Logos: A Short Novel

 A note to the reader: This was a part of my college project on creative writing fiction. This story contains themes of suicide, alcoholism, mental health, and dark elements.

David Kenneth Abbasi, 34-years-old and 5-feet-eleven-inches, sits on the balcony overlooking the city. The wind is crisp with a puzzling undertone of ammonia. Neon flashes and flickers, casting a reddish-orange glow over the night sky. It’s cold, perhaps stale, but not uncomfortable.

David has money, but you would never know it. He sits with his worn leather boots crossed and his saddlebag slung absentmindedly across the left shoulder. Both are scuffed with years of wear. He dons a flannel, most likely found in a free bin years ago, though he doesn’t remember this; he does not pay attention to the small details in life. David is a big picture guy.

He can barely recall his seventh birthday — the one where his birthday clown inadvertently flirted with his aunt the entire afternoon — because it wasn’t a big picture moment. He doesn’t care to remember a person’s name when introduced. You’re lucky he remembers your face.

David has always been cynical about life and about anything, really. He bounces from one pastime to another, attempting to find something that makes him feel again. He hasn’t felt anything since his first engagement, years ago. They were both young and remarkably naive, but he loved her, and he had simultaneously been too afraid of losing her.

Yet, he did. Life seemed to numb after.

He has since gone through dozens of jobs, hundreds of hobbies, and numerous relationships; everything is temporary. The sentiment that resonates with David the most…his life’s mantra. And to David, the purpose of life is attempting to romanticize the purpose itself.

“I don’t hold my life on a pedestal,” He had told a close friend one night after too much to drink. The friend, surprised by the personal statement (David was known, even by “close friends,” to keep to himself), chortled at this and took another shot.

“Of course you don’t, David. If you did, you’d be dead by now.” A response that never ceased to resonate with him. 

He’s right. At this point, if I were to get struck by a train or hit by lightning — or fortuitously mix whiskey and capsules — my response would be simple. “Oh well,” and I’d shrug; that’s the end of the line for me, Buck-O. You’ve been a great crowd.

And tonight, with his black hair slicked back and his scruff neatly trimmed, he inhales sharply. Sweetness. Chocolate. Perhaps it was because he loved his grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies so much as a child that he still smells them on occasion. His feet swing and dangle, inattentively kicking as if he were seven years old once more, awaiting patiently on the warm desserts. His grandma’s eyes would sparkle whenever he came to visit. After all, her other grandkids (his cousins) had grown, and she had started to lose her fire. Only David seemed to rekindle her spirit.

40 feet doesn’t seem so tall. 

He pictures his favorite childhood superhero, Superman. Ah, yes, he remembers the days: munching on warm chocolate chip cookies on the back porch and flipping through pages of The Man of Steel without a care in the world. This was when David cared about things. When he was happy. 

Right now, physically, David looks more like Clark Kent than his famously flamboyant alter ego, Superman, but mentally, he inhabits that same confidence. 40 feet was nothing to Superman. 40 feet could mean nothing to David. If he believes he can fly, then he can fly. Why not? What’s stopping him?

A crumpled piece of paper peaks out of his saddlebag, yellow-ish and stained: “Find Jesus, NOW!” Religion had never been much of a topic during David’s upbringing. He grew up around dozens of people, yet Jesus might have been the name of the neighborhood cat, for all he knew. It was a foreign concept.

But now, this was the last straw, the last attempt at finding meaning and purpose. The last attempt to feel. Because if you can’t feel, then what is this whole thing about?

When he was a kid, he could have been anything. “I want to be an astronaut!” He declared with passion one day in elementary school. Two years later, it was a superhero. Three years after that, a doctor. And, in high school, he even considered taking the “lawyer route.” But nothing ever called to him. There were no big epiphanies, no grand gestures, no bright red arrows with big letters pointing toward a direction in life. He was at a loss, and with no one to nudge or encourage him, he finished high school dazed and confused.

He attempted college, yes, but because he couldn’t decide on a major (and quickly ran out of funding), he left not long after. Next came taxi-driving, coffee-making, office-typing, grocery-bagging, nurse-assisting, construction-working…hell, even zoo-keeping. He was an honest, hardworking employee in each and every one of his endeavors, and most employers begged him to stay. But David would always respond with the same sentence: “It’s just not for me.” 

And now, at 34-years-old, David feels as though happiness is “just not for him.” Most hobbies leave him apathetic these days: food, movies, books, music, sports. It was all the same. Stale.

40 feet was not so tall.

—

Sauntering down the early evening sidewalk, hands in his pockets, David keeps his eyes on his feet. He dislikes eye contact and therefore usually avoids it when possible. However, tonight, something is different. Off. He cranes his head forward slightly just as he collides with something — no, someone. A thud, an “oof!” as the pedestrian drops onto the sidewalk. 

Rats. David is now forced into social interaction.

“Dammit, I’m sorry,” he mutters. The old man on the ground looks up, brushes his perfectly primed suit jacket, and forces a smile.

“I appreciate it,” the man says, an odd tone of cool poise behind his white stache. He props a hand behind himself and pushes, his golden jeweled ring clinking against the stone. David shifts uncomfortably (as he does with most interactions) while the man steadies himself, patting the back of his pants. He nods, and as his smile curtly shifts, he disappears into the coffee shop ahead.

David exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Way to go. Look up next time, idiot.

And so, continuing his brisk trek, he keeps his eyes in front of him. A white something-or-other stapled on a pole grabs his attention. He typically never meddles in small items such as these. They are not big picture ideas. But…this. He gets closer. This could be a big picture idea. He squints. This flyer, stapled messily to the post: “Find Jesus, NOW!” This could turn his life around. He pries it from the pole, almost greedily, and stuffs it into his saddlebag.

After all, what do I have to lose?

—

The disheveled man with the flannel shirt trudges past the coffee shop window just as Eli Bargens takes his seat facing the street. His naturally permed curls bounce when he drags the chair closer to the little round table. Eli acknowledges the pedestrians outside but never thinks further than their physical appearance. It’s not his place to judge.

The bell jingles on the front door minutes later. Across from Eli sits an older gentleman, his suit jacket slightly crumpled from a recent encounter, his face disgruntled. “Are you alright, sir?” Eli asks after studying his expression carefully.

“I had the strangest encounter just now,” He glances behind himself as if David were still there, outside the window. He had gone. “A man just ran right into me, hadn’t even paid attention.” The old man brushes his fingers over his jacket once more, as if reminiscing about the recent event. His eyes fix back on the young man.

“And I told you, forget the sir.” He leans forward and says in his usual authoritative tone.

“Yes, s-” Eli clears his throat, his eyes awkwardly shifting around the café. “Cappuccino?”

“Please.”

“...I’ll be right back,” Eli stands, tripping over nothing on his way to the counter.

Eli Bargens, 25-years-young, has recently eloped with his longtime best friend, Margaret. The past couple of months have been the best moments of his life. Through Eli’s eyes, Margaret can do no wrong. She is an angel. The love of his life. They had attended preschool together, had gone to the winter formal in middle school together, and, naturally, went to prom together, corsages and all. 

In Eli’s mind, she is his life, his muse, his passion.

And, no matter how much Margaret wants to wholeheartedly agree with her now-husband’s sentiments, she found herself crouched over the toilet the night before their wedding, retching her guts out.

Eli strategically balances two steaming mugs of liquid energy — complete with foam — on his way back toward the table, and drags his chair with a large screech after placing the drinks before them. 

“Ah…” A sound of comfort as the old man holds the patterned foam against his white mustache.

The two men meet once a week, every week, for cappuccino and the occasional scone or muffin. In Eli’s eyes, this old man — called Tap Jones, 65-years-ancient — is his newfound father figure, of sorts. His counselor, his mentor. 

The two men engage in heavy conversation regarding the importance of marriage. Eli, having recently eloped, finds Tap’s intermittent advice surprisingly helpful, considering the fact that he is a widower of almost eight years. 

Most of the time, the old man just listens and ponders with careful consideration, finding it strange that, circumstantially, he is a part of this kid’s life now. Tap reminisces about life with his late husband; the conversations between him and Eli rejuvenate youthful memories. Eli loves his wife; this much Tap knows well. He is still astonished by the kid’s passion towards her, with his sprightly sentiments and unwavering attitude. Tap has been told numerous times that Margaret can do no wrong.

He’s not sure if he believes him.

—

When Tap met Eli, over four months ago now, he had been outside on his front lawn, trimming his brightly flourishing roses, much to his perfectionist liking. Eli was walking the dog that he and Margaret had recently adopted and decided, on a whim, to take a new route this time. 

Time to be spontaneous, Eli. Third Avenue instead of Fourth.

Eli, who resides on Ninth Avenue, had only driven past Tap’s house once or twice before, with unacknowledgement of the street itself. When you’re departing for work, you tend to disassociate with your surroundings — especially at 5 a.m.

But this time, it was different. 

The dog, lovingly named Cookie after Margaret’s favorite dessert, was a basset hound, and a rambunctious one at that. A pair of earbuds swing from Eli’s ears as he hums along with his electronic technos, the dog’s collar clinking, and his years-old sneakers creaking beneath the pavement, all creating a makeshift harmonious beat. 

Turning right. The sun blares into his eyes, so he creates a visor with his left hand. Turning left. Third Avenue. A small patch of rough gravel makes his sneaker stumble, his right hand’s leash grip loosening ever so slightly. He glances down at the road for a moment. And then, he feels his body is forced forward, lunged toward the ground. Eli’s right hand tugged insanely tighter.

“Cookie!”

He squints into the road, seeing nothing but the remnants of a collar and lead. The sunrays poke fun at his pupils, his breath ragged and his throat dry. Eli bolts after the basset, who has found better amusement hounding a squirrel. 

He weaves through front yards, driveways and gardens, hanging onto that little snippet of tail in his peripheral. His earbuds, still blasting synth keyboards amusingly, fly behind him like a makeshift cape. Hedges have become hurdles. Cars, fences, posts with flyers, fire hydrants…all have become obstacles.

Oh God, please let me catch this dog. Please don’t let him get hit by a car. Margaret would be devastated. Please, please…

As soon as Eli starts gaining speed, Cookie ambitiously lunges for the squirrel who had attempted refuge in Tap Jones’ superlative front garden. Up the cherry blossom tree it went. The basset follows suit. Close, but no cigar.

Eli howls, with Cookie similarly disposed, and eventually makes his way through the garden, placing his sweaty palm around the dog’s neck scruff. He crouches, heaving, wheezing, gasping; his entire form shakes from the laborious chase.

Of course, Tap has been — for a while now — standing in his garden, tending to his flowers. He stares in disbelief at the two panting figures and sets down a pair of shears on a small metal table. A slight clink. 

Eli’s frantic respiring shifts to panicky gasps as he locks eyes with the old man. “I-I’m so sorry!” He straightens up and wipes the beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, the other still firmly grasping the dog. “He ran off his lead and started chasing a squirrel,” Eli huffs, starting toward the sidewalk.

Tap chuckles ever so slightly, taking a couple of steps closer, brushing past his luscious hydrangeas and vibrant gardenias. “Oh, you’re alright,” he says, his tone friendlier than his appearance. He stops for a moment, his eyes searching. “Are you alright?”

“I almost had a heart attack, but other than that…” Eli trails off, still catching his breath, glancing back down the road where, blocks away, he can barely make out the lead and collar lying there. “I’m just glad the dog’s safe.”

“Me too. Cute pup.” Tap leans against his fence now, his arms dangling nonchalantly over the edge, watching the two young runners regulate their breathing. “Wife?” He gestures toward Eli’s left hand, the gold of the band glinting in the sunlight.

“Yeah,” He beams brighter than the sun itself. “Just last week, actually.”

“Congratulations,” Tap pauses, his cogs turning. “Marriage…quite the experience.”

“Are you married?”

“I was.” Another considerable pause. “He passed…oh, it’ll be eight years in November.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Please, call me Tap,” An arm extended for a handshake.

Eli wipes his perspiring palm on his shorts quickly before firmly taking the handshake. “Eli.”

“We should go for a cappuccino, Eli. I would love to hear more about that lady of yours.”

“Most definitely, sir.”

—

Three doors down, on her porch, sipping iced tea with a slice of lemon on the rim, sits Mrs. Atkins. Though she’s 73-years-old and moves a mile a minute, her mind is still as sharp as a tack. Her pocket-less jeans reach beyond her waist, of course, and her square glasses coddle those sagging cheeks. The weather is hot, and therefore it is time for tea with ice.

It had been almost twenty minutes of rocking on the porch swing when she witnessed a skinny, curly-hair boy (or man, she couldn’t tell which) chasing a dog chasing a squirrel.

“Hah!” She exclaimed aloud.

Mrs. Atkins is easily amused by most things. Her four cats amuse her often; her evening cartoons and early morning birdwatching, her overly-minty denture cream, her bubble baths, and her weekly shopping ventures — they all amuse her.

Her caretaker, a gentle forty-something named Sue, however, does not amuse her. 

Perhaps it was because Sue always smelt of ammonia, or because she always talked in a juvenile tone. Maybe it was because the woman didn’t fold the laundry perfectly, or feed the birds at the correct time, or make lasagna in the right fashion. Maybe it was her wardrobe: was she too plain or too “hip?” Did she pronounce pecan to her liking? Did she hover too often, speak on the phone too loudly, or arrive too early?

Mrs. Atkins can’t put a finger on it…she is just unamusing.

—

“Hun, I’m home!”

She sighs, slamming her notebook shut and shoving it under her side of the mattress.

“Coming!” 

Margaret steps toward the mirror on the wall, forcing a smile on her face.

C’mon, happy time: hubby is home.

Her dainty feet patter down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. She hears keys jingle, bags rustle…bottles clink. She flinches.

“I bought stuff for lasagna tonight,” Eli says, his voice joyous, his head hidden behind the refrigerator door.

“Thanks, love,” She offers a smile.

Not good enough, try harder.

The smile broadens.

Better.

Cookie paces the perimeter using that giant sniffer of his to locate potential snacks. Eli pops his head out of the refrigerator, his smile ten times more genuine than Margaret’s, though he doesn’t notice this difference. She can do no wrong.

“How was work?” 

He wraps his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her neck. The sunlight filters through the dainty kitchen window, providing an ethereal atmosphere. “Long, boring, but worth it.” He sighs. His response to most things: it was worth it. Margaret closes her eyes, the smile authentic now.

“I’m going to hop in the shower, care to join?” He pulls back, a hopeful gleam in his expression. 

“...I’ll start dinner.” Margaret lingers along with the smile, hoping this guise remains believable, but quickly starts grabbing pots and pans.

“Alright, thank you,” And then he disappears upstairs. The water starts in the distance.

Whilst chopping tomatoes, Margaret stares out the window of the kitchen sink, watching the blossoms swirl, a single tear threatening to spill over onto the vegetable. She is a simple lady with simple goals. The typical list: get married, start a family, provide for them, and live a modest and happy life. She’s halfway there. She has a husband, a house, and a dog. She earns a decent wage as an online editor and is financially stable.

The only impediment is the meetings.

—

Eli steps out of the shower, the steam almost suffocating, contracting with the sharp, brisk breeze circulating through the crack in the door. He noticed the change in Margaret’s demeanor today, but he’s too naive to think anything of it. 

Instead, he smiles to himself and wipes a streak in the mirror, the condensation dripping after his fingers. He leans into the counter to examine his face. The stubble is growing in, slowly but surely. He should shave soon.

It is deathly silent in the bathroom. Eli hadn’t heard a peep from the kitchen downstairs, and the water had stopped plipping from the faucet moments ago. It is so silent that he can hear his own heartbeat and breathing, as if reverberating off of the mirror itself. He reaches for the lotion on the counter, his eyes affixed upon the bottle.

And then, he hears breathing. 

He freezes mid-reach, and slowly, painfully slowly, glimpses back at the mirror. Nothing. Had he been breathing that loudly?

“Margaret?” He turns around. Nothing. He turns his head once more to face his own reflection.

…Except, this time, there is someone behind him. A wisp of a figure, almost like a shadow. Eli chuckles nervously. An illusion, a trick of the light, that’s all. 

The apparition (no, just the steam creating shapes) raises its misty hand against the glass, right beside Eli’s shoulder. He is paralyzed with fear, with confusion, with incomprehensible emotions. He cannot move, nor does he dare turn his head. 

Instead, all he can do is watch his reflection, his eyes wide, his breath hitched once again.

The hazy finger points at his face in the glass.

It started as a small crack and expanded from there. Directly on the reflection. Shatter. Shards clatter to the counter. His face has deserted the glass.

He gasps, practically choking on his own breath, and finally finds himself able to move properly, but poorly.

First, he takes a couple of steps back, his feet slipping against the wet, smooth tile. He falls back into the shower, and his head hits the wall. 

All goes black. 

—

David Abbasi has a migraine.

This is bad news for anyone within a ten-mile radius of him. He refuses Aspirin, refuses water, refuses rest. He claims that migraines are what make him think harder.

“But perhaps the reason the migraines keep persisting is due to such heavy thinking.” His friend told him over the phone.

“Regardless, they’re supposed to happen. I can’t stop nature.” Was David’s conclusion. He hung up seconds later.

Instead of tormenting himself at home, he realizes that this is critical thinking time. To go out into the world and look for “big picture stuff.”

Oh yeah, the flyer.

He tugged at the saddlebag until it crumpled free.

“Find Jesus, NOW!” … “Need love? Need understanding? Need purpose? Jesus can save you! Attend our services on Sundays at 8 a.m. and find your purpose!”

“...hm.” He turned over the flyer and found the address. Around a fifteen-minute walk. Easy.

The sun had just begun its ascent when he kicked on his boots and hit the road. He hummed Nancy Sinatra in his head.

—

Tap Jones sat in his lonely house, drinking his lonely vodka, watching his lonely westerns. He let out a large sigh. Besides the low volume of the small-screen television and the clock in the hallway ticking away, all was quiet. 

His late husband, Bert, had kept the silence away. He always knew how to spark intriguing conversations, or fill a room with his laughter, or play just the right tunes.

It was difficult these past seven years without that presence of his. Tap feels as though, naturally, a piece of himself had gone missing since.

He lets out another gusting sigh, twitching in his leather recliner uncomfortably. Time to reminisce. He slowly cranks the chair back to sitting and pads down the cushion-floored hallway. A path straight to the hall closet. On a mission.

To make myself depressed? No, you’re grieving. It’s alright.

He drags out a dingy and musty cardboard box labeled “B Man,” and pries open the flaps. The title still makes Tap chuckle. He kneels close, peering inside, already anticipating the emotions to take reign.

A mangled teddy bear, a dozen or so first-place golf medals, and a box of his “trinkets,” as he called them, which consisted mostly of small pebbles and the occasional letter from when Bert was deployed overseas.

He recalls memory after memory. The beach, frolicking in the cool sand long after midnight. Listening to the train blast its obnoxiously blaring horn near their first place together, right there on the ocean. Halloween parties, Christmas parties, vacations, and birthdays. The one where a stupidly drunken face-painter laid hands on his aunt. Or the time he unintentionally spilled wine all over his husband at an upscale restaurant. The jokes he’d tell. The scares they shared. The accident. 

A paper catches his eye amongst the clutter, something he hadn’t recognized before. Tap carefully scoops up the piece at the bottom of the box, uncrumpling it.

“Find Jesus, NOW!”

Confused, he reaches for his reading glasses stowed on the front of his shirt. He shakily slips them over his nose and dives back into the paper. This…isn’t right.

As far as Tap knew, Bert had no affiliation with religion, or a specific church, for that matter. Why would he keep something like this? In his memory box?

He lay back against the wall, holding the piece of paper over his knees, staring at it, deciphering it. “What does this mean?” He mutters to himself.

A clatter from the basement. “The hell…” More muttering, as Tap slowly stands tall once more, the flyer still in hand. It sounded like something had fallen. He trudges toward the basement door, only a few steps at the end of the hall. Another thump. This time, Tap flinched.

Damn rats.

He jiggles the knob frantically, opening the door with a creak. Nothing but darkness below five or so steps. A slow vignette. Something has lurched forward, begging for the light.

He shifts shakily, starting toward the closet for a flashlight. He fumbles at the door and eventually clicks on the light, pointing it toward the bottom of the basement.

He gasps, his hand coming to his mouth, his eyes lurching closed, and his other unsteady hand frantically jerks the light away.

“Tap…” The strained voice calls from below. “My love…” It beckons. Tears start to form in the old man’s eyes as his body shakes, his senses going numb.

“Bert,” he finally manages to gasp out in between sobs. With his hand shaking more uncontrollably than ever, he hesitantly moves the light back to the floor. Nothing. He points the illumination more hurriedly now, across the basement and along the stairs. Still, nothing.

Tap lets out a shaky sigh and allows his body to slump against the wall near the door, continuing his symphony of sobs, his face in his hands.

—

She heard a noise upstairs. It was loud. It wasn’t quite right.

“Babe?” She calls. “Eli?” No answer.

Margaret sets her knife down and starts upstairs. The water had stopped running, and all was silent throughout the house. Eerily silent. She taps lightly on the bathroom door first. 

“Babe?” She calls again. No answer.

She cracks open the door cautiously and follows the trail of water and…blood. Her heart drops to her stomach. 

He is naked and lying on the bathroom floor, the back of his head slowly oozing red.

“Eli!” She yelps, practically throwing herself at him, gently lifting his head from the wet tile.

He slowly blinks into consciousness, registering his wife before him, who could do no wrong.

“The mirror…” he mutters, blinking slowly, sleepily. Margaret turns to follow his somnolent gaze, recognizing the perfectly intact — and completely normal — bathroom mirror. She shakes her head in disorientation.

“We have to get you to the hospital.” She states, already punching in the appropriate number on her cellphone.

—

Mrs. Atkins is all dressed in her Sunday best, waiting for lousy Sue to drive her to church. The service starts at 8 a.m., yet it is already 7:45, and there is still no sign of Sue.

“Are you ready yet?” She calls — as loud as she can in her frail state — from the front porch.

“Almost!” Sue responds from inside the house.

“Hurry up, I can’t miss church!” It’s days like these that make her head ache.

“Yes, Mrs. Atkins,” That kindergartner voice is closer now. She approaches the front door wearing a dress adorned with flowers. 

“Hm, how modest,” The old lady mutters under her breath as she shuffles down the front steps and onto the sidewalk.

—

The night that Tap had sworn he saw his husband on the basement floor was the same night he drank himself into a stupor until everything numbed further. The next morning, he awoke early and with a headache. 

The night prior felt like a dream — or a nightmare. He was still slumped against the wall, a bottle in one hand and the crumpled flyer in the other. He read it carefully again.

What day is it?

Sunday.

What time is it?

7:45 a.m.

—

Margaret sits on a chair beside Eli’s hospital bed, her leg shaking, her head in her hands. He had been admitted a couple of hours ago with multiple contusions and a large gash on the back of his head, which resulted in a minor concussion.

He has been sleeping since.

Margaret had been passing the time the only way she knew how — self-loathing. She reaches into her purse and chugs her mini flask as fast as possible. But what was he talking about, the mirror? What was with the mirror?

Sometimes, she didn’t understand her husband. Yes, she loves him. She admires him, and she strives to be the image he captures in his mind. But she’s not. She’s far from perfect, far from an “angel.” She can do wrong. She has done wrong.

Because prior to their wedding night, Margaret had approached the Alcoholics Anonymous sign on the corner of Oaks Avenue. 

As a matter of fact, she had approached it numerous times — once a week — for five years. 

At first, it was easy to hide.

And then he moved in three years ago. More excuses had to be made: “I have a dinner thing,” or “a conference call.”

And, of course, the reasons why she couldn’t drink had to fluctuate. “It makes me sick,” or “I’m allergic,” or, perhaps, the worst lie of them all: “I’m pregnant.” To which she then, skeptically, suffered a “miscarriage” two weeks later.

Tonight. Five years of progress, of deception and suppression, gone down the drain. Permanently, and without her husband’s knowledge. 

She takes another swig and stumbles to the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to gaze upon a bulletin board across the hall. A flyer catches her eyes, pinned there, dangling.

“Find Jesus, NOW!”

Maybe she needs to confess. To release her frustrations. She’s already half-drunk and depressed. Yeah, it’s a plan. Tomorrow morning: church. Why not?

—

David arrives at the church with a pit in his stomach. He’s never been to one of these before. Everything feels off. He climbs the rolling hill, glancing up at the steeple. The sun catches his eye, and he squints. 

Cars line the side of the building. Ah, right, the crowd. He takes a breath, preparing himself for the worst, and pushes open the two large wooden doors. 

—

There is no music. No conversation. Just silence. And then the doors. 

Mrs. Atkins follows the church-goers’ gaze, turning her head curtly in synchronization with Sue. A disheveled man wearing a battered flannel saunters in unassumingly. He looks frightened. 

He reminds her of her grandson. Oh, how they used to bake chocolate chip cookies and enjoy each other’s company on the porch. But alas, she is the last of her kin. Her children, her grandchildren, her husband… all gone.

—

Tap Jones is sitting in the first pew, registering the stained glass, the ancient stone, the queer silence. Did Bert really come here? 

—

Margaret fidgets near the confession booth. Of course, she can’t confess yet. Not during service. But she might as well stay for it. She’s here, after all. 

The seats are lined with brilliant red roses, the purple carpet popping wildly. Everything smells of must, of ammonia, of antiques. The stained glass casts a neat reddish-orange glow amongst the pleasant-faced church-goers.

—

The priest arrives, wandering toward the front altar. He’s clad in black — typical priest-wear — but his hands are jeweled, and his shoes are worn. He smiles at the audience, surveying the perimeter with sagacity. 

A wooden box lay in the corner of the aisle, adorned with similar flowers and cloth patterning the drapes. It looks to be about 5-foot-eleven in size. 

—

David doesn’t sit. He doesn’t move. He stands in the middle of the aisle, staring, indisposed. He recognizes the priest, though he can’t put his finger on it. The building remains silent, and the audience is still turned toward him, grinning eerily from ear to ear. The tinged ray set upon his demeanor, in spotlight fashion. The priest mimics the crowd: noiseless and buoyant.

David feels his head start to pound further than before. He smells ammonia. He feels strange. His vision tunnels, and suddenly the room is damp, cool, stuffy. It’s getting harder to breathe. Why is it difficult to breathe? He needs to leave this place. To turn around, push open the heavy doors, and escape down the 40-foot hill.

—

He can’t remember how he ended up on the balcony of the church. Maybe he passed out. He felt like passing out. The damn migraine.

Maybe he survived church service, uncomfortable but necessary. He can’t understand how long it has been between then and now. Now it is dark. The moon is out. 

40 feet doesn’t seem so tall.

—

Gasping, shuddering, thrashing. He blinks awake, his body on fire, his throat withered, and his muscles desensitized. His vision is blurry at first, but that’s okay. It’s okay. 

The light begins to filter in. The smell of ammonia, the painfully white walls with glares of occasional red. The exasperating rhythm of a monitor: beep…beep…beep.

David lay in bed, his head bandaged, stapled, sewn, and bruised. Both arms rest in casts, and his ribs are wrapped. 

Everything hurts. No, throbs. No, pangs in anguish and torment. Every bone feels snapped; every vein flooded; every muscle prickling.

“Hey…you’re awake,” a voice. A gentle voice. A woman’s voice. He can’t move his eyes, but he can manage a strained stare straight ahead. He sees the top of someone’s head, approaching slowly.

Margaret? His wife? 

She coddles him close, her eyes burst with fresh tears, careful not to worsen the pain. “Oh, David…” She mumbles, sniffling, pulling back with a soft smile. The smile of an angel. 

He attempts to speak, but her eyes widen, and she lifts a hand. “No, don’t talk. You’re in bad shape…” 

He instead attempts a quizzical look.

Answers. I need answers.

She takes a breath, her hand intertwined with his. “I didn’t think you would wake up,” a strained chuckle intermingled with sobs. “It’s been four months.” 

A pang. …Four months? Four months of…what?

A phone rings. Margaret startles, reaching into her back pocket, her reddened cheeks still glistening. “Oh…one moment. Here. I know you love television,” She presses a remote button and answers the phone, taking a couple of steps closer to the hallway.

“Yes, he’s woken from his coma. No, he can’t move, or talk, or-”

David’s ears focus on the television, his attention unable to reach the hall. A coma? Who, him? When?

…He hadn’t jumped. No, it had been a dream. He wasn’t actually serious about it. 

The television booms with loud, cathedral music. A church. Flowers spread along the pews with purple carpets and colored glass. A box. A five-foot-eleven wooden box. In the center of the aisle. 

The music grows louder, the audience chanting something undecipherable. The camera expands, the program magnifying on the happy church-goers. He spots an elderly woman. A child. A birthday clown. An old man and a dog. 

A black cloth lay over an easel. The camera enlarges further, focusing directly on the cloth. It starts to slip. David’s breath hitches. 

His face. It’s his face. The box slides open slowly, the chord progression escalating, the choir’s pitch and volume growing steadily. His body. It’s him. 

A pang. The most excruciating pain yet. 

And then, nothingness.