The devil inside, p.1
The Devil Inside, page 1
The Devil Inside
Nicky James
The Devil Inside
Copyright © 2020 by Nicky James
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Artist:
Nicky James
Editing:
LesCourt Author Service
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author
The author recognizes all Trademarks
Table of Contents
The Devil Inside
WARNING
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
Other Titles by Nicky James
WARNING
This book is a Nicky James angst book, so it will probably punch you in the feels. There is nothing fluffy about it.
(I’m sorry … ish)
Also, it contains a few scenes that may be sensitive for some readers.
Triggers for violence, alcohol and substance abuse, self-harm, suicidal ideations, internalized homophobia, and harsh homophobic language.
If you need help, crisis counselors are just a phone call away
US National Suicide Hotlines
1-800-SUICIDE
1-800-784-2433
1-800-273-TALK
1-800-273-8255
Canada Suicide Prevention Service (24/7)
1-833-456-4566
USA National Drug Helpline (24/7)
1-844-289-0879
USA Drug and Alcohol Abuse Helpline
1-888-506-0699
ONE
Oakland
Pinching my eyes closed, I willed my body to cooperate. The wet mouth surrounding my cock, working me with increased effort should have felt good, but I was as flaccid as ever.
She shifted on the bed between my legs, her frustration growing as she ramped up her effort. I couldn’t blame her. This was a reoccurring problem.
Her mouth disappeared, replaced by her hand as she tried stroking me instead. My cock wasn’t interested.
I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes, gritting my teeth through the embarrassment as I willed myself to get hard, wanting to feel something, anything that wasn’t pure numbness. Detachment. The harder I worked to get aroused, the worse it got. The fleeting arousal I’d felt at the thought of a good orgasm was gone.
It was futile.
Every fucking time.
When she tsked and tried licking my crown while pumping with her hand, I had enough. It was bad enough I was annoyed, but her frustration only amplified that sense of disconnect.
I shoved her away, lurching off the bed and snapping my sweatpants off the ground. “Fuck it. Never mind. Fucking waste of time.”
“Oak. Oakland, come back.”
“No, we’re done.”
I slammed the bathroom door behind me, shutting out her protests. Leaning against the sink, I stared at the stranger in the mirror: dark hair; dull, lifeless brown eyes, bruises under both; sallow complexion. Whoever he was, he was dead inside, an empty vessel whose soul had died many years ago.
And I fucking hated him.
When a tentative knock sounded on the bathroom door, I closed my eyes and dropped my chin, a pang of guilt and shame stabbing at my heart behind my ribs.
“Amanda—”
“Oak, just talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to say. Just … leave me alone for a few minutes, okay?”
She sighed, and I could picture her staring at the door with that look in her pale blue eyes. The same look she always got when I shut down and pushed her away. It was a look that said, Who is this man I married?
If I had the answer, I’d tell her. Truthfully, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I’d been lost in the abyss for too long.
“Okay. But we really need to talk about this, baby. We can’t keep ignoring it.”
I didn’t respond and waited until I heard her shuffle away before lifting my head and opening my eyes. “I hate you,” I said to my reflection. “You’re dead to me. Fucking dead.” Then I slammed my fist against the mirror with a growl and whipped away, pacing the small bathroom, wishing I could escape this growing void, this inner turmoil that wouldn’t fuck off.
I tore open the medicine cabinet and rifled through multiple unmarked pill bottles until I came across the one I was looking for. OxyContin. Or whatever generic brand my dealer could get his hands on. It didn’t matter. It all worked for me.
I dumped a couple into my palm and washed them down with tap water. For a moment, I stared at the variety of other pill bottles lining the shelf and considered dumping them all down my gullet to get it over with.
It wasn’t the first time those thoughts had crept up on me. This thing living inside me, the insidious beast who’d moved into the spot once occupied by my soul was poisoning me. Killing me. It was a presence I worked hard to ignore but one that lurked in the shadows, calling to me night and day, begging to be noticed.
I shook it away, slamming the steel door in my mind and triple locking it. Throwing away the metaphoric key wouldn’t do me any good. The thing always found its way out.
I left the other pills alone—for now—and wrenched the bathroom door open, grateful Amanda wasn’t standing there with her kicked-dog expression. Fumbling through the dark, I made my way to the kitchen and dug a beer from the bottom shelf in the fridge.
I cracked it open and drained it in one go, shoving the empty bottle on the counter before grabbing a second.
“Oak?”
I slammed the fridge door and tossed the beer cap from my new drink beside the empty bottle before facing my wife. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, too bad. We can’t keep ignoring it.”
She hugged herself. Her golden blonde curls reflected the moonlight coming through the window. They were frizzy from our unsuccessful half hour of foreplay. Another stab of guilt. I’d left her hanging. I could have helped her out at least. I was such an ass.
She wore her cute little boy shorts and a fitted tank top, her tiny frame looking smaller with her discomfort.
“Look, the doctor changed my meds again. That’s probably why. It’s a side effect.”
“This has been happening for years, Oak. It cycles, and it’s worse lately. Did you ask him about it? Did you tell him?”
Anger surged to life in my core, the beast clawing and tearing at my insides, begging to be seen and heard. “Did I tell my doctor I couldn’t fuck my wife? No, Mandy, I didn’t. I have enough shit to deal with without admitting my dick doesn’t work, okay. Fuck me.” I tore fingers through my hair and chugged my beer, needing the oblivion it provided.
“You shouldn’t be drinking with all the medication you take.”
“Enough!” I slammed the empty bottle down on the counter, hard enough I was surprised it didn’t break. Digging a new beer from the fridge, I grabbed my smokes and stormed to the balcony. Dragging the door open, I stepped out into the cool March night and slammed it behind me.
I set my beer on the railing and lit a cigarette before popping the cap on the new bottle and taking a generous swig. Sixteen stories up, I had a clear view of the Toronto skyline. The city never slept, and the traffic and ongoing commotion far below was something I liked to observe on restless nights. It was always alive and moving.
Amanda didn’t follow, and when I peered over my shoulder, back inside to where she’d been standing, she was gone.
Another ache. Another stab. I was drowning in guilt, and I doubted there would ever be a day when I’d find myself free of it.
I smoked and drank and lost myself in the swirl and steady stream of headlights on the freeway in the distance. The ground sixteen stories below waved in and out of focus as the mixture of drugs and alcohol took effect. It was like a blanket over my thoughts, dampening the worst of it, creating an added barrier between me and the beast in my mind.
I thought about jumping. Ending it all right here and now. I envisioned my broken body sprawled out on the concrete below, the crowd of shocked spectators, and the swirl of ambulance lights as they responded to my death.
I wasn’t afraid. These thoughts weren’t new.
It would all be over. The beast would die with me, no longer able to eviscerate my mind with its toxic sludge. He’d be silenced forever. The anticipated peace lured and teased me, tickling my brain like it always did when I was stuck in these moods, which was often lately.
It would be so easy.
I didn’t move. Instead, I lit another smoke and drained my beer.
I didn’t know what held me back. For all the times I’d pictured my end, for whatever reason, I had yet to make it happen.
Then the explanation, the reason for my reticence flashed across my mind. Eyes, a deep shade of green like the s kin of an avocado, stared back at me from the darkness. From the beast's cage. They anchored me to this world. As much as I wanted to forget them, bury them, they were always there. They were part of the unforgettable calamity of my past.
Maybe someday I’d take back control, then I’d jump or swallow the pills or bleed myself dry.
And if I did decide it was time to end things, I wouldn’t half-ass it. I wouldn’t be an attempt or a cry for help that got me tossed in the psychiatric ward and picked apart by professionals. No fucking way. I’d make it stick.
For a long time, I stared at the street below, sinking deeper into the alcohol and drug-induced haze cushioning my mind. There was a certain comfort in numbness. Not feeling anything was better than fighting. I was tired of fighting.
When my third cigarette was gone, I returned inside, debating another beer. Deciding against it, I went searching for Amanda to offer what lies and support I could. She could never understand.
In our bedroom, I found her curled up on her side, facing away from the door. Although I couldn’t see her face, I knew she’d been crying. Her sadness tugged at my heart and amplified my inner hatred.
Steeling myself, I crossed to our bathroom and shut the door far enough the light wouldn’t bother her as I brushed my teeth. She hated when I smoked, claiming it was like kissing an ashtray.
When I crawled into bed beside her, she didn’t move, but I knew she was wide awake.
“Come here, baby.” I brushed a hand along her bare arm. “We’ll figure it out.”
She shuffled, turned, and crawled into my arms, tucking her face against my chest. I stroked her hair and robotically worked through the words she wanted to hear, wishing I could feel something, anything, that wasn’t a deep void.
“I’m sorry I got mad, and I’m sorry shit ain’t working right. It’s not your fault. I’ll talk to the doctor and see if he can suggest something. Maybe”—I bit the inside of my cheek—“Viagra or some shit.”
“It could help.” She sniffled and turned her face toward me, blinking her sorrow-filled eyes. “Oak, our sex life has been in the shitter for a long time. The more we force it, the worse it gets. Maybe he has you on too many other pills. All those anti-depressants might be affecting you. Could you get a second opinion?”
“Maybe.” My voice sounded far away. Flat. Expressionless.
Amanda stirred, rising up on an arm so she could peck my mouth, her sweet flavor lingering on my lips when we parted. “What if we messed around with some different stuff to see if that works? It might spark interest. Who knows?”
I blinked away the sludge and focused on my wife, hearing her pleas. “What stuff?”
She glanced away, that shyness she sometimes had taking root. The bedroom was dark, but I knew her cheeks would be rosy. “Like, I don’t know, kinky stuff. Maybe we could watch porn together? Or … play out some of your fantasies … if you have any,” she added with a shrug.
The beast stirred, and I backed away from his ominous presence in my mind. Fantasies. If she only knew where my thoughts strayed some nights. “I don’t think so. It won’t work.”
“It might.”
My skin heated, and the raw panic that liked to engulf me at unexpected moments throughout my day tickled at my nerve endings. She was tugging a thread I didn’t want her near.
I took enough medication to manage most bouts of panic, but it lingered on the outskirts sometimes, threatening to invade.
“I don’t know what else to suggest. Can you … masturbate? Does that work?”
“Mandy!”
“Well, can you? Is it me? Am I the reason you can’t get hard, or is it just not working at all?”
I squeezed my eyes closed and pushed back against the steel door in my mind when the beast threw its hard body against it. Look at me! Listen to me! See me!
“It’s not you.”
“Oakland—”
“Lie down and go to sleep.”
Giving up, Amanda rested her head on my chest once more. I played with her hair the way I knew she liked, wrapping it around my fingers and drawing the curls out. Repeating the gentle caress over and over, I waited until her breathing changed.
Then I waited an hour more to be sure she was fast asleep and removed her from my arms, tucking the blanket around her and slipping out of the room.
In the kitchen, I ignored the remaining beer on the bottom shelf of the fridge and sought the harder stuff from the liquor cabinet. A half a bottle of Jameson remained from a few nights ago. I stared at the bottle and traced the single bold word on the label as the past threatened to surface. Swirling green memories peered out of the abyss. I stared back at them. Challenging. Daring.
The past took on life. A form. A feeling. Emotion. Its sudden appearance was accompanied by a sharp stab in my head—a subconscious reminder—and it made me withdraw from that dangerous path.
I turned the bottle around so I couldn’t see the name and took it down the hall to the spare bedroom. We’d set it up as a workspace with multiple bookshelves and a computer. There was a futon and other basic furniture in case we had guests. We never did.
I cracked the window and lit a cigarette. Amanda would kill me if she caught me smoking inside. As I waited for the computer to boot up, I helped myself to a few swigs of whiskey, savoring the warmth and burn as it slid down my throat and heated my belly.
The home screen appeared; a picture of Amanda and me on our honeymoon eight years ago. Was there more life in my eyes back then? I stared at the couple on the screen, trying to decipher the past.
It was a time when I still carried hope for a better tomorrow.
That hope was gone.
I squinted through the cloud of cigarette smoke at the man on the screen. That guy smiled more. He believed all the shit they’d force-fed him. Well, not believed, but he was more gullible. The beast hadn’t reared its ugly head and conjured doubt.
“You”—I pointed with my cigarette at the man on the screen—“are an idiot.”
Forging ahead on this path hadn’t done me any favors. The world was crumbling around me, burying me alive. Suffocating me.
And I’d lost the ability to fight back. The walls were flimsy. My willpower was depleted.
Guilt consumed me, terror bred in my chest, and the nightmares had returned. Even still, I was convinced if I walked the walk and talked the talk, eventually, things would settle down.
Lies. All lies. And I’d been telling myself that for more than a decade.
They’d left me trapped on this high wire, balancing precariously over the pits of Hell. One wrong step, one wrong move, and I was finished.
I drank more.
Lit another smoke.
Drank.
Smoked.
The picture on the screen blurred, and no amount of blinking would bring it back into focus. Taxing my ears, I listened to the quiet apartment to determine if Amanda was still asleep. Convinced I was alone, I brought up the search engine and typed with one finger while squinting at the keyboard. I browsed the videos that came up and clicked the one I’d seen many times before.
It played, and I closed one eye, trying to make the picture clearer. It didn’t work.
It didn’t matter.
The woman in the video was going to town, sucking the guy’s monster dick that was veined and straining, a rich deep red with a purple tip, ripe and ready to burst. Wet. Dripping cum when she lifted her mouth off and pumped it with her hand.
I wet my lips, tipped the bottle to my mouth again, and watched. At first, I forced myself to pay attention to the woman’s deep-throating skills, her plump lips and wide, makeup-covered eyes, but the alcohol tampered with my resistance, and before long, it was only the cock I saw. My sole focus. The only thing I wanted to see.
When the man in the video pulled her off and shoved her onto the bed, he stroked himself a few times, tweaked his own nipples, and dragged a hand over his firm chest. Every inch of him was on display. His rippling abdomen, his lightly furred chest, his heavy balls hanging under his thick and straining cock.
Saliva pooled in my mouth, and my skin grew hot. I paused the video, taking him in, memorizing his hard angles and masculine form, then I hit play again.
