I’m aware that I’m not a normal twenty year old. Twenty year olds don’t see the things I do. They don’t witness the same nightmare over and over again until they’ve gone insane. Maybe I am insane. Maybe this recurring nightmare was just part of a more elaborate dream. Maybe there’s a distant storyline to this where I don’t always wake up in a cold sweat.

I see things. I see them. They walk amongst us. The demons. They look similar to us, but cold-hearted and emotionless. They drain us, like vampires, until we have nothing left. Until we’re driven by intense anger, jealousy, and hatred that we destroy ourselves. I pretend not to notice them. I think they know I can see them. They stare at me, with their lifeless and merciless eyes. But I’ve stopped feeling the shivers down my spine after the first month. Now, I just live in my perfect loop of events, trying to cling onto the small amount of sanity I have. Then, at 11:47, they kill me. And I let them. Maybe that’s why. Maybe I just have to stop letting them.

The demons aren’t four-eyed or slimy, or anything like that. They’re the ones you would never expect to backstab you or kill your dog. But they’re everywhere: the middle aged neighbor down the road, the teenager you see jogging up your street, the plumber who helped fix your leaking sink. That’s who they are. Don’t you see it? The billboards, the ads, the magazines? Your insecurities, your worries, they use them against you. The magazine lying on your table? It’s a glossy paged book meant to grab at your heart and tug at that vulnerable part of you. And for what? The green paper slips, ridden with bacteria, made out of fiber, that we use as a way of determining our social status? Or is it acceptance, from the people we call our friends, from the people who see us as above, or below, us?           

So of course I seem them. Everywhere, in fact. I think some others can see them too. The rest are ignorant, really. I don’t bother with those. I go on with my day, reliving the same day again and again, and then I wake up.

I can tell that the demons kill me at precisely 11:47 PM, every night, not because they hate me, but because they’re terrified of me. Terrified of what I can see. Terrified of the information I hold. But they’re smart. They don’t leave clues behind, sending desperate people to do their dirty work. Smart villains are the worst ones.
The first time I was killed, shot during my sleep, I remember waking up in my clean white sheets, sweating. But it wasn’t hot. It was cold. Even smack in the middle of July, it was freezing. I resisted the first few days after that. Then I stopped.

My typical daily routine was to go about my day like I usually do, eyes blank and straightforward, and then I come home. I come home and eat dinner, because I’m ordinary. Then I go to bed and take my pills. I always want to be awake when it happens. It’s better to die knowing why than having someone decide to cut your lifeline in an instant. I watch them as they do it. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m crazy. It doesn’t hurt.

Today, I woke up the same way as I usually did, in a cold sweat. I went about my day like I always did. I came home and ate dinner, because I’m normal. Then, I left my one room apartment, leaving a note for them.
Funny, I’m usually right here waiting for you to do the deed. You’d always done the hard part. I’m sorry for that. You’ve had to chase me every night for the past two years. I’ve died 730 times, courteous to you. It’s my turn to chase you. And you can bet your left and right arm that I’m gonna find you. Because I know what you don’t want me to know. Because I’m ending my loop. And I know more than you think.

   Sincerely,
     Josaline

They didn’t get me that night. Or the day after.