The Counterfeit

by Nate Allen

is spinning violently. My grab is aimless. Air. Air. Now, there’s something. Simply touching it removes any symptoms from my hand. As I grasp hold of it with both hands and bring it to my chest, the healing effect is immediate.

  And now everything is easy. I slip one arm in the sleeve and then the other. The clothing is not only a representation; it’s protective. It feels like a sheet of armor, protecting me from the poisonous atmosphere. Buttoned up and tucked in, I position the tie and perform the necessary steps to end up with a double Windsor.

  What I didn’t see under the chair were white oxfords with gold dress socks. I take the necessary steps to put each on and then fasten. And now, I grab hold of the door knob and turn.

  4

  The hallway surprises me in its ordinary appearance. It’s well lit, with identical doors continuing to both my left and right. If I didn’t know any better, I would say it was an ordinary hotel. Even the atmosphere out here is different. Darkness is only found in the shadows cast from the lights on the walls.

  Nothing is obvious as I thought it would be. I imagined what I would open the door to find would be the same darkness the room held, since no light could be seen from under the door. Is this a reflection of hope? Is it much closer to my counterfeit than I previously thought it was?

  Despite its ordinary appearance, the emptiness lingers. And I imagine many of those rooms are vacant. Otherwise, why did a woman’s scream go unanswered?

  Ding! Ding! The sound of a hotel bell is faint to my left. I start walking toward it, because I have no other form of direction.

  The carpet beneath the soles of my feet is terrifying in its simplicity: small red and black tiles. It doesn’t need to be anything else. It says everything it needs to.

  As I move faster, the colors beneath me blend together in a dizzying display. The doors I pass don’t even have numbers on them. It’s hard to know where I started from or how far I’ve gone. The hall is long. And the distortion of reality is starting to become clear. This world, much like my counterfeit, has the fingerprints of the person who owns it. From the numberless rooms to the long, empty hallways, it is handmade. It is something where the person knows that this isn’t life, but something else. And they have embraced it for just that.

  My walk has become a run. As far as I can see down this hall, it continues. Some of the doors I pass aren’t doors at all, but convincingly painted onto the wall. It is meant to be an illusion. It is meant to fool outsiders. I’m sure of it. Everything I see is customized by one person, for one person.

  I don’t quite understand why, unless he/she wants privacy. What better way to have it than to have a room near the end of an endless hallway?

  I’ve been running for an extended period of time. I would guess eight to ten minutes, but there’s no way to really know.

  Ding! Ding!

  The bell sounds much closer now. I must be nearing the lobby. Even the sound of my feet hitting the floor is starting to carry past this thin tube I’m in. I’m starting to hear a voice echoing. I can’t make out what it’s saying but it’s close.

  I can see the end of the hall. It opens up into a large lobby made of overlapping bricks. I slow down as I approach it. The floor is black stone with red specks, beautiful but soulless. I step onto it. It’s reflective and easily able to capture what’s above it. I stop walking and look up. It isn’t red specks built into the floor but countless red eyes on the ceiling reflected.

  The chill is immediate and lingers. Even with the protective covering of these clothes, the fear drips onto me. I have a feeling this is only the beginning of the nightmare to come.

  Every step I take now echoes into a lobby that only seems to grow. I can’t see an entrance. I can’t see a second floor. I see the hall I came from and seven more like it continuing around the room, with the lobby the epicenter of it all.

  “How can I help you, Andrew?” a man asks as I turn to see him standing behind the front desk. It’s D.

  5

  I’m frozen in place. It’s the deceiver, who was a finger width away from watching me perish.

  “Nothing to say, Andrew?” his suit is black with red pinstripes; his dreads are tied up into a neat display.

  “Why are you here?”

  A terrifying smile grows on his face. “Well, apparently I have to keep a closer watch on my victims. You tricked me, Andrew. I was so close to getting you! I could taste you on my lips. I could almost feel your warm flesh squirming against mine as you writhed in agony. If it wasn’t for that stupid boy, if it wasn’t for that audible called to give you one more chance—it’s my loss. I made the mistake of leaving you alone. The question is what are you doing here, Andrew?”

  “I’m here to disrupt your plan.”

  He only laughs. “How do you think you are going to do that?”

  “Exposure.”

  “I like the game, Andrew. So, I’ll play along. Exposure, even to the “blessed Savior” will do nothing. And do you want to know why? The man at the end of the hall you came from has not been here for a day or a week but years. He was diagnosed with a disease young. At the age of twelve he fell into a permanent coma. And ever since then, I have had my hands in every aspect of his life. Poisoning him. And do you know why I know exposure isn’t going to do anything? Every foot soldier that has been sent to minister to him I’ve used to darken him even more. He knows the story of the “blessed Savior”. He can’t stand to listen. There’s only one day seven hours fifty four minutes and 34 seconds left until he is mine forever.” He’s looking at a timer he pulled from his pocket. “Tell him all about your God. It won’t make a difference. He kills women, beating them like slabs of cold meat as they cry out in agony. It doesn’t affect him. It only makes him hit harder!” the smile on D’s face is terrifying.

  “Your disadvantage will always be that you can’t offer fullness. Empty thrills offer nothing but more emptiness. A man kills because he is desperately trying to fill something in him. A man kills because he has no other way to feel. Only a broken person would build this hotel, where no one is allowed in or out.”

  “He’s lived a whole life in this world. This hotel is the pinnacle. This hotel is the result of everything I’ve been working toward. When he got here he was innocent. Everything he created was filled with light,” a grimace plasters his face. “He loved this, wanted that. It took every trick in the book to convince him that this was reality. Props played the roles of his parents, who I made sure would die a gruesome death in front of him. He was thirteen at the time. And it successfully planted a seed of rage, which I continued to nurture through sporadic moments of severe tragedy and pain.

  “His first girlfriend came when he was fifteen. She was a light to him, which I allowed so that the hurt that followed from her many betrayals would stick with him. Every girlfriend a prop, every experience a convincing production put on by me. He only knows hate, because I’ve never given him anything else. I’ve only used hope as a hook. I’ve watered the seed and watched it grow into a wonderful monster, taking him from a hopeful little boy to a man filled with uncontrollable rage. He is a masterpiece of my deception. And the kicker is this: everything he does isn’t real. To his family he is a full grown man hooked up to machines in a hospital bed, who will die in just over one day and seven hours.” D reaches under the desk he’s standing behind and pulls out a thick remote. “You better try to reach him while you still can.” He pushes a small, metallic button on the remote and suddenly the eight hallways surrounding us begin to spin like a wheel. The lobby floor remains stationary while everything else begins to spin, faster the longer it goes.

  This is nothing more than a sick game. And my disadvantages are stacking higher and higher with each passing moment. Not only do I have to somehow bring a fresh exposure of the Savior to a man who wants nothing to do with Him, now I may not even be able to find him in the little time I have left.

  “I am master of this world, Andrew.” a soft growl is growing within D’s voice. “Do you really
think I would let you speak a word to this man? Do you really think I would take the chance of letting him experience eternal hope?”

  “You said that every exposure he’s had you’ve used to darken him even more. Why are you worried now?” The sound of the halls spinning is a series of loud, metallic clicks surrounding me.

  “Exposure.” He closes his eyes with a smile. “Exposure is the one thing I’ve kept him from all this time.”

  “He’s never heard the message of Jesus?”

  “Don’t speak that Name. It’s like shrill ringing in my ears, like nails against the chalkboard. And of course he’s heard the message of the “blessed Savior”, but never anything that genuinely spoke to his need. Everything has been preaching from a pedestal. Everything has been religious, cliché, and perfectly watered down. And what is even sweeter is the continued haughtiness that exists. After knowing what he does to women, many don’t even believe he’s worth saving. And their messages are offered from a place of judgment. I love such arrogance, Andrew. These very people, fresh from Heaven itself, still consider themselves worthy of what they’ve been given, as if they are more than filthy insects graciously saved by a needy Collector.”

  That’s the difference. When Jesus told me exposure was my mission, he meant a genuine moment. He wants me, a man who