The moment I thrust the chair across the room, smashing into the bar, I knew I was in trouble. People say I have anger issues; I don’t, I swear. Something happens to me, causing the bursts of physical force and aggression. I feel it coming on and try to get away from people and untied down objects, but I am not always successful. Now as I sit here, in the aftermath, I carefully place my words together in my mind before the officer questions me.
“How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?” the officer asks.
“I just started my first beer.”
“What drugs are you on?” He stares into my eyes with the automatic disbelief.
The only drug that I can think of that would give anyone the boost of energy like this is PCP and I have never even seen it, let alone taken it. I answer, “none, sir.”
“You are honestly telling me that you aren’t in the least bit intoxicated?”
“Then how do you explain all this?” he asks, turning slightly to observe the wreckage of broken chairs and upturned tables, including the pool table. “If you aren’t hopped up on something.”
I contemplate the truth in my head, which I do not understand myself. “Well,” I begin, not believing that I am actually going to tell the officer this. “I’m possessed by, I think, a demon. It all started a few months ago and is getting worse.”
“Sure you are, tough guy.”
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