Unexplained Exposure: The Journey of the Soul

Pat Levy hung photographs along a thin clothesline in his dimly lit darkroom. Suddenly, an image caused him to clench his chest in pain. "No, it can't be." His hand trembled as he steadied himself against the countertop. The room spun as the photograph developed, its clarity sharpening with each passing second.

A few minutes passed and Pat Levy was standing on his feet, shaky as they were. He wiped a tear that slid down his cheek and detached the paper from the line to examine it after putting on his glasses. His fingers spread wide apart from the top corners of the page and slowly made their way down the image. They stopped across the clouds that obscured the moon, so only a third of it was visible. They probed for any signs of stars in an area filled with light pollution. 

As he made his way down toward the horizon, his jaw became slack and his lower lip quivered. His index finger rounded the top of her head. Her light brown curls were still bouncing in his eyes. He paused for a moment to gather his senses. He moved to trace his fingertip along her face, feeling the warmth and tenderness of her skin. The corners of his twitched as he remembered the way she would press her face against his on a cold and windy night, oftentimes just after they made love. 

He lingered on her lips and circled over them several times. Closing his eyes and bringing his own dry and cracked lips together. It had been several years since the two melded together with such passion that he pressed his palm against his chest to feel his heart quicken. His eyes closed momentarily, taking it all in. It felt like she was there, pressed against him, and smile lines scarcely broke through to the surface of his weathered and weary face. 

Pat Levy took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and recalibrated them by wiping away the onset of tears. This time, he examined the picture as a whole. The two stood at the far edge of an empty pier sharing a nighttime stroll, holding hands, fingers interlocked, and engaged in a discussion he couldn't remember. It was nothing of significance. "Probably whether I turned off the television." His voice crackled within the small space of the four walls. 

He exhaled slowly and deeply until his lungs were empty and it was time to inhale again. It was enough time to hear her laughter rise from the paper and travel into his ears, where it echoed in his head. The laugh was the same one she used whenever he told her she had too many pairs of shoes. "I'll never have enough shoes, silly." Her voice had an intonation that was gentle as an outgoing tide, ending with the exuberance of someone opening a present they've always wanted. He envisioned her shoe closet overflowing and burying him underneath a myriad of colors and styles of all sorts. He stifled a chuckle at the absurdity of his runaway thought, which turned into a muffled cough instead. 

He became lightheaded and reached behind for the stool. Once seated, he closed his eyes and his mind's eye transported him to the dock with camera in hand. There they were, a couple walking hand in hand down the length of a pier that only revealed their silhouette, as an obscured dirty moonlight barely pierced the night sky. He raised the body of his camera to eye length and adjusted the lens to frame the couple to the right, with the edge of the dock in the center. Unable to see their faces in the dim light, he moved a few steps closer. His footsteps made the weather worn wooden boards underneath him creak. It was okay. The distance between him and the couple was negligible. A nearby bench with an adjacent barrel would make for a good vantage point. 

The outline of the couple was dark, but clearly delineated. Her free hand swayed at her side while his empty hand was in his coat pocket. The steps they took were slow and short, and their noses pointed directly at each other. Pat Levy held the lens steady and turned his left ear towards the couple. Perhaps the ocean breeze would whisk their words toward him, and he could eavesdrop on the intimate nature of their conversation. 

It wasn't his job to watch or listen. His task was to take a photograph of the last moment of one's life. He sighed slowly and placed his finger at the ready, gently against the shutter button. His watch told him the moment was near. He steadied his hand and increased the zoom on his lens. With a click of the button, the couple simultaneously fell to the ground. Pat Levy had his photograph and took leave of the bench. 

 When he opened his eyes, he wiped his brow and used his fingers to massage his left temple. He held the photo in his shaky right hand and this time, focused on his own image. His fingers interlocked with hers and a few strands of his hair blown forward to jostle with her uncurled bangs. The leather bomber jacket he wore was the one she gave him on their twelfth anniversary two months prior. He could feel the warmth over his shoulders as his fingers traced along the length of his back. With a magnifying glass peering into his eyes, he could see the reflection of the moonlight mirroring the sight in her pupils. Pat Levy inhaled slowly, the same way he used to when he wanted to take her sweet breath into his lungs. This time, there was no sweetness, only the remnants of chemical mixtures from the darkroom trays. 

There was a knock at the door and Pat Levy set the photo down on the table and shifted the muscles on his face from the listlessness of sorrow to an amicable one. The knob turned slowly, and it entered the room. Soori #6 floated in and hovered beside Pat Levy. Soori #6's ethereal presence was unexpected but welcomed. It could have materialized through the door, but chose to knock, a courtesy of understanding between two partners brought together to do a job. 

Pat Levy pointed to the photograph. "That was us." 

Soori #6's shapeless figure shifted from an unrefined decagon to something with five sides, no corners, and what would seem like an elongated head. "She is as beautiful as you say." Soori #6's voice didn't seem to have an origin. It was as if Pat Levy had heard it directly in his head. 

"I'm keeping it. I don't care about the rules. It's our last moment together. It's the only thing I have left of us." The silence in Pat Levy's head meant that Soori #6 understood and had no objections. 

Soori #6, an ethereal being tasked with observing human souls, glided along the line of photos. Its formless body shimmered as it spoke directly into Pat's mind. "Are these ready for the soul cataloging department?"  

"Yes. I will need a moment to create a copy of this, if you don't mind." He tapped his finger across the photograph in front of him. 

Soori #6 moved next to him, and pat felt a hand on his shoulder, though he could not see one. "Our time is limited. Be quick." An appreciable gesture to allow time for a keepsake.

"Do you know where they plan to catalog this?"

"I am unaware. Our role is to capture the final image." It was not within the scope of the Soori to delve beyond their assigned duties. The liminal space that they occupied between the embodied souls and ones without a corporeal one was a complex bureaucracy of moving parts.

"I just want to know that she'll go somewhere nice. I've never asked for much. Can we get an answer from somewhere?  What about Soori #4 or #2? Couldn't we ask them?" When he turned towards Soori #6, it had dissipated into nothingness and the door to the darkroom had closed slowly with its exit.

Pat Levy held the photograph against his chest where his heart would have been beating had he been alive. "What if we never get cataloged? What then?" As the photographer of his own demise, he held the sole image that documented the end of their existence. His balance shifted as the thoughts and possibilities overwhelmed him and he held himself up with one hand as he leaned against the table. 

He made his way to the door and turned the knob. When he opened the door, he found a floorless void beneath him and an endless ocean of nothing above. In the near distance was the multicolored bioluminescence of souls queued in several long strands. Their unbound forms shift from one unconstrained shape to the next as they await processing. Many await the photograph of their final moment alive that accompanies the boarding pass to their next destination. 

Pat Levy squinted to see as far as he could. The creases in his brow grew, and he clenched his fist while he brought the photograph to his weary eyes once more. "I'm coming babe. I'll find you. Count on it." He shut the door behind him and placed the photograph inside the inner coat pocket of his bomber jacket. 

He squatted near a workbench and pulled out a box from the back of the bottom shelf. From the box, he removed a notepad and flipped through several pages of notes, hastily drawn sketches, and a crude map of sorts. These were his accounts of his time in the netherworld since his passing - beginning with the moment that Soori #6 retrieved his shapeless, glowing soul from the processing queue. 

"Where am I? What... what are you?" Pat Levy's voice quavered, recalling his first encounter with the Soori. He felt untethered, formless. "Where's the rest of me?"

Soori #6's response seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. "You're in the space between existences, Pat. We are the Soori, observers and catalogers of human souls. You've been assigned to me."

Pat's essence trembled. "Souls? Catalogers? I don't understand."

"Few do, at first," Soori #6 replied, its tone neither comforting nor cold. "But you will. You must."

"What's a Soori? Are there more than you? Why aren't there any physical objects here? Everything is so empty." 

"There are seven of us. We have no need for what you term physical objects. We observe and record our findings." 

"Observe and record what?" 

"We observe mankind and record what makes them human by cataloging souls and analyzing their essence." 

"My essence? I can't even see myself. How am I even seeing anything if I don't have eyes. How am I talking and hearing you." 

"I understand. This will make you more comfortable." The elements around Soori #6 begin to swirl, forming a body that resembled a partial human, except for the eyes and ears being lower than the nose, and a mouth at the center of the forehead. The limbs took on a resemblance to parts of a scarecrow in a cornfield, although they weren't fully formed appendages. 

Pat Levy began to take on a physical appearance of his own. His own features resembled who he was during his last moments alive. "But how?" The notes in Pat's journal had several lines of questions that had no entry in the answer's column. Wall manifested themselves around him to resemble his photo studio. His workbench and photography equipment were recreated with faithful accuracy, just as he left it the night of his death. 

Soori #6 answered as much as it could, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't as advanced as Soori #7, therefore Pat Levy remained unsatisfied with his situation. All he could do was accompany Soori #6 in its travels to the realm of humans and capture the last moment of souls. Pat had been this for a long amount of time now. He had over a million photos that he developed and cataloged. 

"Where do they go?" he would periodically ask Soori #6. 

"I cannot say. The Soori only perform this task and know very little of the complete journey of souls." The answer was always the same from each of the Soori numbered one through six. 

"They are a unified sort, the Soori. Each one more capable than the prior one, but still lacking something fundamental." Pat Levy had noted on one of the many pages of his journal. 

Noticeably absent from his notes were entries about Soori #7. The other Soori didn't mention it much, and whenever Pat Levy presented the question, he always received silence in response.

Pat Levy hurled his notebook across the darkroom until it hit the wall and fell to the floor with its pages crinkled and bent. "I'll find a way to get her. I swear I will." His two palms slammed down on the surface of his workbench, and some of the lighter items shifted by a few inches with the sudden force. He dropped to his knees and brought his head down. He began to sob uncontrollably, while rocking slowly with his arms tucked close, hands gripping the opposite shoulder. 

The dim red glow of the light overhead was replaced with a dim white one and it became more luminous with each passing tear that fell from Pat Levy's face onto the floor. He didn't notice that the journal disintegrated, as well as his stool, and soon the walls, darkroom trays, and the photos he had strung out to dry were gone too.

Soon he was floating in a void and found himself to be without a corporeal presence. He was nothing, just as he remembered when Soori #6 had retrieved him. This time he sensed them. He knew he wasn't alone. He was surrounded by the six Soori. 

"It's over." Soori #6 stated.

"What's over? I must save her. What happened to everything? Why am I like this?" 

"The research is over. You have done well Soori #7, It is time you return." Soori #6 took a familiar form of a humanoid, as best as it could while it communicated with him.

"Huh? I don't understand." 

"You have succeeded." Soori #5 explained. "Our version could never replicate the human condition. Your iteration has completed our objective. Well done Soori #7."

"Soori #7? Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Pat Levy, a human being. You kidnapped my soul to take pictures of others for some sick twisted thing or another." 

"You are Soori #7, and you transcended when you were on assignment at the pier." Soori #4 explained in a nebulous form, floating in front of him. 

"But my wife, the picture..." 

"Transcendence. You became human. You answered the questions we sought." Soori #3 chimed in.

"Soori #7, you must come now, the data has been analyzed. Our task is complete." Soori #2 stepped to the front and its essence mingled with Soori #7's, shifting it to the right, away from the previous manifestation of the darkroom.

"What of the remaining souls? Human souls? What happens to them?" Pat Levy shouted from the lungs and a voice box that he never had.

Silence. The Soori didn't respond.

Soori #7 understood. It felt that warm feeling of her presence and its unshapen mass shifted from a spherical blob into fractals that looked like tendrils at one point, then slowly into a silhouette of a man - Pat Levy. The wisps of his hair floating, while the collar of his bomber jacket nestled his neck. He reached out with his hand and felt her fingers interlock with his once more. 

As Pat Levy - no, Soori #7 - felt the familiar warmth of his wife's hand in his, an understanding washed over him. He had transcended his role as an observer, had lived and loved as a human. The photograph wasn't just an image of an unexplainable moment; it was proof of his humanity. And in that realization, in the memory of love and loss, Soori #7 found the answer the Soori had been seeking all along.