by Thea Archer
"I highly doubt it," I chuckled darkly.
Suddenly I realized I was absolutely exhausted — too tired from just being an asshole, trying to draw the attention of someone who doesn't even exist. And it didn't work anyway. Nobody cared about the jerk like me; nobody would notice my miserable attempts to manipulate this place or God themselves.
I caught the toe of my sneaker on something on the floor and glanced down — it was Uwe's dossier. Seized by another wave of anger and despair, I kicked the folder out of the way — it slid a few meters and smashed against the wall spreading the pages across the floor.
"Sven."
"You know what, screw this," I said. "Screw this place, screw all of you!"
"Sven."
"I don't care anymore," I wanted to shout that, but it came out in a pathetic whisper.
Those glances — pitiful, angry, scared, confused — they fully conveyed what I felt, and now I knew what Ian felt, I understood why he did what he did. If it's not enough to say Please, somebody, help me, you can also use another way to express your pain.
Hate me. Despise me. Pity me. After all, this is the only thing our souls were created for — to feel something.
I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying those glares, delighting the aghast silence.
"Amery."
My own name sent a sudden burning blow exploded deep in my chest.
I turned slowly, unwillingly, to look at the person who risked to call me by my second name — at Evi.
"No matter how much сommandments you've broken, there's no God," she said as our eyes met; her expression was unreadable. "But I may as well become one."
My eyes dropped at the folder in her right hand and slipped to the pencil in the other hand.
She opened the folder on the last page, and I heard Judith's gasp.
"Don't!" Someone shouted, but Evi didn't even lift her glance.
"Shut up," she snapped.
I held my breath as her pencil sprinted across the page, and I flinched at the familiar odiously charming sound from the ceiling.
"Oh, no..."
"Sven..."
"Evi, why?"
I reluctantly raised my head to glare at the display board and sharply exhaled as I saw the word I've been praying to see for so long.
SVEN AMERY REINSCH MDCCCXXVIII00181278 SOUTH GATE. DEPARTURE: HELL.
I felt weak with relief — it flooded through me in a second, my frantic thoughts were suddenly focused, clear, and coherent.
"Sven, promise me..."
I turned to Evi again, she hesitated for a moment but continued. "I need you to promise me you'll do whatever you can to find him."
She reached out her hand; I took it and squeezed her fingers.
"I promise."
She stroked the back of my hand with her thumb and dropped her hand.
"Sven!" Judith's voice shot up again, almost hysterical.
I just smiled at her. I knew I had to apologize, but I couldn't — I was too happy, too determined, too excited; besides, I wasn't sorry at all.
Without looking back, not daring to hesitate a single second, I walked towards the jet bridge with sign Hell above the door.
My excitement increased exponentially as I approached the jet bridge, I barely noticed another clang sounded cheerfully from the nowhere, but from a peripheral peek, I was sure I saw Evi's name on the display board along with word Paradise in the line.
If I was being honest with myself, I didn't know what I was born for. But I was convinced that I knew perfectly well what I died for. And I finally felt like I could be who I was supposed to be.
I knew exactly what I had to do, because there, in one of the billion worlds the universe made, there was a person who was waiting for me.
I hesitated, my hand on the door handle, sliding back into the happiest memories I had, they spun in my head, knotting together — his perfect smile and childish laugh, those confessions, and soothing embraces, that immense, overwhelming feeling that gripped me tightly, irrevocably.
I opened the door, an agony met me with a monstrous pain in my chest, and before I even land my heel on the floor, I thought, it's really a little cliché.
22. SERVICE FEES FOR A TICKET REFUND
The stench. The sounds — hundreds of noises: annoyingly harsh voices, disgusting metallic rumble, caustically disturbing crackling, deafening howl, and the loudest barely tolerable heavy booming blows, over and over again — they vibrated through my ears, accustomed to silence and the calm conversations of dead people.
My skin felt... everything. And that was the scariest thing — I felt everything at once. The moisture, the cold, the heat, I sensed the textures: disgustingly rough, cutting sharp; I sensed impenetrable density, and weight, undoubtedly exceeding a ton, which I felt with every molecule of my body. The unendurable, pungent stink burned in my nose, it slipped deep inside me, filling my mind with poisonous gas, making my thoughts scattering, perplexed.
And of course the pain. Was this the agony I was prepared for? I wasn't sure. But that pain surpassed all other sensations, it grasped my whole being, twisting me from the inside, torturing. If I tried to describe these sensations, based on my life experience, then I would've said it was a grotesque mixture of skin burns, broken bones, a three-day migraine, and internal bruising — it was all the pain I'd ever experienced, but this time it attacked me simultaneously, at once.
But I was missing something. All this array of disgusting feelings overwhelmed all my senses but one.
And as soon as this thought settled down in my restless mind, I opened my eyes.
Colors. Millions, billions of colors in the languid semi-darkness, illuminated by thousands of tiny blurred lights. The pain stunned me with another wave, and I had to close my eyes again to allow my nerve endings to endure these spasms, abstracting from external stimuli.
After a few incredibly long seconds, I gathered the strength to open my eyes again, but the glaring orange and red lights blinded me again.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember when was the last time I saw a red color. The shades of eyes of abandoned dead souls were the only variety of colors I'd seen last few... months? Blue, gray, green, black, and my favorite — dark brown with the delicate hazel spots around the irises' patterns.
I was waiting for the ache to loosen or at least for my body to get used to it. It was bearable, but my pain threshold wasn't ready for that challenge.
Pain is my constant, it has always been my only support.
Ian... I needed to find him.
"Blood pressure's coming back, heart rate stabilizing."
I forced my eyes open; the pain in my chest receded, shock taking its place.
My lungs...
"Come on, breathe, it's all right, you'll be fine."
"Damn, that was so close."
I was suffocating. Wait...
"A patient with a possible spinal fracture; cranial trauma... Yeah. Okay... Got it."
Am I actually breathing?
Those voices, that sound, the place...
This smell... Burnt rubber and melting plastic. This shrill howl... was a siren. And these deafening thuds that pumped mercilessly against my eardrums over and over again... was my heart?
"Okay, don't rough him around. That's it, gently. Gently."
I felt my elbows scratched against the wet, rugged surface; the dizziness indicated that my body was changing its location, and suddenly, the heaviness which was pressing me to the cold dampness completely freed me. A metallic groaning won out over the others sounds; it became the perfect accompaniment to the agony in my chest, which is followed by a long-awaited relief.
I opened my eyes and gazed above me; the first thing I saw was the bleak blueish gray expanse with charcoal brushstrokes across it; I was blinking as the drops of moisture drizzled on my face.
Ian.
My heart throbbed as I remembered his smile.
"Hey, calm down, you'll be fine."
I wanted to
see him. But all I could see was a gray nothing and those annoying lights.
I have to find him.
"Ian..." I exhaled.
My whole body ached at the frantic, pounding beats of my heart — it was crashing desperately in my chest.
Am I... alive?
If I was alive, then it was all just a dream?
No, my imagination was never capable of such a thing; it was just simply impossible.
The people, the words, the touches...
As soon as the realization hit, shock and rejection coursed through me.
I don't want to live, I want to go back, I want to see him.
My heavy head tilted to the side as I was placed swiftly at something even, cold and wobble.
The road, the brake lights, the people — a lot of people — blurred in one massive vague blot, but something caught my sight, it forced my heart shatter again.
It was a hand weakly hanging over the edge of the ambulance stretcher — tawny skin, rounded-shaped nails, the faint pattern of the scar on the wrist, and the blood trickling down along the little finger.
"Easy, easy. Hey, mate, calm down... You have to stay still."
"He's panicking."
I blinked my blurry eyes, and the hand disappeared, leaving me with excruciating burning hope in my tangled mind.
I wanted to say something — anything — but unexpectedly, a faint pang pricked on the inside of my left elbow, and I made another hopeless exhale as my reserve of strength abruptly exhausted.
"Please..." I could only whisper when I reluctantly sank into unconsciousness, which brought me relief from the pain and filled my mind with dulling ease instead of mental agony.
It felt so good to feel nothing. It felt so good to forget.
***
"How do you feel today?"
My mother's warm hand touched my cheek gently.
"I'm fine, really," I assured her, forcing a smile. "They're going to move me to the general ward."
"Amery, you look awful. I don't think you're ready."
"I'm getting better, really. They said I'd be out in a week."
She shot a doubtful glance at my left arm tightly encased in plaster and slid her eye across my bandaged head. "Doctor said you're gonna need a psychiatrist."
"I had a pretty bad concussion plus brain hypoxia," I reminded. "Of course they want to make sure I'm still sane," — and I guess I'll fail this test, I added mentally — "though, the neurologist said that I'm fine."
The truth was that it was me who insisted on an appointment with a psychiatrist because I knew there was something really wrong with me. I wasn't sure I could tell the doctor everything was going on in my head, but at least he would do something with my panic attacks.
"I hope you sleep well," my mom said, her gaze lingered on the circles under my eyes.
"Little too well, I'd say. Like I haven't slept in months," I said weakly.
"It's probably from all the stress."
I nodded one stiff nod.
"Thank God you don't need a second surgery," mom said and patted my hair.
Thank God...
"Thank surgeon," I corrected.
Her expression was full of reproach.
"Okay, just as a reminder, you'd been dead for four minutes. It's a miracle that you're alive."
I decided that was the conversation I could skip.
"Where's dad?" I asked.
"Oh, he'll be here soon with your clothes. By the way..." She paused and grabbed her tiny bag to shove a hand in it fishing for something. "Lothar gave you his old iPhone, yours not worth repairing — it literary got blown to pieces."
Finally, she pulled out of her bag a scuffed white iPhone and reached it out to me.
I weighed it in my palm, frowning: it felt odd and unusual to touch it, and it wasn't about its small size — it seemed to me as if I'd been cut off from civilization for a few months.
It couldn't have been an illusion, I told myself for the hundredth time.
I felt my breathing was about to become hyperventilation and put an iPhone aside at my bed, hiding it in the blanket imperceptibly.
"Thank you," I said; fortunately, my mother didn't notice my voice broke.
"Hey," a rough voice of my father startled me.
"Finally," my mom murmured, turning to the door.
Till walked into the ward carrying a bulky backpack over his shoulder, approached my bed to blew a swift kiss on mom's cheek, and then smiled at me.
"You look worse than you did yesterday," he said as he examined the bruises on my face.
I half-smiled, and he put the backpack at my bed.
"Thank you," I said fervently. "I'm sick of this blue gown."
"Jeez, I've lost more hair in the one last week than in the last ten years," he mumbled. "And all you care about is the gown."
"Honey, you've lost half your hair long ago," mom teased him.
"And what are you smirking at?" Till turned to me. "It's genetic crap, it will happen to you too."
"I didn't say a word," I sighed, raising my good hand in surrender.
"By the way…" I cleared my throat to continue. "Did you find out anything more about the..." I wasn't able to finish the sentence, though, Till knew what I meant.
"Still an accident," he said shrugging. "I don't get why you need to find the person responsible; your insurance is totally fine. They contact you soon, by the way."
"That's not... Nevermind."
There was a light knock before the ward door opened. It was a nurse; he greeted my parents absently.
"Sorry, visiting hours are over," he said.
"Okay," the discontent in mom's voice was obvious. The nurse left, and mom stood up, hitching her little bag under her arm. She threw another anxious glance at the bruise on my neck. "All right, call me anytime, dear. Lothar will visit you tomorrow, and don't worry about Fitzgerald — he'll stay with us while you here."
"Thank you," I said.
She gave me a warm smile and turned to Till.
"I'll catch you up," he mumbled, and mom drifted out of the ward, closing the door tightly. As soon as we were alone, Till looked at me; his face was rigid. I stiffened involuntarily.
"I just wanted to say..." He sighed, and suddenly his eyes softened. "I am proud of you, no matter what."
I swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat.
"Thank you, Dad," I said.
He gave me another smile, patted my gauze-wrapped head, and left. I leaned my head back against the pillows and closed my eyes for a second.
It was time to take painkillers, but the ache in my chest was a good distraction from my much more painful thought processes.
I sighed heavily and reached for the backpack Till brought. As I pawed through the folded piles of familiar clothes, I pulled out the most comfortable things — a pair of sweats, a t-shirt, and a black zip hoody. A wave of wistfulness flooded through me as I felt the polyester fabric under my fingertips — it seemed unusual to me after Terminal cotton uniform.
A muted buzzing made me jolt nervously; I fumbled for the iPhone in a mess of the blanket and blankly gazed at the screen. It took me a few confusing seconds before I remembered who was Sophie and swiped to accept the call.
"Hey," I said.
"Oh, Sven, thank God! How're you?"
"I'm okay," I was pleased that I managed to keep my voice steady. "It's just a fractured clavicle and some bumps. I'll be fine."
"Oh, you sound awful," Sophie whined loudly. "Can I come to see you this week?"
"I... I'm not sure," I lied. "I should ask the doctor. I'll let you know."
"Okay."
"Was everything okay at work?"
"As usual, every day is the same."
"Right... Look, Sophie..." I hesitated for a moment. "I'm gonna quit."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
"Are you serious?" She demanded.
"I know it's sudden, but... I've made up my mind."
"Yvo
nne will be terrified..." She sounded appalled.
"I bet she will.
"But what are you up to?"
"I... I want to change majors."
"Whoa," Sophie murmured. "Should I tell Yvonne?"
"Don't bother, I'll tell her."
"Okay... Oh, what am I supposed to do without you?" She groaned, but her mood shifted suddenly. "Anyway, you still must come to my wedding."
"I'll do my best."
"I'm glad you're fine. Get well soon."
"Bye."
I hung up the phone and clambered out of bed, trying to disturb the left side of my torso as little as possible.
As I stood up, I hobbled toward the small frameless wall mirror; my every step was accompanied by a sharp pain in my sprained ankle.
I faced my bleak reflection in the mirror and took off the rustling hospital gown — the pallid skin covered with bruises, the scratches on my chest, unshaved chin.
My right hand's fingers reached up to touch my neck, and I willingly greeted my memories — the soft lips brushing slowly along my jaw, the kiss planted between my collarbones, the gentle tongue against my stomach, and the voice.
I wish I could smell you... I think you smell divine.
I shuddered as I felt my own nails digging into my chest; I gasped for air, hearing my erratic heavy pulse in my ears.
It couldn't be just a dream that I'd confused with reality. How could my consciousness create such a perfectly lucid hallucination?
They said I was dead for four minutes but... How was it possible? How was it possible for my brain to create images of hundreds of people in just two hundred and forty seconds, how was it possible for it to produce so much information in such an insignificant period?
How could I fell in love with a person in four minutes?
I remembered every second spent in the Terminal; I remembered Evi's frown and Moritz' silly jokes, I remembered little girl I should've transferred to Hell — I remembered everything.
I remembered Ian, so palpably, so clearly. His playful smiles, awkward verses, infectious loud laughter, and warm, soothing, tender embraces.
How could I deliriously create something — someone — so perfect, so beautiful and unique? How could I fell in love with my own fantasy?
I realized there were tears in my eyes. I tried to take another breath, but the air hitched in my throat.