PURGATORY

When I come to the first thing I think of is, “Where's my car?” Rather—where's my Dad's car? I can get away with 'borrowing' it for two days—tops. And if it ever got so much of a scratch on it—that's 40K. That happens, I'd better take a looooong vacation.

I was speeding, I admit it. I had to be really careful about that. Get pulled over, cop goes, “Where's the fire, son?” “Our family celebrates Ground Hog's Day, Officer. It's really important I'm home in time.” Yeah. That sounds real believable. But it's also the absolute truth!

We're a pretty old family, and February 2^nd is kind of a sacred holiday for us. The whole clan gets together. You might understand me better if I give it our name for it—Imbolc. Yeah. For the longest time we referred to it as Saint Brigid's Day. It helped to keep us under the radar of the Catholic Church.

Now, I don't know what happened to the car. I know I was pretty close to home and we live in a semi-suburban, semi-rural area. So I can't understand how I wound up in this city I don't even recognize.

Makes me think of New York. I was an architecture major till I dropped out. I mean, I was good enough at it, but I was never that interested. I really got into it to please my Mom. No other reason.

See, a good friend of mine had turned me on to a book by Ayn Rand. The Fountainhead. All about an architect who refused to compromise. She meant well, but reading a book like that would probably have used up two weeks worth of my time. Figured I'd do better to just watch the film version, with Gary Cooper—that only took me two hours. That's only a half of a percent the time I'd've spent reading.

I'm good with calculation. Architects make good money. So I couldn't understand why the main character refused a really lucrative commission like that. They wanted him to put up a façade of Roman columns in front of this ultra-modern building he'd designed. It's what the client wanted—you give the client what they want. That's where the money is.

The main difference between me and the main character was that I really didn't care that much about architecture, if I was really being honest. Yeah, my Mom told me I had a great talent, but so what? I didn't really care. What was I doing there wasting my Dad's money on something I had no vested interest in? So I quit.

Maybe I should have stuck it out. At least I'd be making some good money, but that's never really motivated me very much. Fact is, I'm twenty-eight and nothing's ever instilled any kind of passion in my life.

If I can identify the building styles then at least my education won't have gone completely to waste. New York's got a lot of the real classical architectural styles—Beaux-Arts, Neo-Classical, Cast Iron, etc. but I don't recognize any of them here.

Fact is all these buildings just look like blocks. Square, or rectangular windows. No ornamentation whatsoever. The streets look totally deserted. Cars are lined up on either side of the street, but I notice there are no parking meters. No meters, and no signs. There're no traffic lights either. And there are no street lamps. I can see okay, but a city without street lights?

I feel cold, but it's the start of February, so that shouldn't surprise me.

I hear voices from somewhere ahead of me. But the street, no matter which way I look is completely deserted. In this gray twilight it's hard to tell, but I think I saw some kind of gray shadow moving up by the corner. I hope its people.

I pick up the pace. When I get to the corner of course there's no one there. But looking to the right I think the shadow has resolved itself into five shadowy figures. I begin hoping. Dad and Mom? My two sisters and baby brother?

I break into a run. I can hear voices. It sounds like them!

“Dad! Wait up!”

I start hearing other voices. They're coming from the windows above. I hear conversations, jokes, laughter, sounds of anger, yelling. I even hear a fight break out on a third floor. I hear a shot. Then I hear more laughter.

I decide I'd better not get involved. I should probably call the cops but if they'd delay me for speeding on Ground Hog's Day, how long would they keep me if I'd been a witness to a murder?

Even if I don't call the cops, why haven't I thought of calling my family? Car's missing but cell phone isn't. I dial Dad on the speed dial. Dead. I look and there's no power. No bars. I'm in some kind of dead zone.

The voices are echoing from all different places. I realize I'm lost. I keep looking for my family. Instinct tells me they still must be ahead.

I turn the corner and see those five vaguely human shadow shapes and I hear their voices. Yes! I can finally make out Dad's voice. No mistake now. Can't make it out for sure, but it sounds like they're saying:

“Can't miss this opportunity...”

“Why did he...?”

“How far we gotta...?”

“Don't talk back...”

“Dad! I've been trying to catch up to you...!” I grab his right shoulder to turn him around. Somehow he seem bigger than I remember.

But the figure turns around. His coat falls open. He looks at me, and it is not a face I know. Bald. Hairless. All pulpy, and with weird little pustules on the skin. The eyes are colorless. They look straight at me but they might as well be looking through me.

He doesn't do a thing. He just stands there in a pose that almost looks threatening. The four others slowly turn. They're still talking among themselves. The voices are the voices of my mother, my sisters, my baby brother. But it's not them. I don't know why I even thought they were speaking English. What's coming out of their mouths isn't even human.

I step back, gingerly. The big fellow keeps looking at me. The one whom I thought was my mother, sounds like she's asking something. He responds, without taking his eyes off me. They might as well have been saying, “Who's that, honey?” “Nobody important. Just some homeless tramp.”

It was the voices of my family, but it wasn't my family. It was like something monstrous was mimicking their voices.

I draw back slowly, and then more quickly. The big one doesn't follow me. He's letting me go and I am scared, because if it follows me I don't know what I'd do.

I felt a cold fear in my stomach. Was this some kind of Plague? And if it was—how contagious was it? What if I was already infected?

I start seeing other figures shambling about. Sometimes they're close enough to me and I catch their words but they never make any sense. Is it because the plague has garbled their brains and tongues so they can't talk straight—or has it affected my perceptions so I can't make sense of what any of them is trying to say?

I stick to the center of the street. Up against the wall I might run into one of them when they round the corner.

Finally I see a break in the cookie cutter monotony of the city. There's a traffic circle. I see ten streets that radiate out from it like spokes on a wheel. In the center is a monument on top of a stone fountain. It's running water and I am thirsty. I cup my hands to take a drink.

The smell alerts me. I nearly retch. It's like a thousand billion bums have pissed in the basin. The pump keeps circulating this rancid sewer.

There's a mounted figure on the monument. Some kind of medieval warrior. Long hair beneath what looks like an iron helmet. Something seems off about the statue but I can't place it. Wait—there was supposed to a code regarding the carving of equestrian statues. Depending how the horse's legs were placed it told how the subject of the monument died.

If all four hooves were on the ground—the rider died outside of battle.

With one front leg held up—the rider was wounded in battle.

With both front legs in the air—the rider died in battle.

But this horse had three legs in the air! It looked like he was about to leap into the sky and take flight!

A statue like that should break under its own weight.

A bright light shines from above. It breaks up the oppressive, omnipresent gray light there's no escape from. I see the Rider begin to move and dismount from his horse. He makes his way off the pedestal and stops before me.

His black armor remotely resembles those of the Spanish Conquistadors. His white hair whips about as if blown by a wind, but I feel nothing. For a long time he looks at me and says nothing. His eyes, those terrible silver eyes burrow into me.

Finally he speaks in a compelling baritone.

“You wish to find your family.” I can only nod my head, yes.

“Call him on your cell phone.”

“I tried that before. No bars—do you know what bars are?” Stupid question. He knows about cell phones. Of course he'll know about bars.

“You'll reach him if you call again.”

“Oh, God! Thank you.” I swiftly get Dad's number on speed dial. It rings. I hear Dad's voice. No mistake like last time. This is my real Dad—not some plague zombie.

“Dad—thank God, I've got a hold of you, I'm lost. I don't know where I am. Can you come and get me?” There was a stony silence at the other end.

“Who is this?”

“It's me—Donny. Look, I don't know what happened to the car. I know you're going to be mad. I...I lost the car.”

“I said, who are you? You're damn right I'm mad. What kind of sick mind would try to play a trick like this?” I had never heard such fury in his voice before.

“Dad—it's me. I'm not playing a joke. It's me, Donny.”

“How did you even get this number? You listen here, and you listen good. Be glad you come up as 'unknown caller'. Because if I knew where you were calling from I'd find you and beat the living shit out of you—you understand! How dare you. Pretending to be our son. How could anyone be so sick? What possible pleasure can you get from this—torturing a grieving family like this!”

“Dad—why are you doing this? I'm your son. Look—ask me anything. Something that only you and I would know.”

“You listen to me, you little bastard—I don't know what game you're pulling. But I know where my son's car is. Totaled. Wrecked. Wrapped around a tree. Burnt to a crisp. Just like my boy. I hope you enjoyed your sick little joke.”

I couldn't even think, let alone say anything. I looked at the white haired warrior.

“Dying is a terrible shock to the system. One doesn't always remember their final moments.”

“No. You're lying. I can't be dead.”

“Is your father lying?”

“No—this is some kind of a trick.”

“And what film studio could afford to build a set this large? What's the last thing you remember?”

I have to think back. “I was trying to get home. I started to text Dad, saying I'd be late...then there was something. I almost didn't hear it. I was going pretty fast.”

It was coming back. Out of the corner of my eye something flashed. I heard someone yell. Something hit my car. I tried to look but it was too quick. Something just—some kind of black shape was suddenly there. Then there was just light...”

“It was all too quick for you to register, even if you hadn't been texting while driving. You were going more than ninety miles and hour. You didn't see the girl. That friend of yours. Her name was Joyce.”

“No. No—I would have known. I couldn't have hit her.”

“You didn't. She suffered only a few bruises when Jimmy threw her out of the way—at the cost of his own life. It was he your car struck instead of her. His body was impossibly broken. He will languish for five more days before succumbing to his injuries. Distracted, you lost control and your car smashed head on into a two hundred year old oak tree. Your gas tank exploded.”

“So, I'm really dead? What happens now?”

“For the dead, there are only three doors open.

“Heaven.

“Hell.

“Or Purgatory.”

“I'm not Catholic.”

“I speak of realities—not what people believe about those realities.”

“So where am I headed, in those three?”

“Don't you want to know where your friend, Jimmy is headed?”

“I can't picture him up on the clouds and playing a harp.”

“A man's Heaven is formed of his dreams. You all have dreams—but not all are worthy of their dreams. Jimmy sacrificed his life to save the woman he loved. He has won his Heaven.

“Are you worthy of your dreams, Donny? Joyce knew you had a dream. She tried to help you fulfill that dream. Why did you give up? Because you knew you couldn't pay the price?”

“Because it wasn't really my dream.”

“And for what dreams of yours have you paid the price?”

I was silent. In all my twenty-eight years I had never really had a dream that was only my own.

“Without a dream, you cannot have a dream come true.”

“Then...I'm not going to Heaven, am I.”

“By your own stupidity you murdered Jimmy Albright, a man far more worthy than yourself. Had he not acted it would have been Joyce Ryan who died—it really profited her to be loved by you.”

“Was what I did really so bad that I'm going to Hell? I didn't mean to do any of that.”

“Neither Heaven, nor Hell is to be your payment.”

“Oh, thank God! That means my sins are going to be purged.”

“You seem to be under a misapprehension of what exactly Purgatory is.”

“I thought that's where your sins get purged away, to get you ready to enter Heaven.”

“This city is the destination of all who die. It's name is Irkalla. Heaven is for those Victorious Ones who change their destiny and escape this place. The Lost Ones are those who have never changed their destinies. They grow in their rot and corruption—forever is this their dwelling place. Their punishment here is as everlasting as the joy of the Victorious Ones.

“Both the Victorious, and the Lost burn with different fires, but they burn. The one to Eternal Life. The other to Eternal Death.

“But in Purgatory it is not the sins which are purged—but the sinners who are purged from existence. They are the the cold and timid souls who never know either victory or defeat. That is the destiny you have chosen.”

“You never dared to have a dream of your own—good...or evil. You are of no use to either Heaven—or Hell.

“And all those great gifts that were given to you—they are taken away from you and given to others—and they will not waste opportunities which are given to them. You have become like the chaff which the wind driveth away.”

A wind had enveloped me. It was tearing things out of me. I gasped in agony as I felt everything of value that I had possessed within me was being torn away. One by one I felt them ripped away. It was like being sliced by razors.

I saw a phantom shape breathe upon me. It took the form of an incredible building—many of them. They were as beautiful as any of the dream cities that Winsor McCay had drawn for his classic Little Nemo in Slumberland strip. I remembered! I had loved some of those things when I was a boy.

And I could have built them all! I loved them!

But I did not love them enough.

And now I felt them snatched away from me. They were gone. I tried to remember what they looked like but I couldn't bring them to my mind's eye.

My Dad and Mom. Why couldn't I remember their faces? My sisters. My baby brother. Did I really once have a family?

And friends—didn't I once have friends? But...why can't I remember them?

And that guy—what was his name? I never thought of him as anybody special. He had done something, something pretty amazing. But I couldn't even remember what it was now. Something to do with some girl? Now I should be able to remember her. She was someone special...but how special could she be if I couldn't even remember her. She hadn't really made her mark.

I didn't know what I was thinking just now. What is thinking? Is that what I'm doing? I don't see a reason for any of this. I don't even know what reason is. It hurts. There's nothing but hurt. How could there be anything but hurt? What's the reason for this hurt? Yes—it's because something's gone. That's why I hurt so badly. Something's gone. But I can't remember what it is. But if I can't recall it, maybe it was never very important in the first place.