Purgatory

A little trip to the Dark Side...
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Purgatory

He laughed. In Purgatory, he laughed. It wasn’t so much the fact he was there that made him chuckle, but rather the fact that Tim Burton would be pleasantly surprised to know that the waiting room scene in Beetlejuice was astoundingly accurate. Granted, those that occupied the room with him were far less caricaturized than the fanciful characters in the film. Nevertheless, the setting was eerily similar.

Had he not known he was dead, he would have thought he was in a doctor’s office waiting room. A very large waiting room. There were rows and rows of chairs, many of which were occupied. There was no music, though, just an unnerving silence. From an unseen door a woman’s voice called out names in no particular order. In all honesty, he had no idea how long he had been there. It could have been minutes or months for all he knew. At one point he tried to count the names that were called, and for a while he was doing pretty well. He had gotten up to 1,231 before his counting was interrupted.

“So, what are you in for?” a young man asked as he sat down next to him, as if they had been incarcerated.

“Excuse me?”

“What are you in for? You know, how you got here.”

He looked at the young man with ire. “None of your business.” He had no idea that his manner of death was the very reason he was there. His denial of the fact was the reason his name had not yet been called.

“Suit yourself. Me? Accidental drug overdose. I was a hockey player, and taking Hydrocodone for a bum knee. Didn’t mix well with the sleeping pills, I guess. I’m Gary. Gary Powers,” he said as he held out his hand. Reluctantly, he shook it.

“Alex Winter.”

After completing the pleasantries, Alex returned to sitting in silence. Gary didn’t say another word, and soon the pleasant sounding woman called the name “Powers” and he was gone, leaving Alex alone again. Name after name after name, and still no “Winter.” Alex closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was an odd place, indeed, and Alex had no idea how long he’d be there. Suddenly a jolt coursed through his body and his eyes shot open. Gone was the waiting room around him. All Alex could see were the events of his life played out in clichéd visions like a sports highlight reel, only these weren’t highlights. These were every mistake, every lie, every wrong decision, every instance of self pity, every bit of anger, fear, or frustration he had every experienced.

Tears streamed from his eyes as he helplessly watched every sordid and painful moment of his life in vivid detail, including the time he stole a pack of gum from the grocery store at the ripe old age of six and the occasional bong hits he’d take with his friends in their college dorm room. Every failed relationship, every act of selfishness, and every silly, stupid argument in which he had ever engaged flashed painfully before him. The onslaught finally ceased, but not before he was made to relive the moment of his death. He watched in agony as he forced his body into the water, water much too warm for his liking. He grimaced as his body slid into the tub, but continued with his task nonetheless. In life he had closed his eyes, but now he watched in horror as he witnessed himself sliding the blade across his wrists and the ensuing redness that stained the water around him. He never felt a thing, and simply drifted off.

Alex closed his eyes in a vain attempt to shut the image out of his mind. It was no use. Over, and over, and over again he watched as the life drained from his body, and then, abruptly, the image was gone. He opened his eyes to find himself sitting in the waiting room again. It was empty, save for him, and the gentleman that now stood before him.

Alex looked up and smirked with confusion. The man bore a striking resemblance to the late comedian George Carlin: He was tall, thin, and dressed all in black. His facial features were covered with a thick, grey beard, thicker than Carlin’s, and his long, grey hair was pulled in a tight ponytail behind his head. The man smiled.

‘Do you know who I am, Alex?” he asked.

Alex shook his head. “No.”

The man smiled again. “Come. Walk with me,” he instructed. Alex felt himself rising, drawn to the man though he knew not why. Alex followed him to a door he had not seen previously, and when they passed through it he found himself walking along the path of one of the most serene gardens he had every seen. The plant life was lush, colorful and fragrant, but not overbearing. The garden, like the stone path beneath his feet, was meticulously kept: there was nary a leaf, petal or pebble out of place. Alex couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of calm.

“What is this place?” Alex asked.

The man did not answer the query directly. He stood several feet ahead of Alex along the path, his hands clasped behind his back as he leaned over to sniff a bed of irises. “Where do you think you are, Alex?” he finally said, answering Alex’s question with a question.

Alex replied skeptically. “If I’m where I think I am, I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

“And why is that?”

“I took my own life. I should be in Hell.”

The man let out a bellowing laugh. “No, no, my dear boy. Do you not remember?”

Alex searched his mind, and his memory pointed to a fleeting moment before he slipped away when he asked God for forgiveness. Sensing Alex’s enlightenment, the man spoke again. “Yes, He heard you. And you are forgiven.”

“So, this is Heaven, then?”

Again the man chuckled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Alex looked at him with ever-growing confusion. Before the man explained, he posed a simple question. “Alex, let me ask you something. Why did you do it?”

Alex had no honest answer to the question. He was lonely. Desperate. Lost. Perhaps he felt as if he had no alternative. He lingered on that thought for a moment and looked up in surprise as his companion spoke again.

“Alex, there are always alternatives. There is always darkness, true, but there is also always something to illuminate the path away from that darkness.”

Alex pondered the man’s words, and felt ashamed. He knew that. He knew there were ways he could have escaped the shroud of depression and anxiety that overcame him in those final moments.  It was easier to wallow in self pity. Again, as if reading Alex’s thoughts, the older man interjected.

“Alex, there is something you must do.”

“What is that?”

“Forgive yourself. It is not in God’s forgiveness that one finds salvation, but in one’s ability to forgive and accept one’s self. That, Alex Winter, is what so many fail to do. Do not chastise yourself for your faults, but rather forgive yourself for them. Accept them. Only then can you adequately address them. God cannot do that for you.”

Alex stood silently in reflection for some time. His companion waited patiently, knowing Alex would have more questions. There was so much Alex wanted to ask though he couldn’t find the words. Finally, he asked the only question he could form in his mind.

“How do I do that?”

“Unfortunately God cannot answer that, either. Neither can I. Alex, like all others, you’ve been given the gifts of thought and reason. The answer lies within you. You must simply decide to find it.”

“Who are you?” Alex asked abruptly. The man smiled.

“I am many. Your Guardian Angel. St. Peter. The Arc Angel Michael. I am any Saint you choose me to be. Alex, I am simply a voice, a guide to help you on your path, but not to lead you. I am whoever, or whatever, you need me to be. The real question, Alex, is this: Who are you?”

Alex felt more tears building. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

“Would you like to know?” the angel asked softly as he touched Alex on the shoulder. Alex nodded silently in the affirmative. “Then you shall.”

Another jarring jolt rocked Alex’s body, and then there was darkness. As quickly as it had come upon him, the darkness was gone. Alex’s eyes were closed, and he could hear the sound of running water. When he opened his eyes he found himself standing in the bathroom, beside the tub, and watched it fill with steaming water. Sensing something in his hand, Alex looked down to see the small razor blade still wrapped in its protective paper cover. He stared at it incredulously before closing his fingers around it. Alex squeezed his fist so tightly that his knuckles whitened and the back of the blade dug into the flesh of the palm of his and.

After several deep breaths he released his grip and let the blade fall to the floor. Alex reached forward, turned the water off, and lifted the tub’s lever. It wasn’t until the water swirled away down, leaving the bathtub empty, that Alex moved his gaze from the drain. He picked the razor blade up and placed in the box that had been sitting on the counter. Then, uncermoniously, he dropped the whole thing into the waste basket beside the vanity and walked out into the bedroom. Without giving himself a chance to think, Alex walked over, picked up the phone, and dialed. It rang twice before someone answered.

“Hey,” he said casually. “Are you doing anything for dinner tonight?”

He listened momentarily, and then smiled broadly.

© J.J. Goodman 2013. All rights reserved.