When Worlds Collide

by Charles Blair

  Patrick smiled at Pastorio's dumbfounded face, and said, "You can take her back now."

  *

  Elizabeth once said, "Waiting, isn't it a bitch?" There we were, waiting. Patrick, in and out of Joy's hospital room, was pacing as if he was on trial, while his parents were relatively calm. Janet, who was drinking coffee, was also in and out of the room. Joy, in physical pain, was impatiently waiting to give birth to her first child. As for myself, I was still in the dark, but I was waiting, and getting ready to be blinded by the light. Hours kept ticking, and emotions kept rising. Sweating and more nervous than Joy herself, Patrick exited Joy's room to take a walk, and get some air.

  Before Patrick left, his father said, "Don't go too far, you don’t want to miss the birth of your child."

  "I know dad; I know exactly when to be back." Patrick responded, with utmost confidence.

  Walking downstairs, Patrick saw his mother in the lobby, having a bite to eat. Patrick sat next to his mother, and sighed loudly.

  Placing the vending machine sandwich down, Michele said to her son, "Relax a little, you'll be a great father."

  "I know mom, thank you." Patrick replied, as he smiled at his mother.

  Michele, able to read her son like a book, noticed Patrick had something on his mind other than the birth of his child. Therapeutically, and with a mother's touch, Michele asked, "Patrick, what's on your mind? You can tell me."

  Apprehensive, Patrick shifted in his chair, and said, "There's something I need to tell you."

  "What is it son?"

  "I lied to Joy about something, and I don't want to lie to you."

  "Oh Patrick, I already know about your gift." Michele said, immediately freezing Patrick in his chair.

  "What?" Patrick asked, as his eyes stretched out.

  "I knew about your gift before I was even pregnant with you. Your sister's imaginary friend, I knew it was you, waiting to be born."

  Michele was choked up, due to the lovely memories rushing back.

  Patrick was speechlessly out of order, but Michele had several more things to say.

  "I know you chose me to be your mother; that's why our bond is so strong. And you and I both know; your child did the same.”

  As the clock read 2:20 a.m.., Patrick had ten minutes to get back to Joy's room. Standing up from their chairs, Patrick embraced his mother, and said, "I love you."

  *

  2:30 a.m…

  When the hands of the clock struck the time we've all been waiting for, the feeling that took over my emotions and body was similar to being sucked through a straw. There was so much pressure, I almost couldn't handle it, but I knew as soon as it was over, I would finally have everything that I needed, which was a loving family. Joy was pushing so hard, I thought her head was going to explode, and this time, no pun intended.

  Finally, Joy’s strength overcame, and provided me with the ultimate sacrifice. She gave one last heave-ho, as I felt a human touch. The light was incredibly bright, but metaphorically, the eye jackets that I developed in the darkness, shielded me from illusion. On December 3rd, 2012, at 2:30 a.m.., I received my second chance.

  *

  Three days later...

  I was asleep in my bassinet, as Patrick and Joy, wait a second, my mom and dad were sitting on the couch. The scene was amazing, and tranquility filled the air like a fairly tale. Night had fallen, when my dad interrupted the euphoric mood. Watching me sleep, my dad turned to my mom, and asked, "Do you want to hear something cool?"

  Half asleep, my mom answered, "Sure, what is it?"

  Taking a few steps, and then reaching into his work bag, he pulled out his digital voice recorder, the same one he used the night in the basement.

  Sitting next to my mom, my dad expressed, disclosing his travels as a five month old baby, "Joy, I loved you before I met you, and our son isn't any different. I want you to hear this."

  Pressing the play button on the recorder, my mom heard, "For future use, can you please tell Joy what you want?"

  Through the static sound, my mom heard my voice say, "A second chance."

  After a brief pause, my mom heard, "Can you please tell Joy who you are?"

  And again, through the static sound, my mom heard me answer, "Your son."

  At the beginning of the story, I couldn't tell you my name, age, or even the gender of my body. My reason was valid, because I wasn't born yet. However, I am now, but before I tell you who I am, I have to tell you who I used to be.

  Chapter 26

  NEW BEGINNING

  They say life can be perplexing at times. And for the most part, they're right. But, if life is confusing, what is death?

  Death is flat-out mysterious. Death is unknown, and the fear of it will submerge you every time, drowning you in your own fantasy, unless you're prepared. As for me, death came with an unexpected vengeance. I was forced to theorize and apply my next move on the run. I most definitely could have gotten angry and sought revenge, but I told you from the start, my plan was benevolent. When I began my half of this dual narrated story, I was looking into your world from the darkness. However, since the commencement, I received my second chance. For the next, let's say, eighty or so years, I will be walking along side of you, in the world of the living. During these years, I won't have everything that I want, but I’ll have exactly what I need. Before I introduce who I am, let's take some time, and get to know the person I used to be.

  Hello, I used to be Shawn Walters. On June 6th, 2011, at the tender age of twelve, I died from an undiagnosed heart-failure while swimming in my family's pool. Just because the doctors didn't find a medical explanation for my passing, I understood the reasoning behind my death. I was murdered by an angry and vengeful spirit, who resided in the astral plane. And that spirit was my own sister, Elizabeth Walters, who was murdered six months prior. Despite the circumstances, at least I identified my killer. Unfortunately, Elizabeth may never know who caused her brain aneurysm. As I guide you through the conclusion of this story, I'm giving you an opportunity to hear my side. I know you've already received an account through Elizabeth's eyes, but it's crucial to understand my perspective as well. Because, like Elizabeth said, you may find yourself in similar circumstances. And if that day comes, I hope your plan is as honorable as mine. Unlike Elizabeth, you might not have someone looking out for you.

  Speaking of no one looking out for you, I'll start with my family dynamic. My family consisted of me (Shawn Walters), Elizabeth, Adam, my mother Rebecca, and my father Jeremy. I was the youngest of three children, and by far the most problematic. From a young age, I demanded more attention than any of my siblings; conversely, truthfully speaking, I received the least. Because my family ignored me, like a counseled child avoiding a bully, I acted out constantly. Among the million different piss-ant stunts I pulled, the persistent behavior I did the most, which received attention, was writing my initials on the wall. I had several reasons for doing this, but the motive, driving me more than anything; I wanted my family to know who I was, and that I existed in their lives. No man is an island, but I sure as hell felt like one. Literally, I was the fifth wheel. My mother, as I said before, was a tornado. My father worked long hours, and spent his free time having sex with teeny-boppers. And when he did invest time into the family, my father only acknowledged Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth, the pride and Joy of the Walters family, was on a pedestal. I can understand that her unparalleled talents, besides basketball, were second to none. If there was attention to give, Elizabeth got it in surplus. Then Adam, heck, he occupied his time riding the magic carpet. And to make things worse, I’m explaining detail before my father was busted, busting into the neighbor girl.

  After my mother and Elizabeth walked in on my father's lustful behavior, life for me became unbearable. I guess the line separating sex and aggression is pretty thin. Because once my father got caught, our living room turned into a boxing ring. Adam, who was older, had the opportunity to escape and stay elsewhere. Therefore,
he wasn't subjected to my father's physical projection. Elizabeth, perfect in everyone's eyes, including my father, never laid a hand on her. Nevertheless, for my mother and me, we were punching bags. I won't disclose every detail of my horrific abuse, one, because it's hard to say, and two, it's difficult to hear. Although I won’t discuss everything, I must abreact a situation, because I want you to know what my mother and I endured. It's important to understand, because an objective of this story is triumph. You see; I was raised in the mud, but I turned out to be a beautiful flower. Many children in this world are brought up in shambles, and mimic characteristics of those who hurt them, thus giving up, and finally becoming the monster they were scared of all along. I want you to realize, no matter how dark the situation may be; happiness can be found beyond the lights.

  The situation that haunted me more than Elizabeth ever did was when my father chased me into the closet. My mom and dad were in the kitchen arguing, when my father flew off the handle. Snapping like a twig in a thunderstorm, my father chased me, because I said I was calling the police. And the reason I wanted to call the police, during the argument, my father held a knife to my mother's throat. As I was a coward in the closet, my father taped my hands and ankles, and then he proceeded to punch me. When he was finished, he locked me in the closet for six hours. Although my father left the house immediately after the incident, my mother forgot I was in there. Like I said, I was a goddamn island. I was so scared; I was forced to shit my pants, and relish in it for six hours. If that wasn't enough to break me, what would?

  The abuse went on and on, and I was becoming more and more like my father everyday. My mother, allowing the madness to occur, didn't call the police, child services, or send my father packing. She was distracted, and hid behind her denial, thinking that everything was okay. Everything wasn't okay; my father was destroying our lives. And no one had my back. For Christ's sake, I was a child. I needed protection. No one helped me, not even my own mother. When you're helpless, what are your options? Who do you turn to for guidance? My only option, similar to many of you, I called upon God. I shit you not; I prayed and prayed. I prayed so much, my knees were bruised. After I gave the good lord my emotion, something changed, something happened. And that something, occurred on picture day, the day Elizabeth was abruptly and viciously murdered.

  *

  Good ole picture day, another helpless roadblock, so it seemed at the time. The day started out positively, at least for Elizabeth. Looking like a future prom queen, Elizabeth sported her black dress like a model. I on the other hand, threw another fit, because I was jealous. Bitching about equality, or inequality I should say, I gave my mother an ear full, because I didn't have a nice shirt to wear. I realized that I wasn't as gorgeous as Elizabeth, but I deserved nice clothes as well. I saw Elizabeth wearing her elegant dress, and imagined all the compliments she would have received, and then compared her attire to mine, making me feel like a bum. Seriously, I didn't have a nice shirt. Mind you, I was a child. I couldn't purchase clothing for myself. I'll admit I had plenty of irrational thoughts, but I had a valid complaint about my wardrobe. Escalating my behavior to another level, I wrote my initials on the wall, which almost made us late for picture day. Regardless, we never arrived.

  Once in the car, I shut my mouth, because I knew my mother wasn't having a conversation with me. I sat in the backseat, like I usually did; because Elizabeth got everything she wanted, including the front seat. Roughly, five minutes or so down the road, I witnessed Elizabeth compulsively checking her reflection in the mirror, as if she was preparing for a beauty contest. However, the pampered prima donna was interrupted, when an unknown entity with a plan, rocked her world, taking me and my mother along for the ride. Elizabeth's body convulsed, and was sent into an unworldly seizure. Everyone in the car was freaking out, including me. We were helpless. There was nothing we could do. Elizabeth was dying. Instead of bronzing her attractive face, Elizabeth's last vision of herself was watching blood pour from her eyes, mouth, and nose. By the time we arrived at the hospital, Elizabeth was already dead.

  *

  The months following Elizabeth's death are practically impenetrable. Though, I'll try my best. After we buried Elizabeth, my mother's distraction was at an all-time high, but to her credit, she found time to grow a backbone. Within several weeks, my mother kicked my father out of our home. Strangely, my father didn't put forth a fight. He accepted the unwelcome see-you-later, and left without a peep. His silence was short-lived, maybe a week or two, when he called my mother one night. Not a surprise to me, my mother picked up the phone, and engaged in conversation. My father, sincere, apologized for everything, and never once asked for a second chance. Still, pleading to my mother, my father wanted an opportunity to visit me. Despite my mother's mistakes, she did the right thing. She told my father, the decision was up to me. Optimistically, I believed my father's abusive history was that, history. I also believed; my father wanted to rekindle the relationship that he destroyed. I was half correct; my father's aggression diminished, but his motivation to invest in me never changed. I gave him ample opportunity, but he disappointed me every time. I got to the point where I said, the hell with it. Combining my attachment issues with grieving the loss of Elizabeth, I became a worthless piece of shit. Life became a joke to me, and I didn't appreciate anything, including my own existence. I fantasized about being someone else, and harbored pervasive thoughts of suicide. To make things worse, this is when Elizabeth's spirit started haunting me.

  *

  When Elizabeth's haunting started, I thought, Shawn you're losing your mind. Children, who experience abuse and the traumatic death of a family member, usually develop a mental illness. And I figured; I wasn't any different. As day turned to night, and night turned to day, I realized Elizabeth wasn't a distorted reality.

  Do you know how it feels to see a dead relative?

  Well, some of you might.

  Was it comforting?

  I hope, because for me it wasn't. Every time I saw Elizabeth, she said something negative. In contrary, if Elizabeth assisted me, and guided the healing process, the outcome of the story would've been different. Saying this, however; it validates the irony of life. Be that as it may, when Elizabeth made herself visible, I took a step backwards. I contemplated telling my mother, but I never did. My foresight told me, mom would flip her lid if she knew I was speaking to Elizabeth's ghost.

  My sanity was peeling away like string cheese, and believe it or not, my mother noticed. This is when she sent me to see Doctor Sholvin. At the time, I couldn't see into the future, like Elizabeth, but my knowledge of the present told me, Doctor Sholvin was an idiot. For ninety consecutive minutes, she told me to make better choices. Think what you want, but when someone is struggling emotionally, the defenses that develop effect their ability to make good choices. I wanted to make better choices, but I didn't know how. Therefore, I needed someone to show me, and Sholvin, clearly didn't do her job. Meanwhile, Elizabeth accompanied me throughout my sessions with Sholvin. Obviously, with a little extra hindsight from the astral plane, Elizabeth disliked Sholvin more than I did. Needless to say, Sholvin's therapy was a joke, and I was on the verge of suicide. Reading every thought in my head, Elizabeth's frustration, caused by my ambition to die, increased her desire to steal my body, so she could live again.

  *

  My sister's passion for a second chance brings us to the day I died. On June 6th, 2011, my mother hosted a pool party, because I passed the sixth grade.

  In the beginning, I asked you, did I deserve the wrath of hell coming my way?

  Well, did you formulate an answer?

  As you know, the party began with a game of horseshoes, which I won, because I cheated, but winning wasn't enough to make me happy. Happiness, at that point, was long gone. My father declined my invite; my brother was at school getting high, and Emily was there because she felt sorry for me. To set things straight, it wasn't a pool party. It was indeed a support group. As the pity pa
rty continued, my true colors were shining through, and Elizabeth could no longer take another minute. When I left the picnic table and stormed through the house, I ran into my sister in the upstairs hallway. Proactively, Elizabeth manipulated the situation, and her plan worked to perfection. And moments later, I was dead.

  My spirit left my body well before the medical professionals arrived. I entered the astral plane, and traveled to the emergency room, where I waited on my body. As I waited, I collided with Elizabeth, and it wasn't a pretty sight. We were in turmoil. Intensely arguing, Elizabeth demonstrated little, if any, remorse for killing me. All the while, she continued disclosing that I didn't deserve life. The conflict was hotter than hell, when I decided to disengage, and jump into my body before Elizabeth had a chance. Re-entering my body was similar to a crash landing. The moment I touched down, I convulsed, prompting the Doctor to uncover my revitalized corpse. When I opened my eyes, I saw my mother, and Elizabeth. Seeing Elizabeth was frightening, because I knew she'd finish what she started. Elizabeth apologized, and told me I would get a second chance, then with astronomical force; she entered my body, and threw my spirit into another realm. Like a rocket, I flew through the astral plane, and landed in the darkness.

  *

  The darkness, a layer of the spiritual realm beyond the astral plane, was my home throughout the story. When I arrived in the darkness, I was paralyzed with fear. With no light shining through, I couldn't see a gosh-darn thing. On the other hand, I heard millions of fast paced whispers. Although I couldn't understand the content of the whispers, the ones that I did comprehend were asking for help, or a second chance. I didn't know what to do. I was trembling. I fell to my knees, and placed my hands over my ears, and started screaming. Believing I was burning in the depths of hell, my desperate howl continued for a timeless duration, until someone intervened. Anticipating a horned demon with a pitch fork, I received the complete opposite. While I was on my knees hollering my head off, believing the world had come to an end, I felt a hand placed upon my shoulder. I couldn't see the mysterious drifter with the soft voice, but he said, "Come with me."