Ascending Shadow

by Church K Calvert

  Looking at it in the corner was like looking at the worst parts of me after a rough night. It looked like a half manifestation of me, ghostly, but with tangible attributes. It seemed to be able to pick up and hold things at times, destroy things, up until now it was generally unseen by anyone but me. A few other flawed people had caught glimpses of it, but that was rare. It made noises, but rarely spoke words. If it desired to speak, it normally used me as its messenger. It had power, this explosive power that was like setting off landmines. When we had conflicting ideas, I let my shadow stray from me and do what it felt was necessary. However, at times we agreed and I let it stay inside me and have control. This was the case with Christian and with Abel. I would see my shadow frequently, almost daily. I knew I had the power to heal people, but it wasn’t something I had used to help someone, other than myself, in a very long time. My healing power is how I initially got noticed by Franklin but he seemed to have little use for it. I was just another flawed person for his collection.

  I approached my shadow as it twitched and dug its nails into its being. It looked up at me, like a stray dog debating whether to run or come. I watched it for several moments, embracing the rare opportunity to study it. It glared up at me, almost angrily, and knelt up onto its knees so it was right in my face.

  “Why aren’t you looking for her?” It said with a tone of exhaustion, before evaporating into the air like ashes in the wind.

  I sat in bewilderment. This was not the first time my shadow had spoken these words. Was I missing something? Who was I supposed to be looking for? Caro? Joyce? Maybe it was someone else.

  Sleep escaped me that night, so I wandered over to Roots for some coffee- as if it might help. After my shadow’s release of terror, I was feeling light and relaxed, yet pensive. I collected a cup of coffee and found a vacant booth near a window in the shop. I could watch people pass by and observe small clips of their lives to their oblivion. I watched each walk by and imagined how different my life would be if I were them instead of myself. What if I could start my own life over, could I be more like them? A vaguely familiar face crossed the front window. He immediately smiled and waved. Once I realized who it was, I quickly averted my attention.

  Less than five minutes later, Caleb came and sat across from me with his cup of coffee and happy-go-lucky smile plastered across his face. I envied his happiness and optimism and honestly despised it.

  “Hey, friend,” Caleb said as he sat down. He remained rugged and almost as dirty as from our first encounter.

  “Caleb,” I replied.

  “How have you been?” he asked.

  “Good.”

  “Danielle, we’re going to have to have a little more dialog if we’re going to be friends. You know, get to know each other. Learn each other’s favorite food, favorite movie?”

  “You’re right. Let’s start with names,” I said, sitting up straighter, “My name to you is Dani, not Danielle.”

  “I see,” Caleb replied, taking a sip from his cup, seemingly unfazed by my agitation, “Did you know that Danielle is a variation of the name Daniel, whose name means ‘God is my Judge’?”

  I squinted my eyes at him, as my mouth hung slightly open, “Are you serious right now?”

  “It’s true. Do you know what Caleb means?”

  “Faithful,” I said, plainly.

  “Wow. Yeah, that’s actually correct. How did you know that?” he asked. I shrugged and continued with my coffee.

  “Are you?” I asked.

  “Am I what?”

  “Faithful?”

  “I try to be,” he responded.

  “To Law?”

  “Law? What? No, I’m faithful to the only person we can truly put our faith in,” he replied. I looked at him questioningly. He waited for the answer to dawn on me, then proceeded, “God... I’m faithful to God.”

  “Oh, ha ha.”

  “That’s funny?”

  “Yeah. Well, to me, it is. I’m not saying I don’t believe God exists, I’m just saying that I don’t owe him my faith or anything else.”

  “But you’re gifted,” he replied.

  “Gifted? You couldn’t be more wrong. There is no greater curse to live with.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “I feel that way because it is that way.”

  “Okay,” Caleb said, raising his hands gently in submission to my remark.

  “I don’t have the luxury of being thankful for anything that has happened to me.”

  “You know, my life wasn’t always easy, and God knows it still isn’t. I have committed atrocities in my past as well.”

  “I can’t imagine you doing anything atrocious. You literally let everyone cut in line just to get coffee.”

  “Well, let’s just say some things bad enough to land me in prison for several years,” he said.

  I was surprised at his admission, and it grasped my attention.

  “You went to prison?”

  “I did,” he said, nodding his head.

  “When? For what, drugs?” I asked.

  “No, not drugs. It was about six years ago, when I was eighteen. I’ve been out about a year.”

  “Jesus, that’s intense.”

  “Yeah, it was. I don’t want to go on about my life. I just want you to know that I know what it’s like to have nightmares in your past that you can’t escape. The terrible things we’ve done haunt us forever. I know what it’s like to begin to move on with your life and almost forget the things that you’ve done. Then you’re sitting at the bus stop or at the park or lying next to someone, and you hear something or smell something or feel something- and whatever it is- it brings you right back to that moment you wanted so hard to forget. You can feel the things you felt that day as if they were happening in that moment. You feel how it made the other people feel. Your stomach begins to turn with guilt. The memories become a movie reel in your mind and replay your shame over and over and over again. And you sit there and you try to think of things you could’ve done differently, like ‘if I had just left’, ‘if I had just waited’, ‘if I had just listened’. Then that guilt in the pit of your stomach grows and consumes you. It keeps you awake at night, it empties your stomach. Most importantly, it makes you think that who you were is who you’re always going to be, because that stain- and all the other stains- they don’t wash away. We cannot change what we have done, we cannot undo those sins. However, a changed person can be forgiven, the same person is consumed by their discretions.”

  The words Caleb spoke rang more true for me than any other words spoken to me before, more than Franklin’s words. I wanted to reply with a dismissive comeback, but the words escaped me. I heard a buzz and Caleb reached for his waist band, then looked up at me.

  “I apologize, but I must be going. Always a pleasure seeing you, Dani,” he said, as he rose from his seat.

  “Where do you have to go?”

  “Oh, looks like a couple of our people probably got into it with some of Franklin’s guys. I’ve got to go make sure they’re okay.”

  “Oh. . .” I said, as he turned to leave, “Well, be careful.”

  Caleb turned and smiled, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter Six

  Reverse Baptism

  A few weeks later, I lay in my room, contemplating life and all its intricacies. My conversation with Caleb had thrown a wrench into my rogue thought processes of detachment and anger. I wondered how he lived with himself, if he had truly found some solace in this world, and what it was like to do good things. I tried to remember the good things I had done, and what they felt like. One of my few memories was helping Joyce’s daughter, but as much as I tried, the details of that night eluded me. The memories were fragmented and incomplete. It was almost as if I had entered that night blackout drunk, so that no feelings of good were able to manifest from that memory. I began to wonder if I had ever done anything good or nice for someone. My mind began to
settle on the thought that, no, I was simply a plague on this world and to everyone I encountered. Perhaps that’s who I was meant to be, like Franklin claimed.

  Franklin had me doing jobs for him almost every day. My account was full, yet my fridge was still empty. His jobs were exhausting. Who knew it could be so taxing to destroy people’s lives. Even my shadow seemed to be getting its fill. It had grown much quieter. Letting it out to dispel its pain onto the world seemed to be just what it needed. I could not be more grateful for this relief from its constant encroachment on my life, but I grew weary of these jobs quickly.

  With my shadow’s desires met, I looked back to the question Franklin had asked me: What did I want? I felt a void inside of me, something missing. Nothing I did filled that void. It was a hole that I just filled with more and more toxicity, only for it to grow bigger. Was there something in this world that could make me feel whole or at least more complete?

  I was called to meet with Franklin that night. He had set up an appointment with me- without Caro. I was always comforted by Caro’s company, and doing anything to do with Franklin without her was unsettling to me. Although, tonight wasn’t about work, I was still nervous to be going alone. Franklin wanted me to see one of his doctors.

  I peeked out the window and saw Franklin’s car out front, waiting to pick me up. I grabbed my apartment key and headed out the door.

  About an hour later I found myself standing in a room much like I remembered from the institution. Unlike the institution, however, there was a bathtub full of water in the middle of the room. Most of the walls were normal for such a place, painted white with various diagnostic posters to adorn them, the only exception was that last wall made of red brick. The only thing touching the wall, or even close to it, was a large mirror propped up against it.

  It was just me, Franklin, and one other man in the room. He looked like a psychiatrist with his button up shirt, pants with a crease in the middle, glasses, and the surface mask that was all compassionate eyes.

  “Good evening, Danielle, I’m Dr. Graham,” he said, as he organized some tools and syringes on a metal tray, “Your employer has asked me to meet with you and see if I can help you. Please give me your arm.”

  I looked over at Franklin, who nodded. The doctor lifted a syringe full of black liquid, with a needle that seemed long enough to pierce my arm through both ends. I glanced away as Dr. Graham injected a substance into me.

  “What is that?”

  “Just a little something to help you relax as we talk. It increases openness, will help you reach a state of calmness that will increase your memory, and allow deeper exploration. It’s similar to being slightly drunk.”

  “What are you exploring?”

  “We’re attempting to get to the root of your flaw and determine its power source,” he said, as he rose from his seat and walked to a drawer, removing its contents. He held up the contraption, “If you don’t mind, for our safety.”

  As he displayed an extensive assortment of containments and wraps, I cringed, but nodded my head.

  “What exactly are you going to do to me?”

  “It’s something we call a reverse baptism. Once we have all the restraints secured, we are going to lower you into the tub. You’ll be facing this wall,” he said, pointing to the brick, “And if you would, remain focused on the mirror.

  “Well, I’ve been asked to do weirder things,” I said, as they continued to fasten the restraints.

  Franklin quickly flipped open his phone, pressed a button, and lifted the receiver to his ear. I could hear the ringer from the other side of the line echoing. When someone picked up the other line Franklin said, “Do it now two bird with one stone I’m sure.”

  He hung up the phone and tried to return his attention to us. He held his phone in his hand looking at it for several seconds. He flipped it back open and stared at it. He shook his head, folded his phone once more and returned it to his pocket.

  “Let’s begin,” he said.

  They helped me step over toward the tub and simultaneously lifted me off the ground, placing me in the tub. The water was quite cold.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and lie back a bit, in a comfortable position,” said the doctor, “I’m just going to dim the lights and put on some background noise to help ease your tension.”

  “Okay,” I responded, as my teeth chattered together.

  Franklin sat off to the side, behind me, in an observation.

  The room was silent for several minutes. I listened to the background noise and gazed at the mirror on the brick wall. The recording he played was simply a series of hollow sounds that became louder and fainter in variation.

  “All right. . . Danielle, how do you feel?”

  “Uncomfortable.”

  “Why do you feel uncomfortable?”

  “The wraps.”

  “Any other reasons?”

  “I don’t like this place.”

  “This office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It reminds me. . . It reminds me of being in a hospital and it reminds me of Joyce,” I replied, as grogginess overtook me and the words rolled off my tongue.

  “What about those things make you feel uncomfortable?”

  “I was always in the hospital. All the time. Every time I was there, something bad had happened.”

  “What kinds of bad things?”

  “I hurt baby Alex — I mean, Gabriel. I hurt my mom, I killed Abel. I was on a bus, we got hit. and I died- but I really didn’t die.”

  “You were in an accident on a bus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were you with?”

  “I was with . . .” my mind tried to go back to that moment, but it kept fast-forwarding to waking up in the hospital, “I don’t know who I was with.”

  “Okay. Tell me, Danielle, why did you hurt the baby?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I broke one of the rules,” my eyelids weighed heavy and the reflection in the mirror and brick wall began to transfigure into vivid memories of my past.

  “What happened to Abel?”

  “I killed him.”

  “Why did you do this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Something’s not right,” I heard a whisper cross the room.

  “Keep trying,” came Franklin’s voice just as quietly.

  “Danielle, tell me what happened to your mother. How did you hurt her?”

  “I made her kill herself.”

  “Did you do that intentionally?”

  “No.”

  “Why did she kill herself?”

  “Guilt. She felt guilty that I knew about what happened to her. What he did to my brother.”

  “What who did?”

  “Christian.”

  As the words escaped me, blood began to run down the walls and my body began to shake. My heart began to pound and sweat trickled down the back of my neck.

  “Did Christian hurt your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he hit him?”

  “No.”

  “Did he touch him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he touch him sexually?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he touch your mother sexually?”

  “Yes,” I felt my teeth begin to grate together and small fragments come loose. My wrists were rubbing together and began to burn as the flesh ground against the restraints. My body began to contort in an attempt to escape.

  “All right, Danielle, tell me, what did you do to Christian?”

  “I tried to hurt him, but he’s a parasite. I couldn’t do it, I could not hurt him, but I wanted to. I wanted to be the one to do it, but I couldn’t.”

  “Okay. So tell me about your brot —”

  “But I found a way,” I said, as a grin overtook me, and my composure immediately calmed.

  “You, you —” he stammered
.

  “Found a way to hurt him.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “I went to his house and I knocked on the door. He opened it. The look on his face-he was so terrified. . . .”

  “Dani?”

  “The fear on your face is well placed. Nothing gives me more joy than to be the person who invokes such a response, Christian.”

  He stumbled back from the doorway a couple steps, “Dani, what are you doing here? I didn’t know you were —”

  “Out of the loony bin?”

  He nodded his head, speechless.

  “Yeah, I’m finally out,” I said, taking a step into the entryway.

  “You can’t come in my house,” he said with a hint of fear in his voice.

  “Try to fuckin’ make me leave,” I said, staring him down. He took several more steps back.

  “I’m calling the police!” he said, grabbing his cell phone off the counter.

  “I wish you would. I’m sure they’d just love to have a talk with you and find out what exactly you’ve done. I know I’d like to know.”

  He set the phone back down on the counter.

  “Sit down,” I commanded.

  He sat on the couch in the living room.

  “Let me just get a chair too,” I walked to the kitchen, keeping an eye on him, and noticed he continuously checked his watch. I opened a drawer and pulled out a long serrated knife to accompany me. I plopped the chair down in front of Christian.

  “What do you want?” he said, looking around.