Devil On My Shoulder

From Report of Captain James Kerrigan, 9th Precinct, Feb. 24, 2000:

We found the document below when we accessed the apartment of Charlene Winters at 2018 E. 9th Street, after the tragedy at the Hudson River piers on the night of 2/20/2000.

- - - - - - - -

I'm leaving this message to let friends and family know what happened, if I disappear from sight. I'm scared as hell about something that happened to me this past week.

It started when I saw some drawings of tattoo designs at the Village Tattoo Shop. I'd been thinking of getting a new tattoo on my right shoulder to match the butterfly on my left shoulder. Mitch said he could put the devil that I liked so much on the shoulder for me, three inches in height, as I'd requested. Mitch let me pick colors for the spear the devil carried. His expression was quite appropriate for a devil: nasty as could be - real nasty. I figured that would get many comments.

My life changed after I got that tattoo. I changed.

The devil made me do things. That's not an excuse, just a fact. He made me do terrible, hurtful things to old friends and complete strangers. And even things to hurt myself.

Some weeks after I got the tattoo I had an urge to send a package of letters to James, who'd married my old pal Doris. It wasn't my urge; I'm sure of that. The leering devil put me up to the terrible deed. I had letters Doris wrote to me, confiding that she'd been a call girl in Dallas before meeting James. She quit the business, married James, and was raising three great kids. At first I I resisted my evil tenant's commands to send the letters to James. Finally, I couldn't fight him and sent those letters. He made me do it.

"Nice Job," I told the laughing devil, meaning to be sarcastic. He chose to take it as a compliment, bowing to me and smirking. I hated him and wished to be rid of the evil one but couldn't figure out how to escape.

It got real bad; the final straw was when he whispered in my head to make pretty with a sad looking woman at a neighborhood bar. Roberta, that was her name, was obviously needy and lonely as could be. He directed me to approach her with an inviting smile. I didn't like her, but he made me do it. We had a brief affair, not one to my liking - but he made me do that. Finally, I was told by my unwelcome tenant to break her heart. At his command, I was brutal: telling her that she was ugly and hateful, and saying that it was all over between us. I'd never behaved in such a way before, not with anyone. But he made me do that to her. She disappeared from the neighborhood. Sometimes I think about her and cry for that wounded woman who was so sweet on the inside and so vulnerable.

I had to reclaim my life or go mad. I visited Mitch at Village Tattoo and asked him to remove the devil.

"Are you sure," he asked. "That's messy and expensive."

"Yes, just get him off me."

"I'll try to make your skin on the right shoulder look OK. But I can't guarantee results. Should I do it?"

"Yes, please."

It was painful and my right shoulder looked like shit when Mitch was done. But I was free!

That night I was napping at home after late night TV and had a strong urge to get out and walk around. What the hell; it was a nice evening, so I left the apartment and strolled around the Village. For no obvious reason, I drifted West along Morton Street, to the Hudson River. I stared at the dark waters, with the lights of Jersey very bright across the Hudson. Now I knew why I was there, at the edge of the river. He was back, angry at my attempts to erase him from my body and my psyche.

'Angry' is an understatement; his fury was cold and terrifying. I was losing control; the river pulled at me. He whispered, telling me to extinguish myself, as I had tried to extinguish him.

Two guys standing nearby grabbed me as I tried to jump. The devil just snickered; he could bide his time. My deep fear seemed to amuse him. I spent three days at Saint Vincent's; they released me with a prescription for white pills of some sort. I'm afraid to take the pills because they might lead to losing whatever control I have left. I'm caught between this devil and a very hard place.

He whispers terrible things to me. Why I'm a person deserving punishment for my misdeeds. How evil I've been to others since he came to dwell with me. And finally, that I deserve to die for removing his image from my body.

I'm scared and don't know what to do.

Please, if you find this message from me pray that I've finally found peace and release from my bondage to him.

The river calls to me every night.

-- Charlene

* * * * *

Copyright 2000 by Lesly Sloan. This story may not be distributed or copied without the express permission of the author. All comments are welcome.