Have you ever played the computer game Slender? It’s a game revolving around the legend of a man that hunted down children, for they were the only ones that can see him. In the game, you walk through woods, and there’s this one creepy landmark: a gray tunnel.
The object of the game is to collect pages, pages that look like torn out notebook paper with writing on them, dealing with the terrors of the antagonist, Slenderman, who is a paranormal being who’s very tall, skinny, has extremely long arms, and wears a black suit.
But anyways, there’s this tunnel. There’s a page halfway down into the tunnel, and there is always a page there, whereas in some other landmark areas, they don’t always put a page in the exact same spot.
But the tricky thing is, when you go down that tunnel to grab the page, he’s either right behind you and ready to end the game, or he’s right in front of you as you walk out.
Well, Slenderman doesn’t have a face; just a blank, white, stretch of a head popping out from the suit, and if you’re lucky enough to see him in time while still in the tunnel, all you see is this large, blown-up looking white head at the end sticking out from his black suit.
And then you run like hell.
But, the way you see Slenderman at the end of the tunnel, with his white head bobbing up as he gets ready to grab you with his six feet long arms?
It’s quite similar to dying. And seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.
And how do I know?
Well, my name is Emerson Aerith Davis, and I’ve died and seen the light at the end of the tunnel.
Because a long time ago, I tried to kill myself.
When I woke up that morning, I knew that something was off.
I’d had a dream when I was sleeping, and I usually don’t have dreams. Literally at all. But this dream…I had woken myself up from it, trying to escape it.
Yet, I didn’t remember why I was so scared of this dream. Or was it a nightmare? Is that what it was, and that’s why I was so urgent to wake myself up?
I didn’t have a clue as to why, and quite frankly, I didn’t even want to know. All I wanted to do that morning was get up and start painting.
I love art. I’ve loved it ever since I was a little kid and found the magic about Play-Doh outside of just stuffing it into to my mouth to eat since it was such a vibrant color. And ever since that day I somehow inhaled it into my nose and almost started choking, I’ve been in love with sculpting, too.
And that’s what I do – not for a living, by the way – all day long— is art. I’m either painting on my easel, drawing in my sketchbook, doing ceramics in the basement of the apartment building, or working on graphic design on the computer.
So I guess you could call me an art nerd, or an art “freak”. Doesn’t matter to me what someone calls me— I just love art.
But, you can’t make a lot of money doing freelance artwork if half the time, you can’t part with the piece of work and sell them because of their sentimental value they hold to you.
Like my first pottery piece. It accidentally turned out looking like a bong that people use to smoke weed out of. Personally – although I get told by people I do look like it – I’ve never done any drugs, except in the eighth grade and I had bronchitis so they gave me steroids.
But, as dumb as it seems, that pottery actually means something to me. I think back to the days when this hobo guy tried to steal it from me when I was walking with my friend Anderson from the bar, and we went on a wild goose chase until we finally gave the hobo a mere $15.00 and he gave it back up.
But, I’ve always questioned that— the whole, “I look like I would do drugs” thing. It’s probably because I have tattoos. And short hair that looks like I went at it with a weed whacker, almost.
I have a black and white tattoo of a crescent moon on the left side of my neck. I got it because I thought it was cool, plus I have a thing for werewolves. Then, on my left arm, I have a column of five stars running down from my wrist to my forearm. Again, I don’t know why I got it; it just looks cool to me.
So when people see those things, my hair – that’s grown out a little bit more now, so it doesn’t look as bad – and my 3/8 gauges, they immediately judge me.
And I know, I know; we’re all critics. But whenever they see me come in Victoria’s Secret to pick up my friend, Bianca, all I get is narrowed-eye stares leering at me. Constantly judging me.
I put on a tough exterior, but I don’t know, I’m a little bit of a softie. I’ve cried at tons of movies and books, including Marley and Me and Where the Red Fern Grows, two that really make me bawl my eyes out.
After all, I could conform to some of society’s stuck up standards: grow my hair down to my shoulders, straighten it every day (killing it in the process, of course), putting in extensions, wear a pink push-up bra to give myself confidence, and whore around with every guy that doesn’t act like an asshole for five minutes.
I’d rather just be who I am now.
After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I went back into my room, grabbed my easel and paints in a bundle underneath my armpit, and dragged my iPod and its iHome to the lower level of the loft down the stairs, praying that my chronic clumsiness wouldn’t impend itself on me and send me flying down the stairs and breaking my legs.
I successfully made it down the staircase and walked out to the big bay window, a self-accomplished grin on my face as I sat it in front of the window, letting the pretty sunlight stream in from outside.
I hooked up my iPod to the iHome, put on some Kid Cudi music, and sat down on the couch lined with newspaper, carefully mixing the main colors that I would need that day— maroon, burgundy, and raven-colored black.
I was humming along with the lyrics to Erase Me as I mixed the paints contentedly, not giving a care in the world as long as I was wrapped up in my artwork.
Just recently, my boyfriend of a year, Darren, broke up with me. Apparently, he was “fed up” and felt like our relationship “was going nowhere”. It was complete shock, a total blow to the face, and he left the next day. I woke up, and everything of his was gone, along with him. No note, or anything. The only reason I knew that because he wrote it on my Facebook, of all things.
Okay, 1, I barely even use Facebook anymore. My mom only uses that to contact me since she doesn’t know how to text on her cell phone, and 2, who in the hell writes a break-up for everyone to see on Facebook? In front of all my 504 friends, I might add. I deleted the mofo in no time.
And surprisingly, I don’t even feel that heartbroken or anything. I’m not one of those people to stress over relationships; I’m a pretty laid-back person. Until it comes to my art. Then I become like a mama bear trying to protect her cubs.
Weird analogy, but hey, it gets the point across.
So, there I was, innocently listening to my music as I was getting prepared for the entire day to paint, when I heard a weird whooshing sound, like the sound of a strong gust of wind appeared out of nowhere, sending all the papers on my coffee table and the paper on my easel to go flying all over the room.
I let out a shriek, setting down the paints gently but quickly as the papers from my easel whacked me in the face as I tried to protect myself from by crossing my arms over my entire face.
As soon as the wind was swirling around my room, it ended in an instant. One second, the gust was there, and the next, it was gone.
My eyes went wide as I uncovered my face and examined the living room, which was now in complete disarray.
I felt anger fill through me, making my blood boil as my olive skin-toned face flushed red with anger.
I set my eyes accusingly on the white curtains in front of the bay windows as a transparent figure of a man walked through the wall. He was dressed casually, with a cocky grin on his face. I would have noticed that he was quite handsome if he hadn’t just wrecked my entire living room.
“What the hell, Ezra?” I said loudly, throwing my hands up in the air at him. I rolled my eyes as I bent down to pick up the fallen easel papers.
His cocky grin grew even wider as I talked. “Just thought I would check up on you, Emerson.”
Just the consequences of seeing ghosts after almost dying and going to heaven after almost killing yourself, I guess you could say.
Word Count: 1,619