It is just the beginning.

He landed with a start, slamming into the ground. When he opened his eyes, he could barely see. He blinked a few times. “Your words are a lamp for my feet, and light for my path,” he murmured, and even so he sensed a faint glow emanating from him, spreading a little to light the dark, cavernous cell. There seemed to be no ceiling, only infinite darkness, slick rock floor warm almost to the point of burning. He nearly flinched when he saw the creatures lurking around him, for they were so different he barely recognized them. His ears woke to screams, raking, curses, pacing. He felt thousands of eyes upon him, and he stood to his feet, still faintly aware of the aching wounds his body had received. It took him a moment or two to realize who it was that surrounded him, but he remembered. Flashes filtered before his eyes, of all of them dancing and singing together before his father’s throne, Jesus spinning and whirling arm in arm with them in the sky. Sorrow, pity, anger all filtered through him, though even that seemed to be draining from him, into this place. “The joy of the Lord is my strength.” He felt his eyes open a little wider, no longer tired, strength beginning to return. He had paid the price, and if he’d had a pulse it would’ve begun to quicken. We’re almost there.

“Look who it is,” muttered one of the creatures near him. “What’d you do to get down here? Kill a caterpillar?”

Another snorted. “Muss a hair?”

“Bend a blade of grass? Poison five thousand?”

They started to close in on him, and his stomach began to sink. From dancing to this. Abba, forgive them.

He felt their intent shift, equal parts fear and anger radiating off of them. “You’re going to wish you were back with lil’ ol’ daddy by the time we’re done. You will beg and plead-” An arm swept down towards him, but Jesus caught it, and the scales on the beast seemed to melt for a moment, turning to light, almost...almost as if... He huffed in surprise, hardened heart beginning to soften. The touch was taken from him as the son let his arm go, dodging and blocking a few more that tried to grab him or hit him.

“What did you do to me??”

The others he’d touched howled and clamored, fear growing.

Jesus was about to reply when the door of the cell was opened. Another creature appeared. “You’re going to pay for what you’ve done,” he snarled. “Sending me back here??”

Jesus met his gaze. “It didn’t have to be like this. You know that.”

The creature snorted, slitted eyes fixed on the puny thing before him. “Do you know how long I’ve been tortured here?? Because you took my hold from me??”

Jesus dipped his head in a nod. “I do. And Heaven has not been the same without your voice. But you made your choice. These are the consequences.”

The being hissed, and the noise turned to a roar as he lunged, and Jesus shut his eyes, bowing, drawing on the strength in his heart as he moved, and touched the beast’s shoulder as he passed, wanting only to get by him, not to harm him.

The creature howled, visions of past light and joy filling his mind before he was brought back to this painful reality, and anger seethed in him even more. His shriek was as deep as a cavern as he lunged again for the Son of God, and Jesus caught firm hold of his brow, the beast’s throat going silent as his knees caved and he fell with a giant thud. Jesus let out a breath and started out of the cell. A small smile lifted his lips after a moment as a few lines went through his head, and his voice picked it up from the beginning as a stream of song.

“Oh Lord, You have searched me out and You know.

You know my sitting and my rising; You understand how to attach me from afar.

My going about and my lying down You encompassed, and You are accustomed to all my ways.

For there is no word on my tongue; behold, O Lord, You know it all.

From the rear and the front You encompassed me, and You placed Your pressure upon me.

This knowledge is hidden from me; it is hard, I cannot attain it.”

As He sang, He encountered others. Others that stopped from their tasks, recognizing Him in a moment, fury, rage, pain, fear goading them on. He evaded them all, steps not wavering once.

“Where shall I go from Your spirit, and where shall I flee from Your presence?

If I ascend to the heavens, there You are, and if I make my bed in the grave, behold, You are there.”

His spirit strengthened within Him, and soon they began to flee from even the sight of Him.

“If I take up the wings of dawn, if I dwell at the end of the west,

There too, Your hand will lead me, and Your right hand will grasp me.

I said, ‘Darkness will darken me, and the night will be as light about me.’” For a moment light flashed around Him, and He saw clearly His path.

“Even darkness will not obscure anything from You, and the night will light up like day; as darkness so is the light.” His voice rose, and even though sorrow remained in His heart, He could not help the smile that began to lift His lips, visions of freedom and dancing again in His mind, and the faint glow about Him shot out, almost blinding, new screams from the cursed sounding.

“For You created my reins, You covered me in my mother’s womb.” His joy grew, and His steps grew faster, weight shifting back and forth, arms rising, until He was dancing.

“I shall thank You for in an awesome, wondrous way I was fashioned; Your works are wondrous, and my soul knows it very well.

My essence was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, I was formed in the lowest parts of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed body, and on Your book they were all written; days have been formed and one of them is Ours.” His voice rang out strongly, and He whirled and danced, feet stamping the steaming ground. More came to attack Him, but each of them fell at His beautiful glance, at His touch of love.

“And to me, how dear are Your friends, O Lord! How great is their sum!

I shall count them; they are more numerous than sand; I have come to the end,” His pace began to slow, and all the joy began to turn to determination, “and I am still with You.”

His smile began to fall, and His mind ran to all the people He had seen, both from above and in His short time with them, all those who had suffered. “If only You would slay the wicked, O God, and men of blood, ‘Turn away from me,’ who mention You with wicked thought; Your enemies took it up in vain.” He recognized some of those, not just the creatures whose home this was, but also the men and women that had caused such suffering. At His words they turned away, cowering in fear. “Did I not hate Your enemies, O Lord? With those who rise up against You, I quarrel.

I hate them with utmost hatred; they have become my enemies.”

Pleas echoed toward Him, and His anger melded with sorrow; He did not raise a finger towards them. They were suffering enough. Adonai, how they suffer. He’d take them all with Him if He could.

He took a breath. “Search me out, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts.” (It was a prayer He’d uttered many times upon the earth, dedicating Himself over and over to His purpose.)

“And see whether there is any vexatious way about me, and lead me in the way of the world.”

He continued on.

Day Two

It took Him only a little while to recognize the structure of this place. When it had first been formed, it was just a pit, terrible, hot, full of sulfur and darkness, but He saw now that it had been carved, that there had been an attempt to shape it. Except, it was all backwards. It wasn’t right. This road, which He knew had led to the River of Life, was now leading to the throne room. He’d tried to copy the Courts, to make them his own, again. But his attempt had only ended in failure and misery. Again.

Jesus’s lips pursed, and He continued on, praying and meditating as He did so, preparing Himself for this next encounter. “With God, all things are possible. If He is for me, who can be against me?” The creatures had learned by now not to touch Him, and most did not even look at Him, though He could feel their hatred even so. Some, some that used to be men, and some that used to be angels looked, though. And to those He smiled, lips soft, impossible sorrow in His eyes that they were here. Eventually they turned away, unable to bear His gaze.

“Where is he now?”

“Getting close, my lord. He’s near the courts.”

The realm’s ruler grunted and shifted in his throne, dark shining eyes narrowing, a low mutter picking up under his breath. This was not going how he’d wanted. He had thought the great Son of Man would be defeated, hopeless. After all, he was here. Here. In this place, from which there was no escape. He’d have thought the “all-powerful” son would know that, but apparently there were some things even God did not realize.

“Give him an escort.”

The creature looked at him. “Sir?” If it were not for his nature, he would’ve wilted under the glance he was given.

“Do I have to repeat myself?? GO GIVE HIM AN ESCORT!!!!” He was thrown almost out the doors, his master’s grating voice still ringing in his ears.

“Sure, why not, let’s give him a damn escort,” he muttered under his breath, and almost laughed at the play of words when he noticed it before he ordered a few others to lead the Son of God into the depths of Hell.

Jesus sensed them coming, and took as deep a breath as He could. Here now. Here was the real start of the final battle. He had a day and a half to fulfill the prophecy, to establish His victory. Then He would leave. As they limped towards Him, He was amazed at how different they looked, how brokenly they moved. Twisted, torn by the heat and the gravity of this place, of their own twisted natures. The second-in-command bulked himself up as much as possible, huge chest widening, bent spine straightening as much as it could. Jesus noticed he kept his wings closed. They must not be what they used to be.

“You’re to come with us, Fallen One,” the creature gritted through a smile before turning his back, and Jesus saw the ruin of his wings, flesh half-rotted and scorched, what was left of his feathers naught but wilted and matted. They led Him without touching Him, and none of them glanced at Him for long. They led Him through crumbling halls, torches lining the cracked stone, though what fire there was did not seem to do much to brighten the place. If anything, it was only covered in more shadow, less light. A memory flashed before Jesus’s eyes, of waking in a cold sweat as a child, calling out for His Father, Joseph running in as a great light flashed, and...yes, it was that one, that one in the corner of the hall that had run from His room. One of the creatures behind Him chuckled, sensing His fear, but Jesus pushed the thought out of His mind. He was there with me then; He is here with me now. Wherever I go, so there is my Father also. The Father and I are One, and I have nothing to fear, for He shall set a table before me in the presence of my adversaries. He shall anoint my head with oil. My cup overflows. “My cup overflows,” He murmured. Oh, it overflowed. He couldn’t keep a few chuckles from escaping Him, joy continuing to well within Him.

He was given a few odd glances, and one of them spit on the path before Him, but He stepped over it, and after a few more very long minutes, they made it.

“My lord, your..honored guest.” The second-in-command swept his arm open towards the throne room, Jesus’s heart again overwhelmed by a whirlwind of anger and sorrow. It was a mockery of His Father’s throne room, a dais set high above, a sea of screams set below. His jaw clenched, but He let it go, a breath easing out of Him, and the ruler smirked, letting the sound that rose up soak for a few moments before he waved a hand, and the great chasm was covered with a few slabs of rock.

The ruler studied Jesus, voice grating. “It’s been a while. Your condition hasn’t improved much.”

Some gratuitous laughter sounded, harsh and cracking, before he raised a hand, watching the Son, who kept His silence. “What, still playing the silent lamb? How’d that work out for you?” he bit out, and looked around. “I’d say you failed, Son of God. No one is saved, and, as I’m sure you noticed, the population is...thriving.”

“You would say that, perhaps.”

The ruler’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean,” he growled.

“I mean you are not the lord you think you are, nor shall you ever be.” A fire lit in His eyes, and the ruler felt his gut twist. “A time of reckoning has come.”

“What reckoning? You have no power here! Your father has abandoned you!!” he sneered. “He sent you here to suffer, just like the rest of us. He sent you here to me.”

Jesus nodded, unable to keep the smile from His lips. “He did send me to you. All I suffered, I suffered to get here. So I may fulfill my true purpose.”

He shifted in his throne. “What do you mean.”

The Son of God’s eyes were practically twinkling. “The power of sin is broken.”

“...No.”

“Your hold is broken.”

“No.”

Jesus began to rise, step by step up the dais.

“I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” With the single word, a blast of cool air flushed through the choked space. “By my suffering, theirs can be relieved. By my death, their lives can be eternal. By my sacrifice, they can be free. By my descent, they have the choice to rise.”

“No!” the ruler gripped the arms of his throne.

Relief and the joy that had been holding Him up since His entry grew, a few tears beginning to well in His eyes. “By my blood, they can become a part of me. They can rest free in eternity, to love and to worship as it was always meant to be.”

“You cannot do this!! You cannot take my power, you have no right!!” (Even as the words left his lips, he knew it was an empty lie.) His heart quailed as the Son of God drew nearer.

“I was there in the beginning. I was with God, and I Am God. All things came into being through Me, and without Me nothing came into being that is. In Me is life. I Am the Light of men. I Am.” As He spoke, the glow that surrounded Him grew brighter, and brighter, the creatures around beginning to flinch and hiss, twisted limbs rising to cover eyes, His voice growing louder and deeper. “To those that would believe in Me, I give the right to become Children of God. To those that believe in My name, you may yet be saved.”

“No!! You cannot take them from me!!”

The ruler reached out, everything in him at war, half wanting to toss Him to the ground, half knowing full well what would happen when he touched Him.

Jesus merely turned, grabbed his arm.

The ruler screamed, a terrible shriek escaping his throat, and the stone panels which had previously been closed began to crack and fall open. The ruler was blinded by a vision of beautiful light, the sweet air filled with incense and song, his own voice high above with the rest. Pure joy and love radiated throughout the space, and then-

He was falling. Falling into the dark, the red-brown, the screams, a beacon of light now flashing before his eyes. Grabbing hands and tearing fingers surrounded him, and he watched in broken awe and hatred, wondering how it had come to this. How he had come to lose his place, again. How he’d had it all, he’d had the son of God at his feet, and somehow been misplaced. Again.

Day Three

Jesus stood victorious at the top of the dais, songs of praise and prayer flowing from Him, the creatures around too afraid to try and stop Him. It was finished. It was truly done. His mere presence here was enough. His death was enough. His suffering was enough. His blood would be enough, poured on the mercy seat before His Father. To erase their sin, once and for all. And they would be free.

He laughed, He laughed loud and long.

They’re free now. They’re free.

Every drop of blood, every bead of sweat, every tear, every bruise, every stripe, every thorn, every nail, every whip and club and insult and wad of spit was worth it. It was all worth it. He could see it now, all of them dancing and singing before the Father. Every one free, every one loved. He could not keep His feet from dancing now, He could not keep His mouth from singing in the depths of Hell, and some joined Him as His light grew brighter, voice filling the place. It was the only time laughter and joy were heard in the depths of despair.

Before He knew it, it was time.

A rumbling crack echoed above them.

“It Is Finished.”

“It’s beautiful,” someone said, and Dig’s gaze fell.

He looked over at the woman sitting at the opposite end of the couch. Her long, blonde cascaded over her shoulders. She smiled at him, face pinching some with age, but it still shined with a youthful vigor.

Dig stared at her and then took another another slow draw of his cigarette. “I thought you didn’t want to be here tonight?” he asked.

The woman’s gaze fell and filled with sadness. “I don’t,” she admitted. “I’ve told you a thousand times you don’t have to do this, but I’m not going to leave you now.”

She lifted her head back up, and Dig averted his eyes. She drew closer to him.

“Dig, I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not Alina.”

Alina said nothing.

“You promised me my favorite tonight,” she said finally, and Dig looked at her. His eyes traced over her features. A complex series of emotions stirred across his face, but at last he clenched his jaw and merely nodded.

Dig stood, snuffing the end of the cigarette into the ashtray beside him before going into the small cabin kitchen. The place had been built sometime in the 70s by his father and still had the decor right down to the fading yellow Big Chill refrigerator, which Alina already stood beside. He opened the door and took out a package of brats.

He threw the sausages into a pan on the stove and waited, flipping the meat with an old pair of tongs.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Alina asked.

A faint smile appeared on Dig’s face, and he reached into the cabinet and pulled out a can of sauerkraut. He opened it and plopped the mushy cylinder of pickled cabbage into a little pot before stirring.

Beeeep! Beeeep! Beeeep!

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

Dig stopped, the wooden spoon he was holding poised above the pot. Reluctantly, he looked over. Next to the sink, Alina stood by what was probably the last landline in the county. It continued with its insistent beep until it eventually went to voicemail.

“Hey, Dig. It’s Reverend James here. I stopped by your house this afternoon. Wanted to see how you were doing, but you weren’t there. Mrs. Simmons said she saw you pack your truck this morning. Figured you might have gone up to your father’s old place.”

The reverend paused on the other end of the line.

“I don’t know if you’re there or not, but I know how hard this day is for you Dig, so if you do get this feel free to call me if you need someone to talk to. You have my number. Have a good night, Dig.”

The reverend hung up and Dig stared at the machine.

“You really should talk to him,” Alina said. Dig turned back to the pot of hot sauerkraut.

“He can’t help me with anything.”

“You sure about that?”

Dig paused before stirring the pot once again and flipping the meat. He got out two plates, then proceeded to load them up with the brats. He fit them in some buns he had also removed from the cabinet and put sauerkraut on all of them. He also took out a bowl of potato salad from the fridge and put that on the plates as a side.

After placing the plates on the table, he carefully took out a glass from a cabinet and filled it with water. He set it next to one of the plates then removed the single soda out of the fridge and sat down, chair scraping back against the floor.

“So you’re finally going to try it?” Alina asked. She was sitting at the other plate with the water. Steam drifted up off the fresh brat dogs.

“I promised,” Dig said.

Alina smiled and nodded to the sauerkraut covered sausages and buns on his plate. Dig hesitated then set down the fork he had been about to use to eat the potato salad. He picked up the brat, eyes flicking to Alina, who waited expectantly. He took a bite, the skin of the sausage popping, and its flavor filling his mouth.

He screwed his face at the sour taste at first then thought about it and smiled.

“It’s good.”

Alina clapped her hands, laughing. “I told you!”

Dig laughed with her, eyes fastened on the motion of her face and proceeded to take another bite. He ate as the sun faded over the horizon, but all too soon it was gone.

A thick forest night settled in around the small cabin, and the darkness clung to the windows. Dig’s plate lay clean on the table, and his mood from earlier had returned. He lit another cigarette and nursed his soda. Alina was leaning forward with her elbows on the table. The only light came from the little lamp fixture above the table.

“So you’re not going to give them any explanation?” Alina questioned.

Dig didn’t look at her, focusing on the edge of his cigarette. “I left a note. They should find it at the house.”

“It will take them a few days to figure out something is wrong.”

Dig didn’t comment. He took his plate to the sink.

Alina sighed, tears forming in her eyes. “You don’t have to do this, Dig.”

Dig set the plate in the wash basin, putting his hands on either side of it. The smoke from his cigarette coiled into the air.

“I do, Alina. I do have to do this. It’s what’s right,” he explained.

Alina recoiled. “It is not right!”

“There’s nothing left for me here, Alina. I have to go.”

“No, you don’t,” Alina said adamantly.

“Alina…”

“Dig! You have people that care about you here. Reverend James, he–”

Dig whirled. “Only messaged me because of you!”

Alina stopped, and Dig took a forceful drag of his cigarette.

“He doesn’t care about me, Alina! He only asks cause he feels I’m a pity cause.”

“Aren’t you a pity cause?”

“I don’t need anyone’s pity. If things hadn’t happened the way they did, he wouldn’t even be talking to me in the first place.”

“That’s wrong,” Alina said. “He did talk with you before.”

“Only because you made him,” Dig muttered.

“I never made him do anything, Dig.”

“Sure.” He didn’t believe her.

“I only asked him.”

“That’s as good as making him.”

Alina looked down at the floor. “I haven’t asked in a while,” she said.

Dig was quiet. “I know. You couldn’t have.”

The two were silent and their eyes wandered over to the drawer by the sink.

“Dig, please,” Alina begged.

Dig didn’t move for a moment then he slowly opened the drawer. Inside was his grandfather’s old Colt Python. He checked the cylinder, and each slot was filled with a round, shiny bullet. He sat back down at the table, staring at the weapon set before him.

Alina stared at it too, tears now coasting in rivers down her face. Dig struggled to speak.

“I’m a murderer, Alina. I deserve to die.”

Alina shook her head. “That’s not true, Dig.”

“‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.’ At least there was one thing I understood from that book.” He swallowed the last drop of his soda.

“Dig!” Alina cried. “You never killed anyone!”

“Then you would be here!” Dig threw the glass bottle and it shattered against the far cabinet. Alina vanished, and the shards landed on the untouched memorial plate and vacant chair opposite of him. Dig choked, “You would be here, baby! You would be here!”

He covered his eyes and sobbed.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry!” he said to the empty cabin. “I’m sorry I smoked. I’m sorry for the cancer. It should have been me, baby! It should’ve been me!”

Dig grabbed the gun, but it barely touched his scalp before he staggered to the floor in grief, the cigarette in his hand falling to the floor with the hot drops from his eyes. The glass from the broken soda bottle cut into his jeans and palm, but Dig did not seem to notice or care.

“You were my light, baby. You were my light,” he cried hoarsely.

He shook then his hand tightened on the gun, and he pointed it firmly against his head and looked toward the ceiling. “Why did you take her from me? Why!?”

The ceiling did not answer.

“She loved you til’ the day she died! She believed in you, but you let her waste away! You let her...fade…” Dig’s teeth chattered and the gun rattled his hand, and he looked to the ceiling once more, wailing from the pit of torment in his soul. “Why didn’t you take me!?”

And he repeated his question over and over again into the night, in the dull, single-bulb kitchen light.

Time passed. Dig had not moved from the floor, his shoulder propped against the counter. He had stopped weeping and stared through puffy eyes at the Python. He shut his eyes and lifted it to his head.

The hammer clicked.

Dig breathed and started to squeeze the trigger but stopped. The darkness behind his eyelids was growing bright.

Dig sucked in a confused breath, staring at the light beyond his closed gaze as it grew and grew. Then, he opened his eyes.

The cabin was bathed in a swath of sparkling, golden light. It filled the place, rolling in waves from the dull bulb above the table, which was now like the sun, wrapping around everything in a smoke that would not harm.

Dig gaped in wonder and a tendril of the smoke came from the light.

“Diggory.”

“Here I am,” he responded to the light.

The tendril drew near and went to the hand that held the Python. Dig shuddered, afraid. The smoke seemed to stop for a moment before it gently pushed the gun down from his head.

“Her light was mine.”

Dig gasped, tears streaming down his face, and the light surrounded him.

Dig woke up the next morning on the floor. The sun was just coming over the horizon through the pine trees, and birds that chorused the dawn sang in their branches. The cuts from where he had knelt in the glass weren’t there, and the Python laid like a gutted beast on the fake tile, its bullets scattered near it.

Dig rose, eyes roving over the scene. The sun shone on him through the open window, and he stared at the still on fixture above the kitchen table. Dig went and picked up the landline from its perch. All tension was gone from his step, and he crushed the cigarette he had dropped the night before underfoot.

Dig pushed a couple of the buttons on the phone then lifted it to his ear. The dial tone sounded for a few seconds until someone answered the line.

“Hello?”

Dig exhaled. “Reverend?”

“Mother,” said our protagonist as she drifted into the room where her mother could be found, “May I go play after I am done with my chores?”

“Why of course darling,” her mother’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. It had always been an unspoken rule that little ones could play when their daily work was done. Never had Lisa asked until this day. Her mother decided to voice her confusion. “But why do you ask? You know you can play after chores.”

“Well,” a hint of guilt and a pinch of embarrassment could suddenly be found in her demeanor, “father said I could not today. I do not know why. I’m sorry, I know that you don’t like it when I’ve already been told no by father and still come to you for a yes.”

“Yes, that’s true. But I don’t know why your father said no either. Finish up your work and I’ll go investigate.”

Lisa’s mother traveled up the stairs to find her husband. “Darling, did you tell Lisa she could not go out and play after her chores?” Lisa’s mother tried not to sound accusing, but there was hardly a way to prevent it.

Lisa’s father turned to his wife with a look of despair. “Yes, my love. I did.” Agony filled him and quickly Lisa’s mother reflected this agony. One could tell that she was a woman who loved her husband dearly, as the mere sight of his distress wiped all else from her mind and filled her with sorrow.

“What is it?”

“I didn’t want to tell you. I hated keeping it from you. It has been so hard; such a heavy weight to bear. I didn’t want the same for you.”

She came closer and gave him the most loving look you could ever imagine, “My love, do not suffer without me. Let me bear this burden with you. I am your wife. There is nothing I desire more than to know the troubles of your heart and share in your deepest joys and hardest trials.”

“Very well, but you must not tell Lisa. In fact, keep this between you and I. This is a secret only privy to those who work for the most involved members of the government.” She indicated her agreement, a bit fearfully, but with firm resolve. He took in a deep breath, about to let out the deepest darkest secret he had kept for so long. “Tomorrow, our world will collapse.”

Horror. “What?” she whispered.

“Please try to understand. I am not lying. I am not crazy. This is something only a select few know, but we keep it to ourselves so that families may live in peace. Our world is suspended above a much bigger world. We come from that world below. We live in what those of that world call a cloud. They have great bodies of what they call water. Water is what we are made of. The sun above us draws us up out of those bodies of water and we come together in the air and are born and made conscious. We then form families and communities. We live together. We function as a society. We receive new members every day; like when Lisa appeared. But there comes a point when our cloud cannot hold anymore members. At the addition of simply one more member, our entire world collapses and we fall back down to the earth below from which we were formed. We lose consciousness. We die. Only the first droplet who forms a cloud can remember.

“Tomorrow is the day when we will reach our full capacity.” And finally, he answered the question that had seemed so simple, “Lisa cannot go out and play after her chores today because I want us to spend our last night together as a family.”

Lisa’s mother had no words. What a tragedy. Nothing could be done but to push aside all of the questions – would she feel herself falling, how soon until she died? Would she see Lisa fall? She could not bear to watch her husband and daughter fall. None of that mattered at this moment though. It would be a good night and they would be thankful for what they had. Tomorrow would come and go, but today would be spent well.

“I understand. Thank you,” I manage to say evenly. Removing the phone from my face, I try to process this new turn of events. My mother is dying. Fifteen years ago, I would have killed her myself, had I been given the opportunity. Now, I have to consider what type of man that makes me. The past has come full circle, and I am forced to start remembering things that I have spent half of my life burying.

___

The sound of screams reverberates off of the trailer walls, bouncing over my head and dribbling my heart. My all too familiar friend, Hatred, sings her song through my house tonight. I can hear its melody in the voices and the shuffling of feet. I can hear the percussion in the flying objects and slamming doors.

I never hear my parents say that they love each other. It’s as though love is a thing of the past that lost its allure when it produced me. My grandmother used to tell me stories about when my dad was falling for my mom. She said that he would stay up all night talking on the phone, until she finally had to go in there and threaten to stop paying the bill. He got a job soon afterward and started paying for his own minutes. Once upon a time, they had dreams of getting married and loving each other forever, Grandma had said. But I used to dream that my grandmother would live forever and that my pillow would drown out the screams, so I know first-hand that dreams are only fairytales.

___

There’s no one else.

If I don’t go, my mother is going to die alone. That is the only thing that keeps me from discarding this phone call into the abyss where I send telemarketers and scammers to be long forgotten. Thirteen years ago, I left her to live out the rest of her life alone. I put myself through college and built a life all on my own.

I look around the living room of the small house that I live in by myself. It is nothing spectacular but certainly nothing to scoff at. I am happy here, far from the horrors of my childhood. Yet, there is something in the walls that haunts me. They echo back a silence that is crushing. At 32 years old, I am still vaulting away from my past, and there is absolutely nothing that can catch up with me—even my future.

Sitting down on the couch, I cradle my head in my hands and heave a laboring breath. I wish the memories would go away again. I wish I could set them ablaze and watch them disappear forever. I wish the hospital had never called. I wish I wasn’t on a countdown to face my past.

Why me? Why couldn’t there be anyone else?

As I close my eyes, the trailer walls close in around me. I am there again. Pictures of things long past flood through my mind, and I am utterly powerless.

___

It isn’t the first time he has left under the pretense of not coming back. The boots, stomping across the linoleum that is laid in front of the door, are warning bells that send fear coursing through my chest. There is a finality in the slamming of the front door, interspersed with curses from my mother. Questions fill my mind. Will he ever come back? Has my father abandoned me? What will happen to me if it is just her and me? Curses and threats linger in the air around me until complete silence falls throughout the house. Like the eye of a storm, this silence is more threatening than the flurry that preceded it. I bury my head in the pillow and try to fall asleep. I suspect it will be a while before my father returns. Assuming he does return.

My nerves start to untangle themselves, and I have almost found sleep when I hear stirring in the living room. I know my mother is getting up and coming down the hallway toward the rest of the house. Her steps are heavy and slow. I suspect she is going to lock herself in the room, leaving him to the couch if he does return. I count the steps. One. Two. Three. Four. My heart skips a beat. Four is more than she ever takes back to her room. There is a pause, and I hold my breath for extra measure. Maybe she will go to the bathroom? Surely, the bathroom and then bed.

Suddenly, she is moving again. Rapidly. I hardly have time to register the pace before my door slams open with a bang. My body involuntarily jolts with the sound, and I find myself staring face to face with a shell of the woman that I heard about in stories. Her eyes exude an anger that is eating the soul from inside her. I know that something is different this time. My father will not be coming back.

___

I watch the tiles beneath the nurse’s feet as she leads me through the sterile hallway. Her voice is sweet and quiet as she makes small talk about the weather and who is going to win the Superbowl. I don’t mind it. The small talk gives my mouth somewhere to go while my brain works away at what I’m about to be doing.

I am about to see my mother again.

Warning bells sound in my mind, and a trepidation grips my chest every time that I think about her. I almost want to turn around and hightail it all the way back to my house—maybe change my phone number and move out of the country, whatever it would take to escape this. But I’ve been running my whole life, and it hasn’t worked yet.

Before I am really ready, Miss Nora stops and looks at me momentarily before pulling open a glass door and motioning me in. Room 430. “Here she is, Hun. I’ll be around here somewhere. If you need anything, just let me know.” And she is gone.

I need a lot, but I don’t think you can quite help me.

Stepping around the curtain, I find myself in a small cubicle. This is where my mother—like so many before her—will spend her last moments. I slowly take in her body. She looks frailer and weaker than I ever remember her looking. I don’t know what to attribute to the years and what to attribute to the stroke, but she hardly looks like more than a carcass. She is awake, but all she can do is look around. I should feel safer. She can’t even move. Yet, I feel as though I have stepped into my nightmares. I am a little boy again, and all I can do is remember.

___

The bubbles race each other to the top of the water as I pour the rigatoni in to cook. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know it’s never a good thing when Mother pulls out a new task for me. It’s undoubtedly in my best interest to do this right the first time.

This is going to be the best pasta she has ever eaten.

I stay in the kitchen the whole time it is cooking. I could definitely hear the kitchen timer all the way in my room at the other end of the trailer. However, I’m most definitely not taking chances tonight. This pasta is important—more important than anything else that has ever been cooked in this kitchen. It has to be the best pasta she has ever seen. When the timer goes off, I immediately take the boiling pot off of the burner. My stomach groans at the smell.

I am so proud of myself for not burning the noodles that I almost want to run and get Mother to show her that I am doing it right. However, I’m only halfway done. Now, I make the pasta sauce, heating it up in the pan and adding a significant amount of basil. When I’m done, I run to the living room and get Mother, who is laid out on the couch asleep. Once I coax her awake, she unsteadily comes to the kitchen.

The moment her eyes lock on the pans, I know something is wrong. The pride and confidence that have been welling up in my chest deflate immediately. Fear sets in as I realize that there could be real consequences for my actions. My stomach sinks, and I think back to the lunch I had at school today. It wasn’t enough.

Please, don’t make me go without dinner again. I won’t have school for two more days.

She is instantly irate, and I have to wonder if the kids at school are forced to make dinner without being taught how. Her reasons for why it wasn’t good enough are all lost on me. The only thing I pick up is that dinner isn’t happening for me tonight.

Next time…next time I will make the best pasta she has ever seen. Next time, we’ll eat it together.

___

I sit in the chair beside her hospital bed and spend a lot of time mulling over the different memories that I have been so long repressing. Thinking back on my childhood makes me feel sick. All of the things that she put me through deserve my hatred. She deserves to die alone. I question several times why I even came here. Practically speaking, I’m not even sure how aware she is. She cannot do anything but look around, and her eyes look completely hazed over. I cannot tell if it is from anger or helplessness—or both.

Steadily, a rage grows in my chest. A fire burns in my skull and behind my eyes. Indignation grips me, and I stand to leave as a vivid memory grips my brain with burning claws.

___

“Drink it,” she says coolly. There is no remorse or questioning to her tone, and I feel a resignation sinking like a rock in my stomach.

Staring at the hazy white bottle, I have to wonder if this is how I escape. Dying isn’t that scary. It’s better than living in pain. Maybe everyone would remember my name because of how young I am. For once, I wouldn’t be invisible. Maybe Mother would miss me. For once, I couldn’t do anything else wrong.

My eyes shift to the small cup that she has measured a tablespoon of the ammonia into. “Drink it.”

I hope I do die. And then you’ll really be alone.

Without any more hesitation, I reach forward and grab the cup. It feels heavy in my fingers. Turning my eyes to meet Mother’s, I feel the last of my hope seep out of my heart and down through my stomach. She is watching me with cold, vengeful eyes. I only glare back.

Lifting the cup to my mouth, I throw it back in one swig and immediately feel the burn in my throat. I instinctively swallow, and the burn spreads through my whole head. I can no longer tell if the fire is coming from my throat or my eyes, but I feel it everywhere. I try desperately to breathe, but the air doesn’t seem to come. I can feel myself dying. The pain is excruciating.

Then, something changes. I feel a bubbling sensation around my abdomen, and suddenly, I am retching. My bladder lets go as well, and the feeling of fire overtakes my awareness. I don’t remember getting to the floor, but I am lying on filthy tile, covered in everything that I have just expelled from my body. Everything hurts. I feel as though I have just met death and lived to tell about it.

By the time that I have enough awareness to collect myself, I push off of the ground and search for mother. She is sitting on the couch across from the kitchen, watching me. I want to ask for help. I want her to hold me and rock me and clean me up. But I know she won’t.

I hate you. I hate you, and I wish you would die.

___

“I hate you! I hate you, and you’re not my mother!”

It takes me a moment to realize that I am actually in a hospital room. I am in a hospital room, and I am yelling at the top of my lungs. There is a loud beeping on one of the monitors, and a red light is flashing. Poison sits in my stomach as I try to come back to reality and process what is happening. The monitor is really loud.

Is she dying? Is she really dying?

I realize that I am sweating and holding the end of the hospital bed with hands like vice grips. She deserves to die. She almost watched me die, and she did nothing about it. It’s my turn.

Pain and rage are clawing at my mind, and I hardly know what to do with myself. I want to cry. I want to hit something. I want to live a life that isn’t controlled by this. I want to let go.

I hear the door slide open and the curtain pulled back. Miss Nora steps past me with another nurse that I don’t recognize. There is a flurry of motion. “Oxygen level,” Nora says, turning off the beeping. She looks at the hanging bags while the other nurse ties a piece of rubber around my mother’s forearm. They take her blood, readjust her, and give her all kinds of medication. “Sedatives. To make it easier.”

Before leaving, Nora stops and puts her hand on my shoulder. It pulls me from my thoughts, and I look into her brown eyes. They are tired but compassionate. I know this isn’t her first night on the ICU floor. “She’s lucky to have you. You wouldn’t believe how many people won’t come up here.”

I feel her hand slip off of my shoulder, and with a final click from the glass door, I am alone again. Well, almost alone. The storm in my head stands still as I turn back to the hospital bed and look at my mother. The woman who tortured me. The woman who was lucky to have me. The woman who was crying?

Time stands still as I stare into the eyes that used to haunt my nightmares. Those emotionless eyes. They look transformed. Her eyes are soft and glossy, and there is a single tear running down her cheek. This is the first time that I have seen my mother cry, and that’s all that she can do. She cannot say anything to me. She can’t touch me or even nod at me. Yet, she’s somehow more human in my eyes than she has ever been.

Seeing her crying breaks something in me that has been building for years. I feel an uncomfortable ball in my throat and try to swallow it down. It’s like I am seeing her for the first time. I realize how similar she and I really are. She feels just like I feel, and I have the capacity to hate just as she does.

Before I know it, I am at her side again, looking at my mother with all new eyes. Could she be redeemable? After all of this, could we really be more similar than I thought?

It ends with me. The hatred, the abuse. I can be better.

Sitting down next to her, I grab her hand and settle in for the long wait. “Mom, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. I’m here with you.”

I wait with her until the very end. It is a mere three hours until the monitors start to scream for help, and I back up for a platoon of nurses and doctors, charging the frontline. I can feel the death in the cubicle before that tell-tale flatline rings out around everyone who is furiously trying to prolong the inevitable. One by one, they turn and leave my mother’s room. Miss Nora is the last to go. She gives me a sad look and tells me to take as long as I need to say goodbye. Then, I am alone with my mother.

Goodbye? I feel like I have just said hello.

Taking two long strides back to her bedside, I carefully lean down and kiss her forehead. Her skin is softer than I ever thought it would be, and I linger over her as emotion swells up and tears spill over my eyelids.

I weep for my mother. For what she could have been and what she was.

I weep for myself. For what I could have been and what I choose to be.

I weep for my past. And all of the years that I wasted running from it.