Parenthood is a strange thing.
You go through your formative years associating it with a sense of comfort, if you are lucky enough not to be the offspring of an asshole or two, that is. No matter how badly you fuck up once you're out there on your own, you still have a door to knock on, or someone to post bail for you.
Somewhere along the way, I did what I had promised myself I would never do. I had a kid of my own. Panic. Now I have to be that for someone, me who more than once called my mom to ask her how to make mac 'n' cheese. I wondered how much therapy this kid was going to need after being raised by me and an equally incompetent human being.
The whole concept gets flipped on its head, now parenthood means fear. Fear that you are going to mess up badly, or are already doing so but have not yet noticed. You worry constantly, but that also means you love them, this tiny human that you made. Of course, you are always tired, and when they wake you up at 4am, you wish it was socially acceptable to put in some ear plugs and go back to sleep, but the way they look at you makes you smile. Part of you is annoyed at evolution for whatever chemicals are making you care so much for this kid, but what can you do?
Years go by, you realize all the clichés are true and you slowly embrace each and every one. You show pictures to clearly uninterested people, you have watched the same Pixar movie around two hundred times by now, you believe they are the most special kid in the world. Mine is David. And he was special, in the worst way possible.
He was a peculiar kid. He would space out once in a while, staring at nothing. As he grew older, he spent longer and longer periods of time in that state of quiet stillness. Whenever you asked him about it, he would just ignore you. We took him to see someone who had assured us he was a completely healthy kid, maybe more imaginative than average. Normal.
Somewhere around his 8th birthday. He was doing his thing again, staring at a wall. I decided to join him on a whim, hoping that sharing the experience would prompt him to talk about whatever it is he was picturing, or thinking about. I sat besides him in silence.
He held my hand, and something felt… wrong. The feeling you get after you lose sight of your child in public, or your spouse is hours late and not picking up your phone calls. Impending doom, dread, call it what you will. I looked at him, and he squeezed my hand tighter, as if to tell me that it would be alright.
I looked at the wall again, and I saw… it. I screamed and recoiled frantically, and it was gone.
I wish I could forget the sight of that thing. It was not the sort of thing you chalk up to your imagination, or to sleep deprivation. I sat there, unable to move.
"David?"
"Yeah mom?"
"Come here, now."
As authoritative as I tried to sound, I was practically begging him to come to me. I was not willing to take a single step towards that wall. I grabbed him and we left for my parents house. We sat in silence until we were far away from the house. I saw other people and cars around, I had never been so happy to be stuck in traffic. I mustered up the courage to speak again.
"David?"
"Yeah?"
"I need you to tell me what you were looking at."
"She's a friend, mom."
"A friend?"
"Yeah, I helped you see her, I know you couldn't do that before."
"What is she? And why aren't you scared, David?"
"I told you she's a friend, I can't say more because it's a secret. I think she's mad you saw her because she went to hide after."
I did not know what to say. That felt even more surreal than whatever I had seen coming out of my wall.
I told my husband. I knew how it sounded, someone had to tell me I was not crazy. Of course, he did not believe me. He told me I was just tired, that worrying about David so much had me imagining things too and downright refused to try it for himself, said I was encouraging him by reacting the way I did.
I did not sleep for days. I was watching David like a hawk, avoiding touching him, and forcing him out of his "trance" whenever it happened.
I started searching, asking people on random internet forums. Billions of people on the planet, thousands and thousands of years of civilization. I could not be the first to experience something like this, and someone surely knew how to stop it, otherwise the world would be a fucked up place, more fucked up than I knew it to be anyway.
It was about a week before I got a response that was not just accusing me of making it up or telling me to take my meds. Someone had read one of my posts. They sent me a private message, telling me to do whatever it took to distract my son, and that they would be messaging me again soon. I had no reason to believe them, but it gave me some hope.
It did not take long, a couple of hours. I do not know how they found me so fast. IP addresses or something, I guess. Military looking guys, before I knew what was happening we were all bagged and being taken God knows where. We arrived at what looked like a military installation.
That is where we have been for a couple of days now, separated from each other. I stopped banging on the door and screaming after someone told me through the peephole that everybody was safe, and to wait for someone to come talk to me. I think they're the people. A government agency, or something. I got their attention. They will help us, I hope to God they will.
I wish someone will talk to me soon, though. I'm worried sick about how they might… help. I just need to see him.

Someone came this morning, a man in a lab coat, he said his name was Dr. Penrose. After apologizing for the way we were brought in, he all but confirmed my suspicions, and explained that they needed some time to assess the situation. He assured me David and my husband were safe but that I could not see them until they had examined every one us separately.
He asked me a lot of questions, about David mostly. How long I had known, what he had told me. Many of them were outlandish, but he seemed somehow satisfied by my confusion.
As he left, a couple of those military guys took me to another room. A nurse came in. I am assuming its my turn to get examined, but what for, exactly? I had been assuming we needed an exorcism, this felt more like treating a disease than… I would rather not name whatever this is.
It is strangely comforting though, seeing this being handled this way. This made sense, more sense than a priest flicking holy water at my kid.
I'm so sorry David, I should not be relieved. I wish I was with you. They will let me see you soon.
I'm starting to feel sleepy.

I have been having strange dreams lately. I am running, the way you run in a dream, your legs do not work as they should. Not running from, but running after something. I feel desperate, knowing I cannot catch up, and I fall down on my knees and cry. I wake up, still crying.
My husband says I am just tired. I am, I suppose. I mostly just feel lonely, the house feels empty. Not empty, it has always felt that way when I am alone in it. Lately, it feels like it should not be.
I would probably disappoint my younger self, but I wish we had a child. Maybe I can still talk him into it.