Purgatorium (20 page)

“You feel it all now, don’t you? You have broken your emotional barrier. You can now start to experience your humanity again.”

I do feel different. My mind feels clearer in a way, as if my thoughts are are no longer enslaved. I am free.

I try to talk but still nothing comes out. I bow my head to Michael instead, displaying my gratitude for what he has done for me.

Michael walks over to me and lifts my head up. “So then you must know your overall purpose?”

I pause, thinking of the millions of thoughts now running through my head. It use to be just one or none at all.

“It’s okay,” he says. “We can hear your thoughts. I am sure you must have learned that by now.”

I take a few seconds and look into Michaels green eyes.

I
want
to live.

“It feels good to
want
rather than to
need
,” he says proudly. “Those words are worth more than gold. It takes a strong heart and a bright soul to find that revelation in oneself. It shows you care for something. That is a hard trait to come by in a place like this. Some souls don’t see of how much a privilege it really can be. Living in a world full of careless souls is not truly living much at all.”

I am beginning to notice things that I hadn’t before. The bright colors of the city lights tear into me with its radiant hues. The northern lights hovering above me make me feel a certain way that I can’t honestly explain. Just watching the colors shimmer in the night sky with its greens and reds makes everything seem so... beautiful. Once I was blind, now I can see.

I stare back at Michael. If his green eyes could talk they would speak of hardships and wisdom. Angel eyes. I feel as though I can trust him.

“What finally pushed you?”

I remember lying there on the grass and looking at the time when the top racers crossed the finish line. Watching the time…Hold on! The time! It read…sixty minutes! They crossed the finish line in sixty minutes flat! That’s the sixty he wanted me to figure out! But what’s the meaning behind it?

Michael, covering his mouth, says, “You are almost there. Keep running towards it. One foot over the other! Don’t stop!”

I look at my watch and think, everyday here is sixty minutes. I look out from the rooftop and visualize a map over the entire area in front of me. From my apartment, to the coffee shop, park, my office, the restaurant, the subway car heading all the way back here. I think about how every location leads to the next, making one big circle all the way back here.

It’s one big racetrack. They want me to run a race.

Michael stops me. “Not just any race. Not just any prize. This is your second chance on life and it’s going to be a lot harder than you think. I would say the prize is well worth the effort. One race to grant you a one-way ticket out of here.”

I wonder how many times I have tried and failed? How many times a reaper erased my memory when I was so close? Questions upon questions stack in my mind. I look to Michael for the answers.

Michael
laughs. “All in good time! Let the past stay the past for now.” He looks at my watch and says, “I think we have enough time to celebrate!” He goes in for a slap but my hand quickly blocks his attempt. We both laugh, at least inside my head I do.

Michael
picks himself up and walks over to the table that previously had the steak on it. He reaches underneath the table and pulls out a briefcase that looks strangely like the one that I won in the casino. He flips it around, lays it on the table, unlatches it, and opens it.

I look inside, approaching slowly to get a better look. Expecting it to be money for some reason I am surprised to find that it’s the two flintlock pistols from my office—one with the lion, the other a lamb. I now see the significance of what Michael has been trying to convey to me. Am I lion or am I lamb?

“I am sure you have seen these before but never realized the importance they hold. You will know soon enough it’s purpose but until then you must only choose.”

What would I need a gun for? To shoot someone or something? Maybe it kills a reaper faster! Or whatever is in that tree could be more harmful than I thought. But why an old civil war weapon? I wouldn’t know how to load it even if I could fire it. Thinking of which, where are the bullets?

I wait for Michael to answer my thoughts but he continues to look at me as if he hadn’t heard anything I just thought.

Strange.

“Now, you can only choose one,” says Michael. “The lion is regarded as a creature strong and full of authority, whereas the lamb is weak and gentle. The lion is all-powerful—it represents the power of God. The lion is without mercy. For it only strives to survive and thinks of nothing but the path it makes for itself. The lamb, however, is heart. It gives options for who lives or dies. Like the story in Exodus where the Israelites were commanded by God to take an unblemished lamb, slay it, and smear its blood on the doorposts of their homes. The blood of the slain lamb set apart the people of Israel from the people of Egypt. Then, the angel of death came and slew the firstborn sons of the land. Those who had the blood of the lamb on their doorposts were spared by this angel of death.”

I look at each, trying to decide which one I favor. I go for the lion, until
Michael
stops me.

“Remember again, you can only choose one. Make it the right choice. Are ye lion or lamb?”

I look at both guns again. I understand what
Michael
has been saying. It’s not about just choosing a gun. It’s about choosing the type of person you see yourself as—who you want to be. I pick the lion. Poised,
Michael
smiles and closes the case quickly.

“A lion you are.”

I look around for the bullets but still see nothing.

“The ammunition for this weapon will be given to you in time. You are not ready just yet for the hunt, but by your choice alone you are ready for tomorrow.”

The hunt? I wonder what I am supposed to be hunting? This just got a lot more complicated.

Michael looks at me, pausing for a minute, then says, “Something’s missing.” He takes off his serape, places it over my head, and steps back to look at me wearing a Mexican poncho while holding a gun. “Yee-haw! I bet you are feeling pretty content with yourself right about now.”

I can only imagine how foolish I must look. But I won’t lie when I say that this poncho does have a kind of warm quality to it. It may actually come in handy.

“Almost forgot! You will also need these for your next self discovery.” He hands me a stack of Polaroid pictures. I shuffle through them hoping to find some kind of inspiration but only get pieces of random shots that he took today. He really is crazy.

“You have a second chance to rerun a race you never finished, and a life you haven’t yet fully lived. You have only seven more days—until your heart stops beating. Get yourself ready to run the last race for your life. And get that hand checked out.”

I look at my right hand, bleeding through the edge of my fingers. I raise it up to see the hole that the blade went through. All I can think about was how close I was to pulling the trebuchet trick off.

I reach up with my left hand and touch my own face as I look down at the Jack of hearts mask on the ground. I don’t want to believe it. Knowing that I have to run again is something I rather wish I didn’t have to do. I pick up the mask and look at its white face, blackened eyes, hearted prince crown, and menacing smile.

“Maybe the mask means something more,” Michael says, looking at me holding it. “Maybe it’s like a shield, protecting you from the demons that want in.” He points his finger to his head. “Or maybe it’s a reminder.”

I continue looking at the mask thinking, reminder? Reminder of what? My
watch
beeps.

55 Minutes

When I look back up,
Michael
is gone. I put the pictures in my pocket and, still holding the mask, walk back to the elevator, walk in through the open doors, and press the number six.

The elevator goes down as I begin to feel the now sudden change in me. No longer do I feel kept in. It’s like my feelings were all bottled up inside of me and when I released my anger, the bottle just broke. I am aware of everything and yet I still don’t know who I am.

I look back to the painting and a new sense of thought process enters my brain. It’s as if someone has switched on the lightbulb inside my head. There are no barriers to over-thinking anymore. I am starting to like what Michael has done to me. I spend the remainder of my seconds staring at the canvas, figuring out what it means to me. I gaze at each of the demons hands, watching them claw their sharp nails into the light of the cross.

They need the light to live. The light is hope. Demons feed off mans’ hope to survive.

The elevator stops and the doors slide open, distracting me from my inner thoughts. I walk out and see the stocking full of gum in front of my door. I pick it up, open the door, walk through, and enter my living room. I glance into the mirror with surprise, looking at me wearing a poncho like I just crawled out of a western. I toss the serape over my shoulder like a shawl, admiring myself.

I spin around the gun in my hand like I was a kid playing Cowboys and Indians. I accidentally drop the gun to the floor. My heart skips. I hold my breath and rush down to grab a hold of it, examining the priceless weapon for any damages. After a few glances I see nothing wrong. I breathe out.

I need to hide this but where? Somewhere that the reapers can’t find it.

I look around the living room and in the kitchen. I notice the refrigerator.

The cold temperatures from the freezer should be enough to keep it hidden.

I open the freezer and place the gun inside. I then crank the thermostat inside to its lowest level, closing it shut.

I walk over to my closet and open a drawer inside of it. I first take off the poncho, folding it to fit inside. Then looking at the mask one more time, I try to think about what Michael’s last words meant.

A reminder of what?
I still think. Why can’t they just tell me?! I place the mask in and slam the drawer shut, letting my anger get the best of me.

I look over at my Handbook still laying on my piano. I walk out of the closet and over to the book. I am surprised to find it not wet. I hold the book up to my face. All the pages are dry. I turn to the first page and see Madi’s name written on it. I run my fingers through it, wanting to remember her.

Then, like a flash, a memory hits me of Madi lying across from me with her eyes open, bleeding. I watch as a single tear falls down her face. I quickly close the book and the memory ends.

Out of fear and anger, I toss it out my window and head to my bedroom, taking off my clothes. I get the pictures out of my pocket. Counting eight of them. I look at how useless each picture is, not understanding what Michael is trying to show me. Out of anger and confusion, I throw them to the floor, scattering each across the room.

I turn the lights on, they flicker in and out. I look back down, surprised to see that the walls are covered with Polaroids. I accidentally drop the stocking on the floor and look at each of them, remembering forgotten moments—moments inside this place, this in-between place of life and death. I see moments from before my memories were erased. In every photo, I look like a bum and I am either passed out or drinking, reading, or writing in a book.

My beard grows longer in each successive photo, and there are more and more empty bottles around me. As I reach the last few photos, I see all the ways I tried to kill myself. Clearly, something really bad had happened to me.

Why would I do this to myself? What sins did I commit that I had to resort to this? Does it have something to do with Madi? I feel an increasing panic. How many times have I ran this race and failed?

The feeling of darkness and misery becomes too much for me. In overwhelming desperation, I start ripping the photos down from the walls and tear them in half, sending them drifting down to the floor. As I do this, my frustration and rage only become more uncontrollable. The blood from my right hand smears over the walls and photos. I hit the wall over and over with my bloody hand, trying to feel pain, to feel anything to erase my desperation. But I feel no pain.

I pull more photos down, inadvertently hitting the light switch and turning the lights off. I look down at my
watch
. The seconds glow in the dark; they are all I can see now, counting up: 50, 51, 52.

I hit the light switch. It flickers from light, back to dark, giving me enough brightness to see the stocking Madi gave me lying on the floor. I pick it up, take out a package of gum, and put the stocking back down on my bed. I open the package and then unwrap a stick of gum. I put the stick in my mouth and begin chewing. Still unable to taste it, I remember how it felt when Madi first gave it to me.

I sit down and then lie back on my bed, relishing the memory of Madi at my door with the stocking. As I calm down, I start drifting into unconsciousness as the clock beside me reaches 60:00.

I suddenly panic and look up at the rearview mirror.
Am I still being followed?
I worry. I grip the wheel more tightly and press down on the gas pedal. I flick my eyes up to the mirror again as the snow falls more quickly, caught in the headlights and blowing across the windshield.

A hundred times, I think, but not this time!

Looking up the road, I see a green rectangular sign on the side in the distance. As I approach, it glows more brightly. The interstate, I think.

Suddenly, there is a voice whispering to me. “Get back on,” it says.

My fingers tremble. I feel the car moving—somehow beyond my control—onto the onramp. Trying to regain control, I jerk the wheel away from the ramp and back onto the road I have been driving on. But as the car veers back, I feel the rear wheels lose traction on the asphalt.

The car begins fishtailing, accelerating, even though I am pumping the brakes to regain control. I continue pumping, holding the wheel tightly to keep the car going straight. As I continue pumping, the car begins to slow down to the speed limit. I breathe out, relaxing a little.

I lean forward, trying to look up at the ink black night sky. I turn my focus back to the road. The snow is still falling and blowing furiously in front of me, silhouettes of trees fly by on either side of the car. I feel myself suddenly perspiring from my head to my legs. Almost like a heat wave has brushed on to me.

Now, glancing in the rearview mirror again, I notice a shadow, something darker than even the darkest sky, fall over my car, enveloping it from behind.

It will come for me now, I think. Still looking into the rearview mirror, I see distinct movement within the darkness.

Something is awakening from a long and tortured slumber—a creature, coming to life from some astral plain. I look out the window and am stricken with panic. It’s here!

Then, as suddenly as the creature had appeared, it vanishes. I feel my body start to cool back down, wiping my forehead from all the moisture. I look over at the passenger seat and remember Madi is there. She has been there all along.

“Bad weather, tonight,” she says, putting her hand on my hand where it rests on the steering wheel. “Hopefully, we’ll make it home in time.”

Madi sings and I realize “The Light in the Piazza” is playing on the radio. But in the distance, I now hear another, more insistent, disruptive “beep, beep, beep.”