Purgatorium

by J. H. Carnathan

  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 th
e 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.”

  MONDAY

  Gabriel

  I jolt straight up, my eyes wide. The alarm clock is still beeping. I turn it off and look up at the walls. I see that the photos are gone as if they were never put up in the first place. I wipe sweat off my forehead, then notice my right hand has somehow completely healed. Not even a scratch. My alarm clock starts counting up.

  I turn my head to see the Handbook back on the nightstand. I wonder how it got back here? I take it and stick it in my drawer again. Picking up my snow globe, I hold it out in front of me and walk to the window. I gaze out and see the whole city is covered in snow.

  Wasn’t it just fall? I think to myself. I scratch my head while looking out my window at the wintery landscape. Gathering my thoughts, I make my way through the living room to my bathroom. I smile to myself in my reflection, thinking that it was all one big nightmare. I pick up my straight razor.

  Looking back up into the mirror, I am startled and horrified to see Madi, looking angry, holding the razor up to my neck. Seeing my terror, she breaks into a smile and laughs. She puts the razor down, gets the shaving cream, and brushes it onto my face. She picks up the razor again and brings it to my face, then hesitates and puts her hand down again, looking worried.

  I laugh, reach down, and take her hand, putting the razor in it. I lift her hand back up to my face and slowly guide the razor over my right cheek. On the next pass, I drop my hand, letting Madi take over.

  I relax into her sure touch. I love when she does this, sure that she’s done it before, even if I can’t quite remember it.

  Madi takes the towel and wipes off the little leftover streaks of shaving cream. I look back up at the mirror and notice that, even though I feel myself smiling, my reflection is smirking. I watch in horror as my reflection reaches down for the razor, picks it up, and slits Madi’s throat.

  I try to scream. I turn to try to help Madi, but she is gone. I look back at the mirror and see myself in it, reflecting everything I feel myself doing again.

  I look down at my hand and see the razor in it. I drop it into the sink and take a step back. Reminding myself that I have not killed Madi, I begin to feel petrified, thinking something is happening to me. I am going crazy, I think.

  I walk over to my closet door. Opening it, I am spooked to find Polaroid pictures scattered across the room. Bending down, I pick them up, looking at each picture. Every one portrays nothing more than random shots of ordinary things.

  I notice one was the shot Michael took at my bathroom mirror. I walk out and bring the picture to the mirror, trying to understand its purpose. Maybe he is giving me a clue to something, I wonder.

  I look deep into the bathroom mirror, not understanding what he wants me to find. After not thinking of any possibilities, I question if maybe he has just lost his freakin’ mind. I look at the next picture as it is a picture of my bedroom window. I hear “The Light in the Piazza” start to play in the living room.

  I look down at my watch: 3:10. Always at 3:10, I think.

  I start to feel angry as my mind begins to battle between actions and reasoning towards the way the music is making me feel. I can’t feel anything but pain and anger, making my actions win out in the end.

  I walk out of the bathroom, looking across at the piano, and lay the photos on the kitchen table. I take the hatchet out of the glass case and, without hesitating, walk to the piano, raising the hatchet above my head, and bring it down with all my strength on the lid.

  The lid slams down onto the body of the piano. I continue hacking away at the keys. Some of them fly into the air as the sound of the song mixes with the cacophony of splintering wood and ivory, and off-tune notes ring out with each impact. My rage feels uncontrollable. I slam the hatchet into the player mechanism and the song stops. Amidst the ruckus, I notice an intermittent slurping sound behind me.

  I stop chopping at the piano and turn around. Surprised and shocked, I see Gabriel, holding a bowl up to his mouth, sitting at the table. Gabriel continues slurping, seeming not to notice me.

  After a couple of seconds, Gabriel finally looks up, puts his bowl down, picks his piece of already chewed gum out of his napkin, and puts it in his mouth. He wipes the napkin around his mouth and then puts it back on the table. Grabbing the cereal box beside him, he dumps the rest of it in his big bowl and goes to the refrigerator to take out a bottle of milk. He pours the rest in the bowl and without looking, throws the empty bottle back inside the refrigerator.

  I hear it smash as I see him spooning his bowl. He takes out his gum again and places it back on the napkin. Leaning in, he looks at the photos on the table.

  “I see you’ve met Michael,” Gabriel says as he spoons cereal into his mouth. “That must mean you can think clearly now. Good for you! Took us many attempts to get you past that second hurdle. Putting the fear of God in you was always the easy part, but getting you to find your humanity was a real pickle. Which reminds me, do you have any pickles in the fridge by chance? I am felling pretty hangry (Angry-hungry) for some food right now.”

  I look into those deep green eyes of his and can already tell that he is nothing like Michael. I watch him get up and walk over to the fridge. He opens the door and makes a loud giddy sounding squill as he grabs a jar of pickles. His excitement over a simple pickle is more than enough to warn me that today is going to be one long day.

  Gabriel sits back down while taking a bite of a pickle. Still chewing he says, “Another riddle for you: It may only be given, not taken or bought, what the sinner desires, but the saint does not. The answer to this riddle is one of your key solutions for getting out of here. Only when you understand the answer will you find what you seek.”

  Gabriel takes anoth
er bite, stands up, walks past the bathroom entrance, looks in, and stands in front of the mirror.

  “Until I am measured, I am not known,” he continues, looking into my bathroom mirror. “Yet how you miss me, when I have flown. Today is the day we open your eyes, sunny Jim.” He takes the bathroom picture, licks its back, and stamps it with his hand on the mirror.

  I am tired of playing these games. I try to ignore Gabriel. I walk past him to the closet, pick out my suit, and begin dressing in my bedroom. Gabriel comes in and snatches my pictures that Michael took off my wall.

  “8 pictures. 8 flaws,” he whispers to himself. He puts them in his pocket.

  “Albert Einstein once said the only reason for time’s existence is so everything doesn’t happen at once. Some would also say time is only a mental construct that has no existence in real space outside of human perception. It just goes to show how far the human mind can evolve past a certain idea to a more realistic one.”

  I walk out of my bedroom, now fully dressed.

  Gabriel turns to me and looks closely at my face. “Time. What is time to you? A dimension in which events can be ordered? A measure of durations of sequences? The Greek language denotes a distinct principle in the meaning. To them, time was the right or opportune moment.”