by Lucy Auburn
The scene warps, twists. We're standing in the other room now, the little boy's room. He puts his hands over his ears. He's humming something, eyes squeezed shut.
In a raw voice, Lynx says, "I knew. But I didn't protect her."
"You were just a little kid," I remind him. "This wasn't your fault."
"I was her older brother," he says. "I could've at least told our mom. But I was afraid that she wouldn't believe me, or she'd think it was my fault somehow."
I squeeze his elbow. "This can't be it. This wasn't why you were sent to Purgatory. And if it was, then Hell is the most unfair place in the universe."
"This wasn't all of it," he says, a hollow expression on his face. "There was more. I can feel it."
The house shifts beneath our feet. There's a rumble. And we're standing somewhere else now: in a tidy one bedroom apartment with beige carpet, the kitchen spotless, little plants in the windows, an orange tabby grooming himself on the counter.
A young woman who looks like Lynx walks through the little living room, running her hands back and forth on a worn, closed envelope. She stares out the window. She takes out her phone.
In a breathless voice, Lynx says, "That's her. My sister. I think... I think I know what she's going to do." He closes his eyes, and two tears run down his cheeks. "Oh, God."
The woman sets the envelope on the kitchen counter. Leaning over, I read the name she scrawled across it: Antoine. Then she opens a cabinet in the kitchen, pulls out a bag of cat food, and pours it into a large mixing bowl. The tabby walks over to the kitchen and rubs against her legs.
"Just in case," she says, rubbing his cheeks as he purrs. "He's always on time, though. Wednesday dinners. Our little tradition. But just in case he doesn't swing by... you'll be okay."
A deep sense of foreboding runs through my chest. I grab Lynx's hand and squeeze tight. He squeezes back, his face dark and full of grief.
The woman goes to the bathroom. Pulls a full bottle of pills out of the medicine cabinet. Pours a large glass of water. Walking back to the living room, she opens the bottle, sits on the couch, and calmly takes every pill.
Her eyes close.
She relaxes into the couch all at once.
The cat eats his kibble in the other room, unaware.
Then the ground shifts beneath us again. It's nighttime now. The cat is grooming himself on the sofa; he doesn't seem to be aware that the dead body of his owner is right next to him. Or maybe he is, and the only way he knows to get through it is to lick his paw over and over again.
There's a knock at the door. We both turn, and somehow I know who's on the other side.
Another knock at the door. "Denise! You didn't show. Everything okay?"
A pause as he waits for a response. A phone rings—the woman's, sitting on the kitchen counter. Of course she doesn't answer.
He knocks more rapidly. Then, frantically, he says, "Denise, I'm coming in! I swear to God, if you're fucking with me—"
A key in the lock. She must have a spare under the mat, or he must keep one. I watch as the door swings open, and a young man maybe a few years older than the woman bursts through, his face frantic.
Somehow he looks like Lynx but also doesn't. They have the same medium brown skin, the same black hair, but his is a little bit longer than Lynx's, long enough to show its curls. He's wearing relaxed clothes that are a bit big for him, his jacket and shirt not quite matching, his tennis shoes muddy at the edges. Though he's not a skinny string bean, he's not as built as Lynx either.
But I know it's him. I can feel it as he rushes back me towards the sofa. I can hear it in the wail of grief in his voice. Lynx's hand tightens around mine, and I grab his arm, squeezing tight.
"It's all in the past," I tell him. "It already happened, so there's nothing we can do about it."
"I know." Watching the other version of himself pull his sister's body to the ground and perform CPR on her, 911 on speaker phone beside him, he bites his lower lips and lets two more tears roll down his cheeks unchecked. "You know, when we get our bodies, we're able to change them for a while. We all choose how we look, to a certain extent, using the magic that lingers when we're reborn. I think I got pretty close, but looking at them... I look more like her than like him. Almost as if..."
"Some part of you remembered her, even though you didn't know it."
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. "If I'd done something, maybe she wouldn't have done this. If I'd protected her—"
"Stop. You couldn't have. It wasn't your job." I loathe their father for what he's done to both of them: the man who was Lynx, and his sister, who died too soon. "We're all supposed to be protected by our parents, but when they fail us, that's not our fault. Trust me. I would know."
After a moment, he says, "This isn't what almost sent me to Hell. I can feel it. There's something more."
As he says the words, the world shifts around us again.
We're back at the house again, in the evening. The young man who was Lynx is with us, standing just in front of the house. There's a hard, angry look on his face, and he's wearing dark clothes that blend into the night. He has a red gas container in one hand, while the other is stuffed into the pocket of his hoody, which is rounded with the weight of something I can't see.
We follow him, pulled along in his wake, as he strides up the driveway towards the garage. He pokes his head through the door, his voice echoing in the emptiness.
"Good. Mom's car isn't here. She's out of town, just like her calendar said." Walking to the other side of the garage, he grabs a few dirty rags from the shelf. "These should help."
As he walks past us, out of the garage and towards the house, Lynx closes his eyes in grief. "Fuck, I was so stupid."
"What's going on? Is he—are you—really going to do what I think you are?"
"Yes." Lynx grimaces, and we find ourselves standing in the living room with the angry young man, watching him unscrew the cap on the gas container. "This was my biggest mistake. What got me put in Purgatory. What I've been paying for all these years. But Dani—I'll never be able to make up for what I did."
Striding around the room, he covers everything—the couch, the carpet, the recliner, even the drapes—with gas. Then he heads down the hallway and covers that too, liberally dousing both of the kids' rooms, and stuffing the dirty rags under the door at the end of the hall, which must lead to the master bedroom.
In a low voice, he mutters, "You should burn in Hell for what you did to her. But I can't make that happen. So you'll burn here instead."
We follow him as he makes a trail of gas towards the front door, tipping the last few drops out onto the lawn. Then he pulls a box of matches out of his hoody pocket, lights one, and stares at the tiny dancing flame.
There's so much anger on his face.
So much hatred and grief.
I've seen that look on his face once or twice, mostly when he was strangling someone to death who really, really deserved it. Lynx may not be the young man standing in front of us with a lit match and an empty container of gas, but they're not that different after all. Taking these memories from him didn't change who he is—it just left him in the dark.
He's always hated evil people, and wanted to protect the innocent. When it comes down to it, I can't blame him. But as he drops the match on the line of gas and watches the fire race towards his childhood home, I know that this isn't going to turn out the way he wants.
Bit by bit, the flames rise. We can see them in the living room. Then through the windows into the bedrooms. The old version of Lynx backs up, pulls his hoody over his head, and starts to turn away, needing space from what he's done.
Then the screaming starts.
Not a man's voice.
A woman's.
And his eyes widening. "Momma!" Turning back towards the house, he races inside, frantic. "Fuck fuck fuck—"
We follow him through the flames as they lick up the walls and across the floors, as they consume everything in th
eir wake, fueled by hatred and anger but no longer under control. He covers his face with his hoody and tries to get to the bedroom, but the flames in the hallway are the worst of all, and he coughs from the smoke.
The woman who sang in French, who ties her hair up with silk, who says his name with love in her voice, opens up the door at the end of the hallway, coughing. The fire licks at her skin. She sees her son.
"Antoine—" Reaching for him with a trembling hand, she falls to her knees, frantic at the sight of her boy. "It's going to be okay."
But it isn't. He reaches for her, tries to get to her, takes his hoody off and throws it over the flames in an attempt to put them out. Nothing works. The fire consumes. They both pass out from smoke inhalation, and the flames keep burning, undeterred by the human flesh in their way.
Lynx says, "I did this. I killed her—and myself in the process. All because I didn't know how to forgive."
"Your father didn't deserve forgiveness."
"Not him." He looks at me with mournful, golden brown eyes. "Myself. That's who I needed to forgive. All those years, I was so afraid of what happened to her. When she died, I made it more about me than about her—I was so sure I could've saved her. But I don't even know if that's what she needed. Maybe she just needed me to be there for her. I was too busy walking away from the past to find out. So when she killed herself, I blamed me, and I took it out on the one target I could find."
"You didn't mean to kill your mother," I point out. "You only meant to get revenge."
"And in the process I lost everything." He closes his eyes, and sighs slowly. The scene around us fades away. We're standing in the dark again. "I remember it all now, Dani. Every moment of being alive. All the pain and the love. And I remember you—us. Everything."
Hope surges inside me. "Everything?"
"Yes."
He confirms it with a kiss that sparks the life back inside me. I felt so lost with him, without them, but now it's starting to come back together. We're going to get what we want–I know it. We have to.
When our lips part, we're standing in front of the oak door again, with the others. In front of our eyes, the door crumbles into ash, and the blue light races ahead, into the darkness.
"Well?" Sebastian is staring at Lynx with a hungry expression. "Did it work?"
"It did," he responds simply. "And I remember it all—including her. She didn't lie to us. Not one bit."
Ezra looks flummoxed. "Now what?"
I'm the one to tell him, "Now we free the rest of you."
Chapter 19
Mateo's door is made out of thick galvanized steel that's riddle with bullet holes that don't go all the way through.
Of course it is. I wouldn't expect anything less. We probably really are going to walk through the other side and discover that he died in some weirdly tragic funny accident involving drugs and a swimming pool.
"So I just... go through?" He touches the door handle and grins. "Seems easy enough. Especially if I get to find out who I was. I bet I had hot chicks hanging off my arms left and right."
Sebastian snorts. "More like hot chicks running away from you left and right."
"Take her." Lynx pushes me forward insistently. "That's a key part of the process, I think."
It isn't, technically, but I shoot him a smile of gratitude anyway. Now that he has his memories back, he knows how much we shared—and how much it hurts me that the others don't remember me yet. He wants me to go with Mateo so I can be there when he remembers our love again.
Thankfully, my Bomber takes my hand with a shrug, and grabs the handle of his door. "Let's do this fucking thing already. I'm excited to find out how rich and famous I was. I bet I had really cool dogs."
I raise my brows at him. "Really? Cool dogs?"
"Yeah, you know—a purebred doberman or something. Or maybe a tiger. Let's find out."
He yanks the door open, squealing on its hinges, and leads me through with him.
Just like before, we're drawn into a scene, one that starts at a house. Unlike Lynx's house, this one isn't just modest, but run-down and very, very small. One of the side windows is broken and covered in duct tape; the driveway has potholes, and the gutters look like they're falling down. There are bedsheets in the front windows instead of drapes, and broken pottery on the front porch, not to mention a lawn mower rusting on the driveway.
"Just wait," Mateo says insistently, "maybe I grew up here, but I became rich and famous later."
I laugh at him, then see the nervousness on his face. He may cover his true emotions with jokes and bullshit, but I can see through them. Especially after all this time.
"It's okay, you know," I tell him. "Whatever you did, I'm sure there was a good reason for it."
"Yeah, maybe." He sounds doubtful. "Let's just hope it doesn't take long. The last thing I want is to watch a three hour movie of my probably shitty life."
He takes a step forward, and within moments we're in the house. It's full: three men are sitting on the sunken sofa, two women cooking in the kitchen, kids playing underfoot. There's an old woman in the dining room who catches my eyes, and a teenage boy talking with her, the two of them setting cracked and mismatched china plates on the table together.
"Tia Maria," the teenage boy complains, his black hair flopping over his forehead, "you know that I can't go to that school. It costs too much. Mami and Papi barely have money for my school supplies now."
"You just have to believe in yourself, Alejandro." She reaches out to squeeze his arm, and I see all her love for him. "There are scholarships. And you're so bright—when you want to be. Not to mention good at soccer. You can make a life for yourself." Looking into the living room, she lowers her voice, "A better life than this."
Watching the teenage boy, Mateo says, "I was pretty good-looking, for a pipsqueak. Wonder if I had a girlfriend."
I shake my head at him and roll my eyes. "Your priorities never change."
"I'm just saying." He grins at me. "I bet I cleaned up well."
We get to see more of Alejandro, scene by scene, and I have to admit that Mateo was right. He cleans up well as he gets older. But he also changes in other ways.
Together, we watch him pick up a gun and rob a convenience store, a mask over his face. He flees with his friends, including a boy named Santiago who makes alarm bells ring in my stomach. Together, they buy liquor with fake licenses. They steal packages off the back of parked UPS trucks. They scare women coming out of the opera and yank jewelry off their wrists.
"This, I don't love," Mateo admits, after the fifth scene of mortal him stealing. "There was probably a good reason for it, though."
Within a moment, we're standing back in the living room again. Mateo—Alejandro—is sitting with his aunt on the sofa. He's pushing money into her hands, insisting, "Take it. For the doctor."
"No, Alejandro. You need this for—" She coughs, and he folds her fingers over the money. Finally, she relents. "Fine. A little won't hurt. But I want you to be enrolled at that school by the summer. You've graduated high school now, and it's time for college." Patting his cheek, she adds, "I'm so proud of you. Nineteen and working for a hotshot lawyer. My boy."
"I love you, Tia."
"I love you too."
My heart squeezes. Mateo observes, "Guess we know why I went to Hell."
"Purgatory," I correct him. "And... I doubt this was all of it. Petty thieves are nothing. You didn't even hurt anyone."
"I scared plenty with that gun," he points out. "But I'm sure you're right. There probably is more."
He looks nervous, and I don't blame him. I can remember my whole, shitty life, and even I don't like to look back at the petty thefts I committed.
"We all do what we have to survive," I tell him. "You just did more than most."
As if on cue, the scene changes, and we're standing in a luxurious living room with lush carpet and wide leather couches. Young Mateo is walking through, swiping things off the end tables and putting them in hi
s backpack, checking drawers for cash. He has a gun stuffed in the waistband of his jeans. We follow him around the corner into an empty bedroom with a dresser covered in jewelry.
But it only seems like the room is empty. As he pushes more trinkets into his bag, a woman comes walking around the corner, her blonde hair damp from the shower, wearing a thin white robe. She freezes when she sees him.
He freezes back.
"Hello?"
"Don't move!" Pulling the gun on her, he grabs a roll of duct tape out of his bag. "Don't scream, either. Get on the bed—like that. Hold your hands out, wrists together."
As he stalks over towards her, his hands shake, but she trembles too. In a panicked voice she begs, "Please, don't hurt me."
His eyes flick up to hers. There's guilt in his gaze. But in a rough voice, he says, "Don't move."
I watch him duct tape her wrists together, then her ankles. He shoves a pillowcase in her mouth and tapes that up too. Then he goes back to the dresser and grabs some things—but he's clearly shaken. He keeps looking back at her, a horrified expression on her face.
Mateo mutters, "Fuck, how embarrassing. Stealing from some rich white lady while she watches. I bet she thought I wasn't raised right. Maybe I wasn't."
"Don't say that. It was an accident. And you didn't hurt her."
"Just wait," he says, mouth downturned. "I doubt this ends here."
It doesn't. Because, just like the house wasn't empty, Mateo—Alejandro—wasn't alone. The other boy, the one who gives me a bad feeling, burst into the room and stares at the woman on the bed.
"What the fuck is this? Alejandro, the fuck you doing?" He shoves teenage Mateo, then pulls his gun. "You didn't tell me someone was home."
"Because I didn't know! I thought the house was empty." Looking over at the woman, he stares at Santiago. "Hey, put that away. I tied her up. She's not going anywhere."
"And what do you think she's gonna do when we're gone, huh? Tell the police. Run her mouth. We have to take care of this."
"It's not like that. Hey—hey!" Mateo grabs Santiago's shoulder, staring at the gun as he raises it. "Don't do that, man. She won't say nothing."