuffed out.
It feels like I can’t help what is happening to me no matter how hard I try to stop it.
The anxiousness and panic and manic and delirium, I best sum it up this way: Everything hurts.
Doctor: What would relieve it?
Emotional sobriety doctor.
Doctor: For 90 days you’ll sit in this room. You will sleep just behind that wall. You’ll come out only to interact with the 10. From the paperwork you’ve completed, I’ve gathered 10 others with whom you’ll be interacting over the three month period. You’ll spend 7 days each with them, no more no less. You’ll sit behind glass, like in prison. In a way, Lyla, you keep yourself imprisoned, this is why we do it this way, do you understand? The idea is to get you to break the glass on your own, give yourself the permission to become free. Every day, the person will come to visit you. Seven days will allow for an emotional connection. This process will lead you to the root of your cycle, what it takes to trigger your disease. It does not take much and you will see in time. At the end of the 7 days you’ll experience withdrawal, it is then that you are most likely to see her, the child version of yourself. When she shows up do not be alarmed. Let her sit next to you, for two days. Can you make her feel safe?
Voicemail
Violet was the sort of person to pour coffee grounds in a cup, add milk, and drive to work. The careless sort.
We should do this again some time. I don’t want to lose you, he said. Violet paused, biting her lip. I can’t. Even then she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. She’d suffered from Stendhal syndrome since they met. Did you even listen to my voicemail? - From when? - Fuck, she thought. - You know I don’t pay attention to voicemails. She was floored. He didn’t know. Should I explain? What the fuck should I say? she thought. That was over a fucking month ago. The entire day she maintained her composure. For fuck’s sake they had just gone to see one of the most emotional films of their time and all she could say when they walked out on the sidewalk was, It was good. Caesar, knowing she was the most emotional of them all, gave her a look that said, Why the fuck didn’t you cry. Violet made sure she saw the film a week prior, as to remain of stone for when that very moment occurred. And she stood there, like she was a fucking block of granite, like she wasn’t still in love with the man standing in front of her, like she hadn’t waited to see him after all these months, like she didn’t perfect the makeup and the hair just to reciprocate a smile, some joy radiating from him, caused by her. She wanted him to like her. She wanted him to feel something for her again. Suddenly she was puking in the bathroom stall at Laveau on New Year’s Eve, with drinks still burning through her system. But she picked up her phone and dialed Caesar’s number anyway, only to hear a beep after some words she couldn’t quite make out. And she uttered lines that were completely scripted, that she had written down weeks before, rehearsed in her room several times in the mirror, unsure of whether they’d ever come out in real life. I don’t think you know what it’s like to know someone like you. My heart is broken, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking of your face, and if we could of just.. I, I think I’m in love with you. The rest of the night was a blur.
I left you a voicemail on New Year’s Eve, she began. Saying what? - You should just listen to it, she stammered. But I’m here now, in front of you, just tell me. Violet felt the cold rush over her as they stood on the wide street, cars flying by. She wanted to throw herself in front of one. I had said I think I’m in love with you. He froze. Now she was sure he wanted to lose her. I have to go. She furiously drove away, looking back over and over, to see him walking down the street in the opposite direction, phone in hand, then phone by ear, listening. What now?
—
Thank you for being here. Updates:
I’ve begun taking one on one sessions, see the details here.
Here’s what I’m currently reading, buying, thinking about, and working on spiritually.
Jennifer Diane is a witch scholar, writer and model based out of New Jersey. She’s authored Folk Horror, Rural Horror, Devil’s Manifesto, Emotional Horrorshow, and Salvation. Book a one on one session, shop her books and zines, or find her on Instagram.
Please note, I pen free and paid content for this publication, Darkness Thriving, as well as monthly fictional stories for the Dark Lord Show Me the Way section. You can control what you receive via email by going here.