Purgatorium (3 page)

SATURDAY

Covenant

I
jolt awake to the sound of the alarm clock going off.

Just a dream
, I think, wiping the sweat from my face. I shut the alarm off and the seconds start counting up:
00:01…00:02…00:03…00:04…

I am content.

The handbook is on my bedside table, again. I shove it back in the drawer. I also see my
watch
and waste no time putting it on my wrist.

Order and control.

I force myself out of bed, walk to the window, and open the curtains, scanning the skyline. I look over to my desk and see the snow globe. Curious, I go over to pick it up. Once in my hands, a sense of d
éjà vu
comes over me like a spark that has ignited in my head, sending me a series of never ending slide shows from the day before. I put the snow globe back down and think to myself that before I touched it, I had no recollection of what I even did yesterday. But now, all of a sudden, I can remember bits and pieces.

I try to wave off everything that has just happened. I have a deadline I must meet. I look away, wanting to stay focused on the day. I glance about my high-rise apartment and take a single breath to extinguish my worries.

I am content.

I quickly move past the snow globe, not wanting to even look at it anymore. I pass the
hatchet
in the glass case, the bookshelf, and stroll into my living room where all my books are still neatly stacked in columns.

Looking at the time, I drop to the floor for 30 pushups, followed by pull-ups in the doorframe.

Time to shower.

No water. I try the sink—none there either. I shave anyway and cut my neck. Blood trickles into the sink. I feel as though I’ve done this before, but that can’t be possible. I don’t make mistakes.

I finish shaving, slick my hair back, and check my watch: 3 minutes, 10 seconds. “The Light in the Piazza” plays in the living room. It’s a player piano. I switch off the amp and suddenly feel compelled to examine the snow globe again in the bedroom. I gaze into it, feeling something intensely familiar, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it is.

I stare deeply into the globe, then back out to the city view. How odd, they are one and the same.

I slowly take a hold of it. Nothing happens. No spark. Nothing. Maybe what I saw was all in my head. Not sleeping well could cause high delusions of the mind. Maybe that’s all it is.

I am content again.

I put down the snow globe and head to the closet.

I get dressed. Black suit, midnight blue dress shirt, black vest, coat, shoes, cufflinks. There’s a Jack of hearts in my vest pocket. I lift it up halfway. I open my wallet and find a business card.

“Peter J. Cameron”

I wonder how I got it. I open the cabinet in the closet and take one of each bill.

I find a steel flask in my jacket, inscribed “
Après moi, le déluge
.”

Why can’t I remember this? Or the business card? Or the snow globe? Did I drink too much last night?

My head begins to hurt, thinking of things that are not a part of my deadline. I look at the time and seconds have passed with me, dwindling on these useless thoughts. I focus once again.

I am content.

I speed up to catch what seconds I lost. I grab a book and an apple, and head out as my watch beeps.

5 Minutes

I open the door to three clear plastic bags with sticks of gum inside. “Tredstones.”

The waitress comes out of the door across the hall.
Did she put these here?
I wonder. But she’s already gone. I drop the bags down the trash chute.

The elevator doors slide open. I’m surprised when I see a young man, probably mid-thirties, standing inside. A quick look tells me he’s wealthy—expensive-looking suit and shoes, hair neatly cut and slicked back. In his vest pocket is a yellow handkerchief behind a playing card, the King of spades. He smiles, genuine, suggestive, and full of promise all at once. His confidence is almost contagious. I look into his green eyes, familiar to my own.

“Going down?” the stranger asks. “Or somewhere in between?”

I press the Lobby button and watch as the elevator doors shut us in.

“High rise, aye? Very classy. I bet it cost you a pretty penny, no doubt.”

I keep my focus to the front, not understanding what he is getting at.

“If you could only live once, why not live rich, am I right?”

His thoughts amuse me enough to glance over towards him. He holds out his hand to me.

“Name’s
Barachiel.
”

I look at him in silence, not knowing what he is trying to get at.

I see his outstretched hand but back away from him, not wanting to shake it. He humbly lowers it back down. I begin to notice the stranger has a very familiar necklace with a coin tied to the end.

“Apartment 101. Just six floors down from you. It isn’t the high-rise but I make do. We can’t all rise to the top.”

I turn back to face the front, looking at my watch to pass the time.

“I bet you are wondering why a man that lives on the first floor was just up at the high-rise floor?”

I keep still, not caring whatsoever.

“I was actually coming from the roof. You see, I like to spend each of my mornings gazing out from this fine building at the view. Watching the city awaken, to come alive, is a beautiful site unto itself. Living on the first floor does have its drawbacks in that category of scenery. Watching through my window at cars going by just doesn’t have the similar feel. You know what I mean?”

I stand there, still silent. There’s nothing I want to say to this strange fellow.

“Who am I kidding, of course, you don’t. Your magnificent high-rise alone is just as, if not equal to, the rooftop scenery. How the economy works in some people’s favors and not others.”

Is he trying to paint me as an arrogant aristocrat?

“My apologies if that came off a little cold,” he says, almost precocious-like.

“We are kinda both the same, you and I. Taking away the money aspect. Meaning, I have noticed a few times before that you have spent a few nights on that same roof. You must like the rooftop view better than your high-rise view?”

He has been watching me?

I keep an eye on my watch, wanting the elevator to hurry up.

“Which makes you a dreamer just like me! We both find inspiration in its subtle beauty. I watch the city awaken and you, when it falls to sleep. Me being in the light and you in the dark, as it were.”

Silence.

“I never did get your name,” he says with ease.

I don’t wanna tell him and furthermore, can’t remember what my name actually is. I’ve drawn a blank. How could I forget my name?

I feel myself panicking for the first time. My heart beats wildly, making my body feel uneasy.

What is happening to me?

My eyes try to not lock with his as I think of what it could be. Then I spot the coin around his neck. I can now see the design of an hourglass engraved on its face. The light from the top of the elevator brings a certain glimmer to the coin. My mind grows calm as I get lost in its shimmering glow. Almost as if it were calling to me.

“Mr. Knave, right?” Barachiel softly says to me.“Or do you like to be called Jack? I tend to forget,” the stranger says, tucking the necklace under his shirt.

I snap out of it.

Jack Knave? What is he talking about? My name is…my name is…what is my name? How could I forget? Jack does sound familiar…

“Aren’t you the CEO of that company with the big building across from the park? What’s it called again? La Hire Industries?”

My head is starting to ache thinking about whether Jack Knave could actually be my name. Perhaps it is. It will do until I can gather my thoughts, I suppose.

I nod.

“I knew you looked familiar. Always wondered what that building was all about.”

I try to think of how to respond, but I cannot seem to remember that, either. Barachiel smirks, looking at the Jack of hearts card peeking out of my vest pocket.

“Looks like you didn’t get much sleep last night,”
Barachiel
says.

This guy makes me feel very uncomfortable. I ignore
him
.

“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Bad dreams maybe? It makes you wonder what would happen if you woke up on the other side.” He smiles. “Of the bed, that is. Would your day be brighter? Would you find a sense of purpose in your life?”

I force a smile and stare straight ahead.

“You see, if people would just get that every day is not just another day…if they’d really live life, not just live in it, life would be better. Don’t you think?”

I don’t answer.

“I’m just an old soul, I guess. What can I say?”

I’m no longer listening, just anxiously waiting for the elevator doors to open so I can escape this loon as soon as possible. I look back to the painting behind me. I glance along the colors of the canvas, following its singular path from light to dark.

“What does it say to you?”

I look at him blankly as he turns to face the painting with me.

“Most people would say that it seems to be a battle between heaven versus hell but, I think it’s much more human than that. To me, it’s about holding on to the light inside one’s soul. But here’s the tricky part. Demons are attracted to the light. Up at the very top is Pride, clouding the head with thoughts of misperceived grandeur and an inflated sense of oneself. By the neckline is Wrath, strangling the light, suffocating it from ever having a clear conscious mind. Greed and Envy on separate sides, playing tug of war, pulling your arms in every direction but the right one. Gluttony, below it, who fills your belly with doubt and fear of doing anything productive. Then there’s Lust, who desires only affection. And then Sloth, clinging to your legs, who thinks unconsciousness is bliss and is always offering a drink from the bottles that empty you, forcing you to stay down, not letting you achieve what your heart desires.”

Barachiel turns to me, “So what does it say to you?”

The elevator doors open and I lunge forward, away from this maniac.

“Nice chatting,” he says. “Maybe next time you can tell me what it means to you. Might just open your eyes.”

The doors slide shut on Barachiel’s smiling face. My watch beeps.

10 Minutes

Coldness comes over me. I’ve never felt like this before. Where is this coldness coming from?

I collect myself.

I am content and I am running late!

I rush outside and across the street to my BMW i8 and drive away, leaving my apartment building in the rearview mirror. I wrack my brain, trying to figure out how I might know Barachiel, and what my name really is.

The license plate of a passing car catches my eye: PETER310. Why is
that
familiar? A truck carrying plate glass panels passes me, an
hourglass
reflecting off one of the panels. I get focused.
Is my name Jack Knave?

I smirk, wondering how I could have forgotten my own name, but somehow Jack Knave feels right. Then again, why did a stranger know my name? And what kind of name is Barachiel? I’d remember a name like that!

Not having any other options in mind, I decide that for now Jack Knave will have to do, at least until there’s evidence to the contrary.

I am back to being content.

I exit the interstate and park in front of the run-down coffee shop. My watch starts to beep as I walk inside.

15 Minutes

Just in time!

I try but fail to get coffee from the machine. I take out my book and read the title, ‘Charles Dicken’s
A Christmas Carol
.’ I am indifferent towards it.

Each page I turn, I still ponder the identity of that man on the elevator. Why does it cause me to act this way? I need not think about it anymore. I have a schedule I must get back to.