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shudder as I enter the room, startled by an unexpected chill. The atmosphere is inexplicably heavy. In the center of the floor is a single, stiff wooden chair. The shiny, white walls are bare, free of the usual trivial adornments that have graced the walls of nearly every room I have entered in my 33 years. Other than the low, humming buzz of what I assume to be an air conditioner, there is no sound. I feel drawn to the chair, probably by default, as it is the only discernible object in the room. I give the space a quick once-over, then take two tentative steps before deciding it is okay to have a seat. I have no idea what is to come.
One week ago I received an odd phone call. I was sitting at home, feverishly working on a new poem that I couldn’t get quite right, when my phone rang. I was initially very surprised as it was my home telephone, the domestic equivalent of the public payphone—who the fuck has a home phone anymore? Furthermore, my number had always been unlisted. I had managed to have myself placed on the no-call list for telemarketers, so I really never received calls except on my cellular. I have to admit, I was slightly intrigued as to who it might be. Caller ID stated “Private Call.” Who would even bother?
I half-growled, “Hello” as I picked up the phone. Now I don’t spook easily, but what happened next was a bit unsettling. “Mr. Walker,” the anonymous caller stated, “Elvis Walker?” The voice was eerily similar to those disguised voices you hear on Court TV, when they have someone who wishes to remain unknown, triple-tracked in different frequencies and varying octaves. Those things have always freaked me out. I’ve been known to change the channel when I hear those fuckers. Sounds irrational, like having a fear of clowns, but it’s true.
“Who wants to know?” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. Truth is I was already breaking into a cold sweat without really knowing why. The Voice stated, “Do you really think I would have bothered to take such precautions if I planned on answering that question?” I couldn’t argue with that strangely sound logic. I decided to play it tough. I shot back with, “Well then what the fuck do you want?” I waited, with creepy, raspy breath coming over the receiver. After what seemed like an eternity, IT spoke again. Just two words, but looking back, they were the only two that I had never wanted to hear for the rest of my life—“I know.”
My heart immediately began to thump so hard I thought it would burst through my skin. I had done many fucked-up things in my life, but I instantly knew what this was about. In a strange way, I’d been expecting this call for years, maybe a decade. All of a sudden it began to infiltrate my consciousness. Just bits and pieces at first, but then a steady torrent of memory and emotion so heavy and smothering that I could hardly breathe. I began to feel violently sick to my stomach. I had no idea how to proceed. If I let on that I was aware of the situation, The Voice would definitely have the upper hand. Then again, whoever this person was already knew who I was, my private phone number, and, most likely, my address. I began to realize the gravity of the situation. Still, I decided to play it cool and let IT reveal what it knew. What if this was about something else, I wondered, hopefully yet foolishly? But I’d stick to my plan.
“Again,” I continued, “what the fuck do you want?” “Cut the shit!” came the response, so quickly that it made me visibly shake. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about, and don’t fucking pretend that I somehow reached the wrong person.” At this point, despite my crushing anxiety, I was strangely curious. I found myself temporarily unable to speak. So I listened. “This has been a long time coming and I haven’t left anything to chance. You are meant to be on the other end of this phone. The reason you have received this call can be directly traced to one specific event, one that you tried to bury, but that altered the lives of several people in ways you have still never imagined.” I felt a horrific sense of impending doom. I managed to croak out, “Go on.” The Voice continued, “There is no way for you to better your situation. Make no mistake, things will only get worse from here on out. How bad they get, I may actually be able to influence.” At this, I felt an odd hope. I could hear myself speak, but it was like I was on autopilot, a detached spectator in this crucial exchange. “What do I have to do?” I inquired. Nothing but silence. Then, just as I was about to shout and beg for instruction, IT retorted, “6662 Baker Street. One week from tonight. Midnight. Alone. No exceptions.” For some reason, I asked no further questions. I knew I’d have to show up and take whatever I had coming. There was no other way. I sighed and reported, “I’ll be there.” “I know,” rasped the voice before I heard the click.
The next week rolled by with the kind of surreal familiarity of a spinning carousel. I was living in the world, but I no longer felt a part of it. More precisely, my mind and body had completely vacated the present and now flipped back and forth from past to future with the kind of jerky, spastic anxiety I somehow associated with an old-fashioned slide show. Click, and I’d be running through that night so long ago, the one that had indeed forever changed me. Click, the machine whirled around and a new slide was projected, one that involved much physical pain amidst stinging cackles of retribution. I woke up in cold sweats several times each night. I would forget what I had done earlier in the day. I fantasized that I could accelerate time and just get to that place, that unfamiliar address, where I could finally come face-to-face with my past, to pay for the things I had done, and be finished with it all. What was the worst that could happen? I shuddered to imagine.
Two days before my day of reckoning, I tried to MapQuest 6662 Baker Sreet. The results were both unbelievable and incredibly unnerving:
Turn left on Fourth St. 1.5 miles
Veer to right on Adams 0.6 miles
Turn right on Baker St. 4.0 miles
Stop at 6662 Baker St. (on left).
You will not survive.
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I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was really there! How the fuck could this be possible? The Voice had hacked MapQuest? Ridiculous as it sounds, I could think of no other explanation. I decided to try my next-door neighbor’s address. Same results with one key discrepancy—the final chilling phrase was missing. I tried my own address again. Like a ghostly warning, the message reappeared. What the hell was I dealing with here? The next two days were a blur. They both flew past, yet somehow managed to drag on for an eternity. On the morning of “The Day,” I had almost resigned to the inevitable. I knew something unimaginably horrible awaited me, I just wished I could somehow prepare myself. Should I bring a weapon? Yeah, I could defend myself! I’d not given it a thought previously, but it now made perfect sense. I could fight this. No one was going to make me willingly crawl into some kind of torture chamber. This would be a fucking war! If I would lose, I’d surely take a piece of that motherfucker with me.
In my bedroom sat a tall, thick cherry-wood chest full of drawers, six of them from top to bottom. Most were crammed with junk—old receipts, miscellaneous papers, and Playboys. The second from the bottom, however, had a special purpose. The drawer creaked in protest as I slowly slid it open. There, right where I had left it, sat my personal security system—a highly polished, barely used .38 caliber revolver. It was the only gun I had ever owned, and though I had a permit to carry it, I couldn’t remember the last time it had left its current resting place. It was loaded with the safety on. After all, I didn’t have any children and I lived alone. I’d always been a bit on the paranoid side, so it made sense to have the gun ready should I need it. When I first bought it, I felt like Dirty Fucking Harry. I envisioned myself walking the streets like a vigilante with my trusty .38 shoved in the waistband of my jeans. No one would fuck with me, I thought, and get away with it. But that was years ago, and my cheeks flushed red and hot with embarrassment to even think about it. I picked up the gun, slammed the drawer shut, and laid it next to my clothes on the bed. I had two hours before my rendezvous—enough time to shower, dress, and ready myself for what would come.
Standing in the shower with hot water running over my head and down my shoulders, I wondered if this would be my last. I decided to jerk off, just in case something bad happened, but couldn’t get myself properly motivated. Instead, I finished washing off and stepped into the steamy bathroom, the tile floor cold and wet and the mirror glazed over with a thick layer of humidity. I closed my eyes and breathed in, clearing my chest and my head. A sort of lucidity of thought fell over me. I grabbed my clothes off the bed, dressed quickly and sat back on the couch to mull things over and prepare. Before long, I felt a strange calmness envelop me. I was finally ready to replay the events of that night so long ago.
The year was 1990 and I was a junior in high school. My friends and I had been out driving the country back-roads outside my rural town, something we did nearly every weekend. On this particular night, we had a kind of makeshift party on the shoulder of Mine’s Road, a wide backstreet that led from the town’s landfill, through the woods, and ended at Concordia Church. It started out as a typical evening, all of us hanging out on tailgates, drinking beer and smoking weed while we watched for passing cars. Such a party could break up and reconvene several times over the course of an evening if traffic on the road proved too heavy. Tonight proved to be such a night. After leaving the area for the third time in just under an hour, I decided I was not going to go back. My friends Bob, Jeff, and I decided to cruise around in town and see if we couldn’t find something to do. These guys were basically my best friends and we hung out together pretty much every weekend. Out of us three, Bob was best with the girls. He never had a problem hooking up and usually didn’t end up riding home with me and Jeff. Bob was smallish, but had a hot temper and wouldn’t back down from a fight if provoked. Jeff and I usually had to bail him out if things got serious, though, and we never minded doing so. Jeff was a fucking lunatic. He was the kind of guy that had hairy armpits in the fifth grade and could kick anyone’s ass in the whole school by the time we were in seventh. Jeff was wound up tight and always had difficulty talking to girls. He usually had to be drunk to get up his courage, but always ended up getting too drunk and making an asshole of himself. Nobody fucked with Jeff, however, and he was a good guy to have around as he was a fiercely loyal friend.
I was always kind of a wild card. I was probably a little more attractive than average, but was incredibly shy with girls and people in general. I was athletic and played sports, but didn’t fit in with the jocks as I thought they were a bunch of jerk-offs. I was skinny and short, but had a hot temper and fast hands and was likely to smack someone in the mouth before talking back to them. That’s not to say that I was by any means a tough guy, just one with a little less tolerance for people that picked on others. I would have to say that, before that night, I had always thought of myself as a pretty decent person. I said hello to everyone in the hallways at school, listened to my friends when they needed to talk, and was generally nice and genuine with most people. I guess I even kind-of liked myself. That was all about to change.
So we drove down Main St., Bob, Jeff, and I, bored as hell and pretty drunk. We decided to stop and pick up some snacks. Pulling into the gas station, I decided to turn off the car and go in as well, not trusting my friends’ taste when piss-drunk. I stumbled into the brightly-lit store and shuffled over to the cooler. I decided I’d had enough to drink and that I’d probably just get a soda and chips with the plan of smoking some pot in the near future. Paying the cashier, I slipped out the door and nearly ran straight into this tall, skinny kid coming in from the parking lot. As many of the memories that I’d succeeded in blocking out, that moment was tattooed in my mind. I remembered it all, the smell of burning leaves that wafted through the open door, the kid’s blue-and-black checkered flannel shirt, the fat lady pumping gas into the Honda CRX at the nearest pump. Every detail is clear.
“Excuse me,” I said as I side-stepped the kid. He walked past me blankly, not even acknowledging my presence. As I got back into the driver’s seat, Bob had an idea. “Hey man,” he started, “did you see that little fucker that walked in after us?” “Yeah,” I replied, “he looks like a little cunt, why?” This was definitely my drunken bravado as I normally didn’t talk about people that way for no discernible reason. “Tell him,” Jeff said to Bob, shooting a sly grin his way. I had no idea what these guys were up to, but many escapades had started out this very same way. I decided to indulge them. “What the fuck are you guys talking about?” I shot back at both of them. Bob began slowly, like an attorney trying to build a case from scratch. He started, “Well, Jeff and I were thinking that we could take that kid and scare the fuck out of him. We could get him in the car and take him out to the middle of nowhere, make him think we’re gonna kick his ass, and then leave him there with no way back.” This was Bob’s brilliant plan? Before I could protest, Jeff jumped in, “C’mon man, we could just fuck with the kid a bit and then leave him. Shit, maybe we’ll even tell him we’re kidding and drop him off at his house. No harm done.” For some reason, it didn’t take much to persuade me. “Alright,” I said, “but we’re in my car, so we can’t do anything we could get seriously busted for. We fuck with him, maybe smoke a joint with him, and bring him back.” Bob and Jeff agreed that this was an awesome plan. Jeff got out of the car and leaned against the door, waiting for the kid to exit the store. When he finally did, Jeff eased into action in a surprisingly smooth and believable fashion.
“Hey, what’s up?” asked Jeff, directing the comment toward the now-confused kid exiting the store and beginning to cross the parking lot. “Are you talking to me?” asked the kid, and I couldn’t help but think of Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. “Yeah man,” replied Jeff, “what’s your name?” The kid had a look that bordered on fear and confusion. “Why?” was all the kid could muster. Jeff went on, “Look kid, we’ve been hanging out and partying out on Mine’s Road. We’ve got some fucking weed, plenty of beer, and there’s definitely more girls than guys out there. You should come with us and get fucked up.” “I don’t know, man,” the kid said, adding “my brother and his friends are waiting for me to get back.” Jeff was in rare form and had an answer for anything. “Dig this man, what if you went out and hooked up, and some chick brought you home in front of your brother and his friends. You’d be a fucking pimp, man.” I gotta admit, Jeff was doing a good job. I might of come myself if I was the kid. “Alright, but only if you guys can bring me back in a little bit. I’m really not supposed to go too far, you know?” replied the kid. “Don’t worry,” I grinned as he hopped into the back seat, we wouldn’t get you in trouble.”
I was startled awake. To be more precise, I came back to the conscious world out of what seemed to be a period of particularly intense meditation. The digital alarm clock on the nightstand read 11:26 p.m. It was time to go. I’d decided that I would drive alone and bring the gun. As worried as I was about my own safety, I was equally as anxious to finally face this dark episode like a man and be held accountable. It was, after all, what I deserved. I walked to the shiny bathroom sink and splashed cold water on my face, catching my reflection in the mirror as I reached for the towel. For the first time in a long time, I studied my face in detail. Every line placed there by age, the bit of weight that I’d gained since my youthful days, the dark shadow that remained even after a clean shave—I somehow saw beyond all of that and saw the cocky kid I had been. The scared kid. After all, he was the one with the appointment.
The brisk, late October air gave me chills as I walked out of my front door into the night. I jumped behind the wheel of my blue Explorer and slammed the door shut. By now I was making even the smallest decisions with the idea that they may be my last. With this in mind, I chose to throw in Slayer’s “Reign in Blood” for the short ride to Baker Street. This, I figured, should get me sufficiently pumped for whatever confrontation would ensue. I rolled down the window and lit a cigarette, savoring every deep drag and letting the smoke roll around my lips and teeth before exhaling. I drove with the stereo blasting brutal strands of “Angel of Death” as I passed parked cars and tree-lined yards. As hard as I tried to pretend, however, I was terrified of what would surely be the most crucial hours of my life. I even began to consider not showing up. What if I just left town, went somewhere else? This wasn’t realistic. I didn’t have enough money to get very far or to set myself up wherever I went. Deep down, I knew I had to face this.
I finally pulled to the 6000 block of Baker Street and, although I had lived my whole life in this area, found myself honestly unable to remember ever having been on this particular stretch of road. I slowed as I tried to make out addresses on the dark buildings. It was difficult to even make out what the buildings themselves might be. They had the nondescript look of street-side businesses, but with no signs in front. Then, on the right and maybe fifty feet ahead was a lone sign at the roadside that stated, “6662 Baker Street. Medical Examiner’s Office.” “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I thought, “this is the kind of shit that you see in movies or episodes of CSI, not in a small, rural town.” I pulled my truck to the side of the road and took a deep breath. This was it. I slipped out of my truck, left the keys on the seat, and shoved the .38 into my right jacket-pocket. Telling myself I was ready, I walked up the cracked, concrete sidewalk and climbed the three decrepit stairs that led to the front screen door. There was no light on outside and the building seemed cloaked in darkness. Pulling open the screen door, I grabbed the smooth metal doorknob and gave it just the slightest twist, hoping to God it would be locked. I heard the springs creaking as it twisted and the door opened just a crack. I could see a sliver of light at the opposite end of the room. I was in.
So that’s how I got here, and here I sit in this chair in the middle of a remarkably blank room. Other than the buzz of the air conditioner, I can hear nothing. Despite the coolness of the room, I can feel beads of sweat forming on my brow. With no further recourse to take, I suddenly shout, “Okay motherfucker, it’s your move!” Terribly clichéd, but it definitely seemed to fit the situation. I don’t even hear the footsteps creeping up behind me until it’s too late. The stun-gun crackles and I feel a terrific jolt of pain in my upper left shoulder. I lurch forward involuntarily out of the chair, cracking my jaw on the cold, hard floor. I can taste warm, fresh blood in my mouth—I had severely bitten the inside of my cheek. Brilliant pain explodes in my right temple as something strikes me with great force. “This is it,” I think, “this is the end of the line,” then feel myself becoming very dizzy and weak. The blackout brings a merciful end to the ringing pain reverberating in my head.
I slowly opened my eyes to find that I was back in the chair, but with one little difference—my hands and legs were bound to the chair’s arms and legs with fresh, steely razor wire, so that even the slightest move would open my skin even further. The wire was already tight enough to nearly cut off my circulation, so I remained deathly still. I was aware of the throbbing pain in my head and the uncomfortable feeling of blood and sweat dripping down my forehead and into my right eye, my arms unavailable to wipe it off. It was then that I realized that my jacket—and .38—had been removed. I couldn’t see anyone in front of me and, as the minutes wore on, I began to wonder if I wasn’t being left to die this way. Suddenly, the lights began to dim. The brightness of the room blurred out and I found myself sitting in the pitch black. Something was happening. A sound like a portable humidifier or some other small, humming piece of machinery emanated from directly behind me. I couldn’t quite nail down what it was, but it was so strangely familiar. It had to be—my thoughts were interrupted by a flash of light on the wall facing me. A large rectangle of light appeared on the wall, seemingly floating in the vast darkness inside the room. A slide show! This was a fucking slide show! The realization hit me like a ton of bricks, followed only by profound confusion. Why? I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“You probably think you know why you’re here,” came The Voice from overhead, amplified along with some annoying static through a speaker in the ceiling. That fucking freaky voice!! I thought that was just for effect on the telephone. Apparently the charade was still in play for whatever reason. It went on, “but you don’t really know. You may think you know who I am, and you might.” I was pretty sure I did. It was only then that it occurred to me how absolutely fucked I would be if I had been wrong. What if this was some crazy fucker that I didn’t know. No, it had to be—maybe it’s—no, it fucking had to be the kid. It better be the kid!! My unseen host continued, “I have things to show you and things to tell you. When we are finished, you will understand exactly what brought you here and all of your questions—all of them—will be answered.” “What is the fucking point of this?” I bellowed. Silence. I repeated myself, “What is the goddamn point of all this?” Everything whirred into motion. A loud click was accompanied by a sweeping motion across the wall. A blurry image came into focus, and what I saw sent icicles down my spine. Overhead came the signal, “Let’s begin.”
There are moments in your life when things happen that you cannot wrap your brain around. And I don’t mean like “I don’t understand Algebra,” or “Why are people mean to each other.” I was stunned speechless because there was no possible way, NO POSSIBLE FUCKING WAY, that the picture projected on the wall could exist. There were no cameras in that place on that particular night. I was sure of it. Yet here was proof of the madness that had taken place, an image of a joke gone terribly wrong. A boy lying curled in the fetal position, hugging his legs, his head a bloody mess of raw carnage. It appeared as if the whole left side of his jaw had been broken and was hanging loosely on its hinge. CLICK. The image was swept away and another took its place. Three boys caught by camera, obviously dancing over the fallen boy, an image frozen in time and amplified on the crude screen. All three of the boys’ faces were contorted with rage. One of those faces was mine.
What had started off innocently enough that evening, now sixteen years past, had ended horribly. For a while, everything went according to plan. Bob, Jeff, and I had been driving around with the kid for a while, passing a joint and shooting the shit, when Bob decided to up the ante. “Hey kid,” started Bob, his tone slightly menacing, “do you realize that you don’t even know us. I mean, we could take you out and kill you and nobody would ever know you were with us.” With this comment, I became immediately uncomfortable. Bob had to have crossed some kind of line talking about killing. This could escalate quickly into a costly mistake. “He’s just fucking with you, kid,” I quickly offered, trying to chill things out a bit. I knew it was a joke, but Bob sounded pretty scary, small as he was. “No, fuck that shit,” Bob shot back, seemingly infuriated by my interruption, “this kid needs to know that you don’t just climb into anyone’s fucking car. I mean, every dumbshit knows that, right?” Bob’s rhetorical question went unanswered. I realized that I had either seriously underestimated my friend’s intentions, or he deserved a fucking Oscar for this performance. And I honestly couldn’t tell which. I had been looking for a dark, uninhabited area to take the kid, thinking we would get out of the car and begin lightly fucking with him. This was pretty heavy duty. I decided that the best thing to do would be to pull over and address the situation openly. Our joke wouldn’t work and I would let the kid in on our intentions, we could have a laugh, and we’d take him home. But I was beginning to be scared. Something wasn’t right. I found a street that ended in an abandoned cul-de-sac, a road that had been paved when a neighborhood was to be placed here but never got off the ground. We had to be at least two miles from anyone’s residence. I would put an end to this quickly.
As I pulled into the grass in the middle of the cul-de-sac, the situation exploded in an instant. Bob, who had an evil grin on his face and was posturing towards the kid, caught a full blow to the nose before he could even move. The kid had gone absolutely insane as soon as he realized we were stopping. Thinking back, it only makes sense as he was essentially fearing for his life. But we were young, drunk, and stupidly loyal to one another. And no one hurt our fucking friends and got away with it. My door flew open as I pulled the driver’s seat forward and yanked the kid clear off the seat and out of the car, both of us landing in the grass at the roadside. I yelped in pain as the boy’s fingers dug into my eyeball. I heard the passenger door slam—Bob and Jeff were out—and I suddenly felt like a weight had been yanked off me. It had, in fact, and Jeff was now over the boy, one knee on his chest, his large fist clutching the kid’s flannel shirt. Jeff began raining down vicious blows on the boys head and face. Jeff was the biggest and most heavy-handed of the three of us, and it wasn’t long before Bob was pulling Jeff off and putting some distance between Jeff and the bloody, beaten mess of a boy. But, contrary to all common sense, Bob turned and sprinted toward the kid who, barely conscious, saw Bob coming and rolled over onto his stomach to crawl away. Bob leapt in the air and came down with all of his weight on both feet, stomping the boy to the ground just above the tailbone. I didn’t have to see the aftermath, I already knew. The line had been crossed. This was no longer by any stretch of the imagination a “fight.” This was an assault and battery and this kid was seriously injured. The boy managed to push himself up onto his knees, only to feel the full force of my leg football-punting him in the face. I connected squarely. It was the only blow I landed. Bob, Jeff, and I jumped into the car and took off. For the next few weeks, we checked the newspaper every morning and watched the news every night, looking for some sign of the event. We thought we’d killed this kid, that everything would surely come out, but it never did. We never heard another word about it and we didn’t talk about it, not even amongst ourselves. In a way, the whole situation ruined our friendships with one another. Once you witness the level of emotional savagery that we had witnessed in each other that night, you can never go back and view a person the same way again. In a way, I think we were all afraid of each other, or maybe we were terrified of what we were capable of collectively. Jeff started dating some chick from the Catholic high school and I saw less and less of him until, one day, he seemingly disappeared. He was still at school, and around town, but we rarely acknowledged each other when we crossed paths. We weren’t angry with one another, we were just finished and we both knew it.
Bob was a different story. In the months that followed The Incident, Bob became increasingly paranoid. He was convinced that he had killed the boy and that he would be going to hell for it. Bob’s family had a history of paranoid schizophrenia on his mother’s side, and this traumatic event seemed to kickstart Bob’s mental illness. None of us had seen it coming. Bob’s behavior became increasingly bizarre. He began to have uncontrollable crying spells during class and was eventually placed in the program for kids with behavioral disorders. His attendance at school became sporadic and he eventually dropped out altogether. It was the kind of sad situation where everyone would pass rumors, “Bob stories,” shit that they heard he was doing. “Bob had broken into his neighbor’s house and taken a shit on their kitchen table,” or “Bob had been caught masturbating in his parents’ garage wearing a crown of thorns.” Weird stories that were far from the truth, which I knew from my parents was that Bob had been in an inpatient psychiatric facility for seven months prior to my graduation from high school. When everyone from our class was going off to college, or starting new jobs, Bob slipped out of his bed one night at the hospital and slit his wrists with a small piece of metal he had broken off the fencing outside the hospital. I’d heard it was damn-near impossible to kill yourself in a mental institution, but Bob did. In a strange way, I truly hoped he’d found some peace.
The image disappeared and another swept into view, just as shocking as the others. The kid lying in a hospital bed, an unfamiliar and nondescript place. He was hooked up to a ventilator and his face was a swollen, bruised mess. Strikingly, there was no one else in the picture—no family, doctor, or nurse. Just the boy with his eyes swollen shut and his face mangled. I could half-swear that I saw my shoe’s imprint on his damaged face. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened, why none of us had heard anything about the kid after that night. He had obviously been beaten within an inch of his life. Horrible feelings of remorse came over me in waves, rendering me completely nauseous and bringing tears to my eyes. I couldn’t believe I had played a part in this situation. Just as I was coming to terms with the picture of the boy on what could have been his deathbed, another CLICK.
Again, a picture that, by all rights, could not possibly exist. Another photo of the boy in his hospital bed, but he was not alone this time. A figure was standing vigil over the boy’s limp and broken body, and that somebody was unmistakable—it was Bob! He clearly had tears in his eyes, his hands folded in prayer. How the fuck did Bob find this kid? As I mulled this over, I heard the now-familiar CLICK. Bob and Jeff sitting in front of a headstone that read, “Neil Downne, 1975-1990. Rest in Peace.” Jeff too? How did they know about this, and why hadn’t they told me? And the kid’s name, Neal Downne? Kneel down? Give me a break. That shit sounded completely made up, like Al Caholic or Buster Heiman. CLICK. This one I was not ready for, as if I even knew what to expect at this point. A dim shower stall, Bob’s body on the floor amidst a sea of fresh, red blood dripping down his arms into a steady stream flowing towards the drain. So it was true. Bob had found a way out of his personal hell. It was unnerving, to say the least. CLICK. This image nearly made me pass out. It was beyond comprehension, completely surreal in its reality and savagery. A body that had been, it seemed, surgically dissected. The head and limbs had been removed, but posed so that the body was a near approximation of its former wholeness. It was Jeff. The arms and legs were wrapped in clear, plastic wrap. Next to the body was a notecard on which was printed, “Order of removal.” On all the severed extremities sat similar notecards. Each contained a number—the legs #’s 1 & 2, the arms 3 & 4, and the head 5. Above the head was another card which stated, “He lived until #5.” This was way out-of-line. “What the fuck is this supposed to be?” I hollered, anxious now for any explanation.
“You never knew about any of this,” came The Voice from overhead. “You have been oblivious to the gravity of the situation. Your actions that evening had far-reaching implications. I have a story to tell you.”
“We were all meant to suffer,” started The Voice. “There was a reason for all of this—the fight, the suicide, the murders—they were all supposed to happen. I know you don’t understand. We had all done things for which we were being punished. None of these things had their origin in that fateful evening, but the events of that night bound us together forever. The seeds of our destruction were planted much earlier. Three of us paid dearly with our lives. You were allowed to live, until now. I’m sure you’re wondering why. Perhaps you tried to forget that night. You’ve surely suffered as you have thought back on that day with terrific guilt and shame every day since it occurred.”
“I have,” I stated earnestly, “and I have always wondered when I would have to pay for what I’d done. I suppose I know now.”
“Not exactly,” The Voice went on. “Unlike the rest of us, you were given a test. You, of course, had no idea you were being tested. Allow me to elaborate. In 1987, a girl was born three towns over. No one would know, no one still knows, but she is the future of the human race. I don’t expect you to understand. When Jesus Christ was born, he was sent as a gift to all humankind. He preached truth and offered humanity a way to salvation. He was viciously murdered for his troubles. When Siddhartha, the historical Buddha, was alive, he preached the way and truth for forty-five years, but people were not ready for his message.”
“So what the fuck does this have to do with me?” I inquired.
“Please be patient, I’m getting to that. Jesus Christ, Buddha, Gandhi, these were all the same entity in different incarnations. This entity will eventually save the human race from itself, end all evil in the world, and bring about a universal oneness of spirit. It has been reborn in thousands of forms over the years, most recently as a little girl named Emily Pearson. Emily is now nearly twenty years-old and currently has no idea of her purpose. You’ll remember that Jesus did not begin preaching until he was 31 years-old, and Buddha was enlightened at the age of 35. What Emily does know is that she views the world in a much different way than those around her. Think of this analogy. You and I view the world in three dimensions, four if you count time. Emily sees the whole universe as a prism with trillions of different facets. She not only sees that people are all connected, she sees how! She truly knows the meaning of life. What she does not know, however, is that she will be the one whose message will be accepted. Within fifty years, the world as we know it will effectively end, but not with environmental catastrophe or nuclear annihilation—people will evolve into pure, spiritual energy. Emily will bring this about and, this time, the message will be accepted. She will not be persecuted, nor will she be ridiculed. It is time for the world to experience this change.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand,” I conceded.
The Voice continued, “You have met this girl. In fact, she is still alive because of you. That is the only reason you were graced with more years of life. On October 14, 1993, you went to the grocery store. You were merely living your mundane life. Emily and her mother were behind you in the checkout line. As you left the store, you heard Emily begging her mother for a quarter for a gumball from the machine near the exit. Emily’s family is very poor, and her mother had tried to hurry her past the machines. Usually this was what happened. On this day, however, something different occurred. You heard young Emily’s plea and happened to have a quarter handy. In an uncharacterized gesture of selflessness, you stopped Emily and her mother and gave Emily the quarter. You went on your way and Emily had her gumball. None of you knew at the time that, had you not intervened, Emily and her mother would have been killed by an aged driver who sped through a red light at the very moment Emily was gathering her prized gumball. Ironically, her gumball was green.”
“So I saved the future of humanity by giving a little girl a quarter?”
“Precisely. I have been taught in the time since we last saw one another that this is how everything works. One act of kindness, however small, can change the course of the universe. So you have been given years of life you did not initially deserve and weren’t meant to have. And now I have come to collect you.”
“But you said it yourself, you’re dead. We killed you. I’m so sorry, that was never meant to happen. It started as a joke. I’ll do anything to pay you back. I’ll live the best life anyone’s ever lived. I’ll protect Emily and make sure that nothing ever happens to her! What do I have to do to change this and make it right?” I pleaded.
“You don’t understand. You’ve missed the point, but that’s to be expected. You have done everything you can. It is your time. Let me assure you, Hell is not what you think. It’s not what you expect. Hell is not fire and brimstone. It is not a red, pointy-tailed devil poking you with a pitchfork. Hell is a cold, sterile place, not unlike this room. Hell is sharp and surgical, eternal and filled with shades of pain you cannot comprehend. Hell will assail you physically, psychologically, in every way you can imagine. Hell will take you to the threshold of insanity, then give you false hope before ripping out your heart. And it will never end.”
“But I saved Emily! I don’t deserve it.” I begged, trying to reason with the unreasonable. “I saved all of humanity. How can I go to Hell? Because I kicked you once?”
“You never kicked me,” stated The Voice, “you never even touched me.”
“But I remember! I felt your face on my foot. I know what happened!” I was becoming confused and terrified.
“Perhaps it’s time for this to be over. Or to begin, depending on how you view it. It’s time.”
The razor-wire suddenly tightened on my wrists and legs, as if being twisted with a metal rod, cutting into my flesh. I felt agony as I never had before, squealing and begging for mercy. I heard a door slide open to my left and behind me. I knew now that I would come face-to-face with Neal. I’d been waiting for sixteen years. I could hear footsteps marred by a club foot, thump-slide, thump-slide. I readied myself for the sight. The dark figure stumbled into view and stopped directly in front of me. It turned to face me as the light slowly brightened, as if on a dimmer that was being cranked up at a snail’s pace. Finally, the face came into view. I stared at it with a look of horrified recognition. I had never imagined this, and I could feel myself grow dizzy and weak with shock. I felt chest pain, as if I was having a major heart attack. Blood dripped from my nose and I became acutely aware that the razor-wire had now cut down to bone and was still tightening. Any moment my hands and feet would be severed. The figure looked at me and smiled a horrible, toothy grin. Bob’s eyes had been sutured shut. His torso appeared to have been sawed in half several times and stapled back together. His left hand had been removed and the tissue of his wrist was black and necrotic. His legs were covered in sores and boils that were obviously excruciating.
“You never get used to it,” he said, noticing my scrutiny. “And you never die. You’ll get infections, you’ll feel pain you never knew existed. But we deserve it. You deserve it. And they let me come for you.” His voice, now free of the distortion device, was low and guttural, much different than when I’d known him in life.
“Jeff’s waiting for you. And Neal. Neal can’t wait to see you. He’s not a bad guy. We’ve missed you.”
“When do we go?” I asked, resigned to my fate.
Just then, the sterile, white walls began to fade into a ghostly, bluish mist. I could barely make out the two shadowy figures as they jerkily moved towards me from beyond, from wherever they were.
“We’re here,” Bob stated. “Honestly, have you ever seen 6662 Baker Street in all your life? 666-2? Just a little joke. You remember jokes, like the one we played on Neal? He’ll be here shortly,” Bob growled as I felt the razor-wire snap in four places at once and my extremities fell to the floor with distinctive thuds. I howled in agony as Bob went on grinning. “Just wait,” he said. “It gets better. It always does.” |
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