“I get it. I’m in till I retire. I can do this,” I replied.
“OK then, Mr. Duffy. Take the two boxes from my hands. Once you possess them, open the box with my name on it and hold it open toward me.”
“Wait. What happens to you?”
“I’m retiring, boy. Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“Yes, I get that. But will you just cease to exist? What about your body?”
“I will become an unknown death in the current year, and you will capture my soul in this box. You will then turn in that soul and get another empty box. You will continue to fill boxes with collected souls until you retire.”
“OK, but how do I collect souls? Will there be some sort of training?”
Wilson laughed out loud. “You ask too many questions. Once you take the boxes, all will become clear.”
I took a deep breath as I reached for the boxes in Wilson’s hands. Just before I slid them from his hands, I paused. Our eyes met, and I could have sworn I saw a twinkle in his. I held my hands next to his, palms up. Wilson rotated his hands on to mine, transferring the boxes to me simultaneously. He lifted his hands in the air, and now it was his turn to lean back to relax. I turned the boxes over in my hands, examining each of them individually. I thought about sliding my box into my pocket, but before I could, it vanished. Startled, I looked up at Wilson.
“Things will be much different for you from now on, Mr. Duffy. You will have, shall we call it, practical magic at your disposal from this point forward.”
“Cool.”
“Now if you would, open my box and hold it out in front of me.”
“What? That’s it? You pawn off the boxes on me and you’re out of here?” I asked, astounded. I wondered if I had just made yet another bad choice.
“There’s nothing left to say. I’ve lived my life—both in reality and in the afterlife. What would you have me say or do that would make a difference?”
“Well, for purely selfish reasons, can you give me any tips? Do I eat, and if so how often? How about sleep? And when does happy hour start?”
Wilson laughed. “Sorry, there’s no happy hour, Mr. Duffy. The only tip I will give you will be the same advice that my predecessor gave me.” He paused as he placed his hat atop his head. He sat straight up, looking at me eye to eye.
“Forgiveness is a virtue that needs to be nourished. Resentment only leads to disappointment.”
“That’s it? That’s your sage advice? I was hoping—”
Wilson continued, “And listen to Hauser. He is wise well beyond his years.”
I nodded silently, not because I had no words, but because I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t choking or gasping for breath, but there was no air in my lungs to speak.
“Now, if you please. Open the box and I’ll be on my way,” Wilson said with his own last breath.
I did as Wilson requested. I opened the box and looked inside before turning it toward him. The inside of the box was just as plain as the outside but without any signs of wear. I turned the box around and held it open toward Wilson. “What now?” I asked, suddenly able to speak.
Wilson closed his eyes and began to sing a song. The words sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. As he sang, I began to notice a wisp of smoke or fog leaving his mouth. It lifted out and away from his lips. Once the trail of smoke was completely out of him, his voice ceased, and the paleness of his skin dulled as he slumped back against the bench. The cloud began to move through the air in the direction of the wooden box. Once it completely entered the box, the lid closed on its own and instantly vanished. In its place, another box appeared. The new box looked just like my box, but the name was different.
The name on the box was Cyndi Duffy.
Chapter 1
The silence of the approaching dawn was upon me, and the impact from my foolish choices was deafening. Lost and disoriented, I could almost hear the voice screaming out instructions for what to do next. The only problem: Wilson was dead and he could no longer speak. He sat next to me, slightly slumped to the side, but not enough to tumble off the park bench.I looked into his hollow, lifeless eyes and wondered what I had gotten myself into.
While Wilson’s fixed gaze continued to stare into the ether, I took in my immediate surroundings. The sun was on the rise, and a faint mist hung low to the ground. It seemed like only moments earlier that I was awakened from my suicidal sleep, before heading out into the deserted streets of the city. Now here I was, sitting next to a soulless body, and for all intents and purposes, I was no longer a living, breathing man, either.
Do I have to breathe now? I wondered. Now that I am a soul collector? Breathing is such an absentminded act that you normally don’t pay much attention to—unless you can’t do it, that is. I straightened my back and focused on the rhythmic action of air moving in and out of my lungs. After a particularly deep breath, I stopped breathing. I wasn’t exactly holding my last breath, I just ceased to take another. As I sat listening to the early morning sounds of the city, I began to feel my lungs burn. They were being starved for air. Beads of sweat quickly formed at my temples, and I felt the womp-womp of my heartbeat in my ears. Finally, when I didn’t think I could take any more, I felt a hard slap on my back and I inhaled sharply. I spun around, but there was no one there. I looked at Wilson, certain that he wasn’t capable of raising his lifeless arm to smack air into my lings.
Concluding that my mind must still be coming off the drugs I took earlier, I took several more breaths of fresh air and focused my attention on the box in my hand. It was made of wood and was about the size of an old Rubik’s Cube. An intricate pattern covered the box, and appeared to be hand carved. The box wasn’t worn or scratched. It looked brand-new. I opened it and looked at the interior, which was void of the ornate whittling present on the outside. Closing the box again, I read the name engraved on the top.
Cyndi Duffy.
Reading her name sent chills up and down my spine, and I wondered where she was. If my new job, as Wilson explained, was to collect souls, then I needed to find Cyndi, my wife, and collect hers. I closed my eyes and tried to envision her face in my mind. Strangely, I could not pull her likeness into focus.
“Wilson, a little help here would be nice,” I said aloud, but Wilson’s frozen gaze didn’t falter. I followed his line of sight and noticed that he was staring directly at a billboard: The Dodson Apartment Center—40 stories of high-end living is closer than you think. Just 12 blocks south, in midtown.
“Well, then. Thanks, Wilson. Had I been paying attention during our little talk earlier, I could’ve figured things out all on my own.” I stood and looked around to get my bearings. The sun was on the rise and recognition began to set in. I really was just a few blocks from home. I smiled wryly at myself. The pills from yesterday must have caused some serious disorientation, severely impairing my senses. Now confident about my location and where I needed to go, I headed for home.
Chapter 2
I walked in silence for several blocks, wondering what I would say to Cyndi when I walked into our apartment. “Hi, honey. I need you to spit your soul into this box, you cheating whore.” No, I didn’t think that’d quite do the trick. Perhaps a more subdued approach would be more appropriate. “Excuse me, but would you mind not saying a word while I perform a soulectomy on your sorry ass?” Again, no.
As various scenarios of the inevitable confrontation ran through my mind, I absentmindedly crossed 49th against the light. A taxi sped by me, nearly hitting me. I stopped in my tracks mere seconds before getting blasted by the hustling driver. I quickly jumped back onto the curb and waited for the light to change. After a few moments, the white walker light shone brightly, and I once again moved into the street.
Stepping onto the curb at the other side of the street, my mind reeled at the sudden realization. If I was going to collect Cyndi’s soul, she had to be close to death. After my brief discussion earlier with Wilson about how soul collection worked, I knew it was too la
te for Cyndi. But despite her cheating ways, I was still apprehensive about her impending death. My mind bounced from one tragic thought to another about what could have happened to her. Maybe it was just an accident, and she was hit by a speeding taxi, just like the one that almost hit me. Or maybe she’d felt bad about her actions and decided to take her own life, similar to my own actions yesterday.
As I crossed 43rd, halfway back to the apartment, I slowed my pace. Various dreadful thoughts of what could have happened to Cyndi continued to course through my mind. I realized that if she was on death’s bed, she might not even be at home. She was probably laid up in some hospital bed. Or worse, she could be lying face down in some dark and dingy alley, unable to move. Panic seeped into my soul, but I didn’t know what to do or where to go. My mind cycled through all the options in front of me, and I flashed back to when she had fallen in the park a few weeks ago. She had elected to go to County General for help. Just as the thought of the hospital pulled up in my mind, my vision suddenly faded to black and I felt as if I was being hoisted above a crowd and carried through the air by the random hands of strangers. I tried to open my eyes and look around, but it was useless. Darkness prevailed. The rush stopped as quickly as it had begun, and my vision swiftly returned. Once I was able to focus again, I doubled over and involuntary puked. When nothing came out, I gather that there was most likely nothing was left to vacate from my stomach. It was just dry heaves, most likely caused from whatever that … feeling was. I looked around and discovered that I had mysteriously transported onto the seventh floor of the hospital.
I stood in front of the bank of elevators, alone. Straight ahead was a vacant reception station. To my left and to my right, long corridors led to various unknown rooms. I stepped up to the reception desk and waited. After what felt like an eternity, I realized that either the station was unattended at this hour or the receptionist was running errands somewhere else in the hospital. I decided to explore the floor on my own, figuring that I had been brought here for a reason—meaning Cyndi was probably near.
Turning around, I noticed a sign on the wall. Arrows indicated that rooms 701 through 718 were to the left, and ICU/CCU was to the right.
“ICU it is,” I said aloud and headed down the corridor.
As I moved through the vacant hallway, I came upon a pair of glass doors leading into the intensive care unit. Gripping the handle on the left, I pulled, but the door did not budge. I tried the handle on the right but was met with the same result. I leaned close to the glass door and peered in as far as my eyes could see. The corridor veered to the right, disappearing out of sight. I looked around for some sort of communication device and found a small buzzer button. I pressed it and waited. Moments later, the door buzzed back and I heard an audible click at the door handle. I pushed through and walked down the hall.
The first room I came to was empty. Across the hall was another room—also empty. But another pair of doors further down the hallway looked promising. Each of the doors had medical clipboards hanging on hooks right outside. As I approached, I could read the names on the top sheets of the clipboards. Dewayne Mitchell and Leonard Stewart. I continued to walk down the hall, reading names off of charts. As I turned the corner, I saw what appeared to be a central nurse’s station at the hub of several additional rooms. There was one attendant present, and he had his back toward me. I continued to move along the right-hand side, reading names on the charts as I went. Finally, as I was about to walk into the attendant’s view, I saw Cyndi’s name. I stepped into her room and pulled the curtain closed.
I took a deep breath, then turned to look at my wife. She lay unconscious, with multiple tubes and wires attached to various parts of her body. As I moved to her bedside, I noticed her face was bruised and battered. Almost as if she’d been beaten to a pulp. Both of her legs and one of her arms were wrapped in some kind of soft cast that prevented movement. Her left arm was also bruised. The rhythmic beep-beep from the machine next to her bed was all that could be heard.
Not knowing the proper procedure, I pulled the wooden box from my pocket and placed it on her chest. I opened the box and stepped back. Nothing happened. I leaned in and gently touched the side of her cheek.
“Oh, baby, what happened to you?” I asked.
She remained silent.
Fighting back tears, I attempted to open her mouth, thinking that her soul likely needed a clear pathway to vacate her body. As I pulled apart her lips, I noticed that her jaw had been wired shut. Blood and mucus coated her teeth, and the sight of it made me cringe.
Frustrated, I grabbed the box and snapped it shut before shoving it into my pocket. As I did so, my hand brushed against the coin that Wilson had used to bring back my memories.
I slipped the coin from my pocket as I lowered myself into the chair next to her bed. I rubbed the coin thoughtfully, contemplating my options. In order for the soul to release from its host, did I need to relive something from the host’s past?
“What do you think, Cyn? Care to take a trip down memory lane?” I asked.
She didn’t answer, of course. I figured it was probably best that way. I’m not sure I wanted to hear her pleas of protest, not wanting me to experience something that would not shine a flattering light on her.
“Here goes nothing,” I said as I turned the coin over inside my hand, just like I had done numerous times with Wilson by my side. Nothing happened.
“Dammit,” I exclaimed. I sprang from the chair and paced about the room, wondering what it was that I needed to do. I walked back and forth at the foot of her bed, thinking as I fumbled with the coin.
It struck me that it was Cyndi that needed to turn the coin in order to activate her memories. I moved back to her side and placed the coin in her hand. Without touching it myself, I used her fingers to flip the coin over in the palm of her hand. Darkness enveloped me as I vanished from the hospital room.
Chapter 2.5
Cyndi Duffy was engrossed in a dream when the first flashes of light fell upon her closed eyes. She squeezed them tight, determined to thwart the advance of day. With the dream so close to becoming fully lucid, she didn’t want to move an inch for fear of losing the warmth of Kevin’s touch.
The early morning dream had been the third in as many days, and even though they were really just fantasy delusions, she still felt guilty for having them. She knew that she should at least be dreaming about Jack instead of Kevin. But it had been years since Jack had given her butterflies like Kevin gave her now, imaginary or otherwise.
Eager to stay in the moment, she welcomed Kevin’s gentle touch as he began to caress her body. She moaned softly as his hands worked their way over her breast and down across her abdomen. She lost track of Kevin’s hands though when he leaned in and kissed her. The moment his lips touched hers, passion tugged at all of her senses. She longed for his body to melt deep inside of hers, when she heard him say something. Confused, she wondered how he could be talking when his lips were firmly planted on her own. She tried to ask “What?” but all that came out was “Hrmm?”
The voice, louder now and obviously not coming from Kevin, said, “I love you, baby.” Cyndi’s mind snapped out of her mildly erotic dream and into the early morning reality of her own life. She recognized Jack’s voice at once and began to stir. Without opening her eyes, for fear that he would sense her betrayal, she murmured, “Me too. You better get up or you’ll be late again.”
Hoping that the dream would only pause long enough for her husband to get started on his day, Cyndi lay silently without moving.
Jack broke her comfortable silence “I know. I was just lying here thinking about . . .”
It quickly became obvious to Cyndi that Jack wasn’t ready to get out of bed just yet. She figured that she might as well soothe his soul for a few minutes before he got ready for work. It was the least she could do, considering what she was just about to do. Albeit in a delusional fantasy.
“About what?” she asked, sliding her head ov
er to rest on his chest. She lay motionless as he formed his response.
Lying on his back, Jack began to stroke Cyndi’s hair as if he were petting a cat. “My project. Life. You. Take your pick.”
As Jack spoke, Cyndi knew that there was more to his response than met the eye. It had been several months since his depression had surfaced, and she’d thought that he had finally gotten control of it. Not wanting to let him focus on the troubles at work anymore than he already was, she tried to steer their conversation in a lighter direction. “I’m happy I’m in there somewhere.”
Surrendering to the morning light, she opened her eyes slightly and stared up at the ceiling. She didn’t focus on anything in particular, but just laid in place while her eyes adjusted to the morning brightness.
“What are your plans for today? Want to have lunch?” Jack asked.
Accepting the fact that her dream was indeed lost, she looked at the alarm clock before answering. “I can’t today. I’m volunteering at the Redevelopment Foundation, remember?”
The Redevelopment Foundation was the one thing that Cyndi was passionate about. Jack’s income was enough for them to live comfortably without her having to take a job, and in the beginning, that was all that she wanted. To stay home and be a loving housewife. She’d enjoyed filling her days with making their home a happy one. For the first few years, that was enough. Then, once they discovered their challenges of starting a family, Cyndi quickly became bored of being Suzy Homemaker. The foundation alleviated that apathy, if only for once a week. Seeing Kevin on a weekly basis was just a perk. She forced the remains of her dream from her mind, and knew that she had some difficult decisions ahead.
After several minutes, Jack finally responded. “Oh right. The foundation. When will you be done?”
The Borrowed Souls: A Novel Page 5