After my baptism, a lot of things changed. It was odd. It wasn't like I lost my ability; it was more like I was encouraged not to engage in them anymore. It always felt like I had this guide walking around me. Whenever I thought I saw something, this calming hand would place itself on my shoulder and tell me, "It's okay; you don't have to worry about that," and I would move on.
I found it bearable to live in my own home again. I would sleep through the night without visits from anything. I even slept without any lights on. I remember my cousins coming over and spending the night, and they said that they wouldn't sleep in my room if the lights were on, and I replied, "That's okay; I don't need them anymore." I no longer ran full speed down the steps, and I no longer felt the fear and terror that permeated my life. Life was finally good.
I was in third grade, and I remember writing about my imaginary friend as an assignment. I remember writing down that I created him because I had been mad. So, at this point, my demonic friend had been relegated to a normal imaginary best friend whom I had outgrown. It was weird. It was as if God chose to make me forget all the things that had transpired just a few months before. But that was okay; I was happy now.
My best friend was the minister's son, who had baptized me, and we were close. It was peculiar, though; as I started to move away from darkness, he seemed to be gravitating towards it. I want to dedicate an entire section to him a little later potentially, but for now, let's say that he was, at the time, in my corner whenever I needed him, although, in later years, I should have seen the writing on the war as to how he would turn out. Such is a common problem with many sons of ministers. But we both got into sports and bike riding; he preferred soccer, while I initially gravitated towards baseball. We hung out every Sunday after church, mostly at his house.
I also had another friend, who probably wasn't the best influence for me, but at a time when I was losing some of my past friends because I had begun to change into a better person, having anyone who wanted to hang out with me was great, especially in third grade. He got me into video games and anime. He was also a bit manipulative and would insist that I wasn't allowed to play certain characters as they were his. At the time, I had gone docile and didn't try to confront myself anymore, as I saw that as a by-product of the old me. Unfortunately, that led me to get picked on by another student, but such is life.
It was here, though, that I began to figure out other minor abilities that I had, that I never realized before. I had heightened senses; my sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell were all above the standard registers, although my vision would be eroded by hereditary vision loss until I finally got laser eye surgery. Especially my hearing, I could hear things that people would say under their breath about me and, if I wanted to, call them out on it. This would be especially funny in later years when I became a teacher; I would hear a student say I was a dick, and I would respond with, "Nope, I'm not a dick; I'm an asshole, get it right." I also had an excellent memory, and while I wouldn't call it eidetic like some people say they have, I could recall almost anything that a person said or did and hold them accountable for their actions.
Furthermore, I became an extremely quick learner. This was when my grandfather would start to teach me how to play chess and card games. The first time that I ever beat my grandfather, he exclaimed, "He beat me!" My father would reply, "That's just how his mind works, Dad; when he's watching you, he's learning." I also learned that I was more resistant to extreme temperatures. The rain didn't bother me unless it was an extreme downpour, and I could stand colder temperatures without putting on a coat. In one famous example, during high school and at the bus stop, it was the middle of winter, and I wore only a light jacket while my friends were wearing coats. One of my friends looked at me and said, "Dude, how are you doing this? It is so cold; my hands are like ice." I grabbed his hands, and it was like they had melted, with steam rising from his hands.
The final ability that I had, at least for this time, was my high resistance to pain. This wasn't something I inherited; instead, it developed over time. It stemmed from something that happened when I was with my grandfather. I tripped, fell, and skinned my knee. After my grandfather calmed and comforted me, he asked me, "What is pain?" I looked at him, and he continued, "It's your body telling you that something is hurt, but if you know you are hurt, why do you need to continue to feel pain?" I remember that and used it not to eliminate pain entirely, but to learn to feel it differently. Essentially, eliminating the bite of the pain when I already knew I was hurt or knew that something was about to hurt me. I had to tone this down and get into the habit of saying ouch when I experienced things that were supposed to hurt as people around me began to get unnerved by my lack of reaction.
It was about my fifth-grade year when I found that I had a passion for writing. There was a writing shop once every week where all of the students were supposed to write stories or poetry. Most of the students didn't enjoy it, but I thought it was the greatest thing ever, especially when writing things about fantastic things and heroes that would save the day and get the girl in the end. At that time, I got it in my head that I would become a great fantasy novelist and write the next great series that everyone would enjoy. Unfortunately, these plans would change in college, but that is a story we will get to when we get there. I wrote a story for a seventh-grade project about the battle of Shiloh. I wrote about an infantryman and nurse who was in love, but the soldier went to Shiloh and never returned. I made sure to write about the emotions of the nurse when her true love never returned. It moved my seventh-grade teacher to tears.
I also began to study the word more carefully in church; I would listen more intently to the sermons that the minister would go over. I mean, it was God that led me away from that nightmare that was my old life, so it was time to repay him. I wanted to know and understand as much as possible about God and what he wanted me to do with my life. I listened, sang in the kids' choir, hung out with my friends, and wasn't really scared of anything. My life was good.
I remember that my uncle gave my family his old computer in the middle of my seventh-grade year. This computer was old, like it still used large floppy disks to save old. This is when I started to sit down and write stories. I remember sitting down at the computer one day and smiling. In my mind, I said that despite some regular problems, I am so happy; life is perfect. I think that was when the tide started to turn.
As there always are, there were little signs that would subtly show what was about to happen. My friends and I were sitting in my room, and somehow, my sister had chicken grease on her hand, and she smeared it all over my bedroom door. Gross, of course, but it was one of my friends who noticed something about it first. "Hey, why does that grease stain look like a face." We all looked at it, and it did look eerily like a face, but it hadn't before. None of us knew what was going on, but I mean, it was just a chicken grease stain; who cared, right? There was a poster in my room, and the face on the poster seemingly metamorphosized into some other figure I remember was just off. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but it just was.
But I ignored it and put it out of my mind. I couldn't even properly remember anything about my past, and I refused to invite anything that would hurt my good life. Unfortunately, there were other plans for my life. It's funny; I never really had what happened to me summarized into one line until I read the line for the Joker, "All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy. That's how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day." Except that one bad day, it took over a week, and it didn't happen to me.
Since my baptism, I had been the faithful, dutiful Christian, never questioning the path, never deviating from what I thought was right. I didn't even use coarse language; I just wanted to be the person my lord wanted to be. It wasn't until the summer of 97, the summer of my 7th grade year, that everything would change. That day would have lasting ripples throughout my life. The day when my faith would truly be tested, and I would fail in the worst way possible.
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