Prayer for the Dead (Revenants in Purgatory)

by Nicki Scalise

  “I took to the job easily enough and tried to make the best of it. Every night I came home to my wife and, for a long time, that was enough to keep me happy. After a few months, she’d dropped out of school as well, becoming a full-time “homemaker”. At first, she thought it was cute and ironic since, in the past, she’d viewed it as demeaning and sexist, but she seemed to enjoy herself. She’d tell me how wonderful it was to be at home taking care of “her man”. Looking back on it now, the day I’d stepped into my prison, she stepped into hers as well. Odd thing was, the doors weren’t locked and we held our own bloody keys... but we stayed in our cells, just the same.

  “Cleo’s father didn’t believe in free rides for anyone, which included his daughter’s husband. I was low man on the totem pole, but continued to bust my ass in a job I hated, never letting on how miserable it made me. At twenty-one years old, I already felt beaten down by life, but faked enthusiasm and carried on, trying to fit into a mold of everything I’d grown to hate.

  “As the years wore on, things became worse. I made no headway at work and found it increasingly difficult to fake my way through the grind. There was the ever-increasing pressure from my father to make those all too important contacts and connections. His run for office in ‘35 sank like a stone. His failure deterred him very little and he tried to rebuild his image through me, somehow convinced I was his key to victory.

  “During this time, Cleo and I’d been trying to start a family, but with no success. After a while, it too, became one of those dreams we let slip away, until it faded into the background. It just lingered there, with everything else making us unhappy, yet never discussed.

  “It was at about this time, Cleo became immersed within the socialite circle my mother so enjoyed. I spent most evenings listening to the latest gossip or party plans for the next social event of the season. She became less impassioned about the injustices of the world and too self-involved to care for the troubles of anyone around her. Her interest waned in the things we once shared. The more she changed, the more disenchanted I became with life, as a whole. As the days went on, it became more apparent that we’d grown apart. I blamed it on getting married too young and all that other rubbish but, the truth is, we both just stopped trying. And so it went, day in and day out, until the outbreak of World War II.

  “I listened to the newscast on the radio every evening as Hitler and the Nazis marched across Europe, laying her to waste at their feet. As most folks were, I was outraged, disgusted, and wanted to do something about it. After careful deliberation, I made the choice to enlist. I dreaded breaking the news to my wife but I knew my main obstacle would be my father. There was no way I could have known just what a huge obstacle he would prove to be though.

  “As I’d expected, Cleo did not take the news lightly. That night we had one of our worst fights ever. She accused me of abandoning her, followed by many tears and objects thrown at my head. I tried to defend my convictions, but she wasn’t interested in hearing a word of it. After she’d locked herself in our bedroom, I spent that night lying awake in the guest bedroom, listening to her sob from the other side of the wall.

  “The following three days, she alternated between long, drawn-out sobbing sessions and torturous bouts of silence. On the fourth day, I woke in time to see her grab her handbag and blaze out the door, wearing a look of steely determination. I had no way to know where she’d gone, or when she’d return, if she did at all. She didn’t come home until the following morning and, by that point, I was ready to give up the notion of joining the military, until I saw who followed her in through the door.

  “The look of disappointment on my father’s face was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. He pulled out his wallet and gave Cleo some cash. He told her to go get a cup of coffee, as he needed to speak to me alone. She took the money and, without as much as another glance at me, marched right back out the door.

  “I could only imagine what Cleo had told my father, because the fury in his eyes was downright terrifying. Before I had time to plead my case, he advanced across the room and backhanded me with his fist.

  “My father was a large, strong man and the blow set me flying across the room. He yanked me up by the shirt and tossed me on the sofa, without so much as a word. In a heartbeat, I went from a man in my own home, to a cowering boy.

  “That son of a bitch towered over me and told me, in no uncertain terms, that my fantasy of running off to war was finished. He reminded me again, as an only son, my responsibilities and duties were to my family, above all else, including my country. It wasn’t that he was afraid I’d get wounded or killed, but more concerned of what would happen to his interests if I were gone.

  “I tried to defend my position to him, just as I had to Cleo, but I was chasing my own tail. However, Conscription had been reintroduced at the break out of the war. I figured there’d be no way my father could object if I was bound by law to serve, but I was wrong, yet again. He said, if I were to be called up, that we’d find a way “around” it. I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was shocked. The man actually believed that he, and by extension I, was above the law. The very thought pissed me off, so I threatened to enlist anyway. His reply still echoes in my ears to this day, Are you really so selfish that you would die for your country but leave your wife widowed and homeless?”

  ...

  “...the strings for your flat?”

  Drake tapped his nose and pointed to me. God, his father just became more charming, as the story went along. Damn shame I’d never get to meet the man... said no one, ever.

  ...

  “By the time Cleo returned home, my father was gone and I sat at our kitchen table, completely defeated, broken and betrayed by my own wife. I never told her the terms in which my father had “talked” me out of signing up, or the threat she unknowingly brought down upon our home by going to that man for help.

  “When she sat down beside me, all I could think was, Who is this woman? She was not my wife, not the woman I had fallen in love with. I wondered what happened to the woman who believed in me and saw me as something more than money, or what my father expected of me. Imagine my pain when I looked into her eyes for some semblance, only to be devastated when I realized she was completely gone. I wonder now, if she saw the same thing when she looked at me.

  “At any rate, after that day, my sleeping arrangements in the guest room were permanent and the decay of our marriage continued from there. I grew to resent her and perhaps the feeling was mutual, because we began to live separate lives. We hardly spoke and, when we did communicate, it was through shouting matches. It was after one of our knock-down, drag-out fights that I met Katarina.

  “The screaming started early that morning and, by midafternoon, I had to get away. Cleo and I were beginning to say things I knew we’d regret, so I left and headed straight to the closest pub. I picked up the local papers along the way and spent the rest of the day catching up on headlines about the war efforts, while sipping a glass of whiskey.

  “When I felt calm enough, I went back home. I was just about to enter the building, when I heard a woman calling for me to hold the door. It was, of course, Katarina, her arms loaded with shopping bags. Once we were inside, waiting for the lift, we had a neighborly chat. Although a native Londoner, she had just moved into the building. As we rode the lift up, we chatted a bit more and, when I got out on the second floor, she told me she’d see me around sometime. As wrong as I knew it was, I hoped she was right.

  “Over the next few weeks or so, I bumped into her numerous times in the lift, outside the flat, walking down the street, all of which I’ve come to believe were carefully orchestrated on her part. I was very attracted to her and found myself looking forward to our little interactions. She was everything Cleo used to be—exciting, fascinating, and funny.”

  ...

  “Beauty personified?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yes, and a danger to my marriage. It wasn’t one I recognized at
first, because I only thought of it as a little “harmless” flirting to feel better about myself. However, it quickly grew into something much more.

  “The night it happened, I no more than walked in the door from work when Cleo started in on me. I can’t even remember what about, but when she threw an antique vase at me, I took off towards the pub. I had one goal in mind and if I happened to drink myself to death, it would have been a happy bonus.

  “I was three sheets to the wind when Katarina strolled in. She took a seat and drank right alongside me. We laughed, had a great time, and I forgot why I was there in the first place, that was, until she leaned in to kiss me. At first, I pushed her away because, although unhappily, I was married. Regardless, the look in her eyes dared me to say no. I should have fought it, but I was drunk and, at the time, it seemed like a good enough reason, so I kissed her. I did it out of anger, to get back at Cleo for turning to my father.

  “Later, Katarina invited me back to her place. I tried to fool myself into believing that it was just some harmless kissing between two drunken neighbors, but I knew better. I knew that once I stepped foot in her flat, there’d be no turning back, but I did it anyway.

  “Afterwards, riddled with guilt over having committed adultery, I went home and puked. Cleo got out of bed to check on me, but assumed the vomiting was a direct result of getting pissed at the pub. She slammed the door to the bathroom, leaving me on the floor, alone, alternating between crying and vomiting.

  “As guilty as I felt that night, it didn’t stop it from happening again, and again. Every single time Cleo and I fought, I found myself in Katarina’s bed. We carried on like that for nearly a year. Whether my wife knew or even cared, is a mystery to me.

  “One afternoon, while lying in bed with Katarina, it hit me like a ton of bricks; I was in love with her. She didn’t seem to care about my family, their wealth, or my career. When we were together, it was just the two of us and that made me happy. Yet, in that odd moment of revelation, I felt strangely conflicted, because, even with our marriage in shambles, I still loved Cleo. I knew I was going to have to choose. What I was doing wasn’t fair to either of them and, lying there, I thought the answer was pretty straightforward.

  “Yet, that evening, I went home to find Cleo asleep on the sofa again, with a book sprawled across her chest. I watched the book rise and fall with her breathing for a moment. I didn’t want to disturb her, but pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and laid it over her. As I did, she stirred slightly, rolling over, causing the book to tumble to the floor. She didn’t wake, but, as I reached to retrieve it, she whispered that she loved me.

  “She hadn’t uttered those words in so long; I almost forgot she ever had. The straightforward decision I’d made earlier, wasn’t so black and white anymore. I sat down on the floor to watch her sleep. Our marriage was damaged, but I believed it was far from broken. I knew she was really the one I wanted and always had. I made up my mind to end it with Katarina. If Cleo would have allowed it, I would have spent the rest of my life trying to make things right again. But the very next evening, that chance was stolen from me.

  “It was September 7, 1940. I spent most of the next day alone in the guest room, preparing myself to end the affair. I wrote my thoughts out and rehearsed what I was going to say. I didn’t want to hurt Katarina, but I couldn’t stay with her either. I wasted the entire day, trying to find a gentle way to let her down, while Cleo sat on the other side of the door, one room away. Had I known it was the last day I would ever have with her, I would have spent it very differently. I would have professed my love to her, apologized for being such a bastard, held her and kissed her one last time.

  “By early sunset, I knew there was no perfect way to tell Katarina it was over and that it’d be best to get it sorted quickly. When I came out of the bedroom, Cleo was on the sofa, reading again. I let her know I was going out and would be back soon. She barely acknowledged me, a further reminder that I had no easy task in front of me. As I walked out the door, I wanted to tell her I loved her, but didn’t. I figured there’d be plenty of time for that, once we were back on track.

  “Katarina was all over me from the moment she dragged me into her flat. I pulled away and sat her down at the kitchen table. As I did so, I heard several aircrafts flying overhead. This had become commonplace since the beginning of the war, so I thought nothing of it. I took her hand, having no more than uttered the cliché words of, We need to talk, when the room exploded.

  “I was knocked unconscious by the blast and, when I came to, I was lying in a pile of rubble with a piece of shrapnel sticking out of my chest. God knows how long I was out. I managed to push myself up a tiny bit, only to become weak and dizzy. As I lay there, staring up at the sky, one thing kept running through my mind. I needed to get to Cleo. I wanted to make sure she was all right, but it was useless. I was broken and dying. I found a strange poetry in the death before me. Being alone felt nothing short of what I deserved. It was then Katarina found me.

  “She crawled out of the dust, like a vagrant of hell. She was filthy, covered in large cuts and scrapes, blood had streamed down from her head, coating the side of her face. Her hair was caked with blood, dirt, and glass. She scurried over the rubble to me. The thing I remember most, as I stared up into her face was thinking, Not her... she’s not the one I want to hold me as I take my last breath. Hers is not the face that I want to see before I go into the great eternal rest.

  “I went into shock and she kept screaming for me to hang on. As if it was only that simple. I thought I was hallucinating, because there was a strange grey mist circling around her, which seemed to be flowing through her and down into me. I didn’t have the strength to question what I was seeing before I lost consciousness.”

  ...

  “Oh my god,” I whispered. “You died in The Blitz?”

  Drake nodded.

  “And Katarina was your Reaper.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Do you think she knew the entire time she was going to have to... collect you?”

  “No, Reapers generally only get their charge notices a few days ahead of time. Even if she had, she didn’t exactly follow orders, when it came to me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “When you asked if I died in The Blitz, I said yes, but what I should have said was: I was meant to die in the Blitz. I was never supposed to become a Reaper.”

  “What? Then how...”

  “We’re getting to that part.” He patted my hand with a smile and continued. “So, in my unconscious state there were vicious images flashing in my mind. Images of bloodied, dying people, screaming through the streets of London, while the whole city was ablaze. There were people missing limbs, the dead strewn about, children weeping over the bodies of their mothers. Yet, mixed in with the horrors, were images of exquisite beauty. I saw Cleo on the day we met, our wedding day, and the final time I saw her face, but then came the pain. Not only mental, but physical, excruciating pain that felt as though I’d been ripped open and turned inside out. Just as I was positive I could take no more and I was sure to die, it came to an abrupt halt.

  “I opened my eyes to find myself in a small, candle-lit room. Katarina sat in a chair across from the bed. She watched out the window, appearing very sad. It was the first time I’d ever seen her wear the expression. She hadn’t acknowledged me when I first woke and, because the memories of the bombing were overwhelming me, I assumed I was dead.

  “I tried to come to grips with the fact that I was a lingering spirit, but I couldn’t. I jumped out of bed and yelled Katarina’s name. I figured, if I yelled loud enough, I could reach her from the “other side”. Jesus Christ, thinking back on it, it’s so absurd. She turned to me, like I was an idiot child, and explained sternly there was no need to shout. The sadness gracing her face was gone and whatever replaced it was coolly blank. I was confused. After everything I’d felt and the life replay, I knew I should have been dead. There seemed to
be no natural explanation as to why I was alive, not to mention, unscathed. I figured I’d gone mental and imagined the whole bombing, because nothing else made sense. When I posed the question to Katarina, she pointed out the window, to illustrate I’d imagined nothing. I could see, on the very distant horizon, tiny flickers of fire. She’d taken me to her cottage on the outskirts of the city proper. The tiny fires on the horizon were in fact, London burning.

  “Thing is, there had been another Reaper waiting nearby to collect me, but he was unaware of Katarina and she had been unaware of him. So when the bomb detonated and I was mortally wounded, she made a snap decision. I don’t know if you know this or not, but those tapped for a Reaper destiny are carefully chosen. It hasn’t always been so, but in recent history, it was deemed necessary. I’m not even entirely sure why. Anyhow, I wasn’t one of the “lucky” ones, but Katarina didn’t want to watch me die. She broke a lot of rules and pissed off a lot of the higher ups when she did what she did but, by the time it was discovered, it was already too late.

  “I had been unconscious for three days, while my body metamorphosized to accommodate what comes along with becoming a Reaper. Even though I went through the “change”, I’m not what you might call a “certified” Reaper. Remember when I told you I was an “independent contractor” who wasn’t tied to any one branch? This is the reason why. Because I’d already gone through the process to become, but hadn’t been tapped, they weren’t sure what to do with me. It wasn’t as if I had a say in the matter, so, in the end, it was decided that I’d retain my Reaper status, but only in an unofficial capacity. I’ve never removed someone’s soul, and I’m not allowed to take on charges. Reapers are usually indentured for five-hundred years of service, but mine was cut in half. However, those remaining years were tacked onto Katarina’s time for her “disobedience”. At the time she made me, she had been only fifteen years away from “retirement”.