Mr. Sanderson

My existence before meeting the slender man in the woods was quiet and normal. Since then, he has always been with me and I am his silent disciple. Apparently the very thing that saved my life is the same thing that makes it a living hell: my mind. He uses me as a means to store his savage, brutal memories. Our minds are linked. As a result, he knows my every thought, and makes sure that I know the consequences of betrayal long before I have the chance to do it. He anticipates every situation as I sit here, locked away in prison.

I still remember the day I first saw him. He made me kill the woman I love. I remember every detail. It tortures me every second of the day. The look of hurt and confusion in her eyes will scar my soul for eternity. It was like watching it on a television. He had complete control over my body. Inside, my mind was screaming in agony and disbelief as I watched her die. If there is a god, and she in Heaven, I hope that she has forgiven me. I’ve long since given up praying. Whatever this thing is, God seems unable to break its grasp on me, despite my prayers. I simply exist now to be a slave for this tall, slim demon who wears a black suit. A man with no soul, no limits, and… no face.

“Time to see the doctor, Mr. Sanderson.”

The nurse seems terrified of me, even with a steel door between us. I nod as I assume the position for my restraints. In a few minutes, I am sitting at the same table, in the same room, with the same lifeless eyes peering into my soul. Every week, this is the routine. Maddening! When I first came here, I was tempted to blurt everything out, but the slender man knows all. He leaves the same reminder for me every week. All I have to do is look at the table, and I see my tongue laying on it. There is nothing remarkable about it; no way to tell that it is my tongue. I just know it is. Only it is rotten and bloated; all the time a feast for maggots. The only minute comfort is knowing it is an illusion. I know this only because there is no putrid smell punching through my nostrils. Still, the point has been made, and it may just as well be reality. I could not move my real tongue to utter words even if I wanted to.

“You know, when you scream at… ‘him’ during the night, it’s the same conversation every time. Won’t you give me a little insight into what you two are discussing?”

A small, involuntary chuckle is all that my body is permitted to muster. This fool would beg to unsee the things I am forced to see ever so often. Eventually, the silence makes its point and I am taken back to my hole, tucked away neatly from the rest of the world. The “conversations,” as the doctor put it, don’t happen on a regular basis.

Only when he kills. It is so very different than what he did…. made me do to her. Sometimes his victims are adults, but more often than not, they are children. I see, feel, and hear every detail as if I am the slender man. I can’t see their faces when he slaughters them; they are as featureless as his. Every time he kills, I beg of him, screaming…

“No… No. No! NOOOOO! You DON’T have to DO THIS!………. WHY?!”

It’s worse when they are children. Sometimes, he simply has fun and toys with the remains with no real purpose in mind other than to satisfy his boredom. The victims might as well be made from modeling clay.

Then, sometimes he has a specific purpose in mind. He has been searching for something since his beginning; something that I personally doubt even exists. Which begs the question, “Would he stop this carnage if he found it?” I doubt it. I can see and feel what he does when he inspects their internal organs. He always takes great care in wrapping them neatly into the clear bags and placing them back inside like they should be. To him, it is as if to say, “See? I searched thoroughly, but I couldn’t find it. Perhaps next time I will succeed.”

“STOP!…… WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?!…… NO, I DON’T KNOW, DAMN YOU! I DON’T UNDERSTAND!……… leave them alone, they’re just children, you sick fuck….”

He uses his power to remove the feelings of remorse that I feel. However, this does nothing to prevent the feelings of self-loathing that I feel from not being able to grieve for a murdered child any more than killing a fly. This is the only time I speak. As the doctor mentioned, it is basically the same thing, every… single… time… As far as I know, I am the only person alive who has this connection with him. I hope I am, anyway. I would not wish for anyone to suffer through this hell.

It has been forty-one years since I was convicted and thrown into prison. Yet, every time I look in the mirror, I feel like bursting into tears… I have not aged a day. The slender man is no doubt keeping me alive for his purposes. Most of which, I cannot even remotely comprehend. “Suicide?” you ask? I wish I could… The slender man has made it abundantly clear that he would prevent it and punishment for trying would far outweigh the risk of attempt. I contain all of his thoughts and memories. Even his origins are known to me. I could not possibly describe it in words. It would probably be easier to explain theoretical physics to a lab rat. Then again, who’s to say he’s telling me the truth about anything? I just wish I could go insane or die. Sadly, I don’t believe either will happen any time soon. I have lost faith in it happening, frankly. All I can do is watch his ever changing form destroy lives, and tuck myself into nightmarish sleep until he calls for me again…

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