Every house has
skeletons in the closest and boogeymen in the basement. My house is not so
different. We have plenty of skeletons in closets, in wardrobes, under the bed,
this house could be a graveyard if we so wished it all to be known. However,
what I find more important than the dead secrets that creep around in the dark
behind closed doors, is the bogeyman in the basement.
He’s tall,
short, fat and skinny. He is aware of all things, but has no idea of the world
outside his home. Sometimes when I am alone and I know he is too, I visit him.
He is not a nice person; perhaps I should say this now. He has destroyed many
lives and gleefully watched as families fade to dust in their despair. He has
organised crimes against and beyond humanity, yet has never been touched by the
law. He has been examined many times by organisations and they have tried to
cure him, but, and here is where both the bogeyman and I agree, mortal man
cannot heal what is not ours to heal. He is the bogeyman that lives in everyone’s
basement. Not the usual basement you find under a house, but the other
basement. The one that is usually out of bounds, no one is allowed entry. The
door usually has a big warning sign on it and tape across it.
Yet, when I am
alone, and I know he is too, I ignore that sign, that tape, that dank smell
coming from his room and pop by to say hello.
He does not
usually say much, but I can always tell he is happy to see me. Happy to have a
friend visit. He has no special set of china to set out for tea and biscuits;
he has no need for food or drink. His appetite for nothing is one of his
invading qualities. When you have been in his company for a little while, you
also begin to lose interest in food and drink, even though your stomach tells
you to eat and drink.
He still does
not say much, or anything of a sort, but you always find yourself answering his
questions. Questions that you are sure are not your own, and questions so
unrepeatable he should never have asked them in the first place. But if you ask
him to stop, he will look at you and smile, shake his head as if he does not
understand, and, here, for the first time you will hear him verbally speak, ‘I
don’t understand. I said nothing. You asked the questions, not me. But please,
tell me the answers. Perhaps I can help?’
Of course, I
never believe him. I would never have asked those questions to myself.
Horrible, horrible things that make you question yourself, family, friends, and
your very existence. After a while in his company, however, you begin to answer
the questions and this is where things begin to truly go sour.
My bogeyman
friend is not a friend. He is cruel and violent, yet he never raises a finger.
He is always welcoming me into his home and despairs when I leave. Sometimes
when I stand up to go, all I wish is to be out of his home and to never visit
again. Yet he is sweet. When all the world fails and leaves you alone, he is
there waiting with open arms. I do not want to say friend, for he is not the
sort of person I wish to be friends with, maybe more of an acquaintance. But,
sadly, one who knows me too well.
Together we sit
in his room, with the blinking light overhead, the cold concrete that never
warms no matter how long you sit on it. The walls are always so close but you
can never touch them when you reach out. They are always just outside of your
reach no matter where you stand.
‘Perhaps I can
help?’ he asks again. He does not have a powerful voice; it is quiet, and
somehow kind, despite appearances. Or not kind, I can never remember. It
depends whether I am walking into his room or running away.
His asks his
questions again, or convinces you that you asked them, and then you begin to
answer the questions, you begin to think of answers to them and repeat them to
him so he can give advice. I tell you now, never seek the advice of a bogeyman.
The world they live in is built up of only the things he is aware of; he has no
idea of the workings of a human soul and mind. He does not understand how the
world works and how it should work. His opinions are biased and one-sided. I
have said before, the bogeyman is not a nice person.
Yet he is
gentle, and there when the world leaves. He waits patiently for you to come and
will always be there unless you choose to pay attention to the sign on the door
and the tape covering it. In his company, you begin to lose your grasp of the
world outside and accept his answers to your questions as ones knowledgeable
and acceptable.
Because he is
your closest friend, and the door remains out of your reach, you believe him.
After all, why would he lie to you? You asked him advice in the first place, if
you asked, why should you not accept his words? However, as you accept him, the
world outside really does begin to fall away and the people that really do love
you lose you as you refuse to accept them. The bogeyman is your real friend,
not them. He will not abandon you. This is not something you should believe.
There is better company out of the basement.
My friend the bogeyman
is not my friend. Not really. And he does not live in the basement; he lives in
my head.
