SEVEN DAYS (Preview)

THE FIRST DAY



I


I’M GOING TO ruin the ending.

I’m dead.

No, really.

I’m talking doornails here.

No twist.

No belated gasp of shock and/or dismay.

This is my afterlife.

Welcome to the show.

I’ll be here all night.

A giant in midnight-blue pats me down. Handcuffs gnaw on my wrists. Chest aches. Hands shake. Thoughts hissing as sweat crawls down my skin. I’m losing it again. I feel the crush. I’ve become allergic to gravity.

Apparently, when you’re dead, you’re gone—gone, but not over.

DING! DING! DING!

Elevator doors shut one-by-one in front of me; elevators that take a key to get from the ground floor to the top.

Why are there elevators in the afterlife? You tell me.

The blue giant finishes frisking me and then leans against the chalk-white wall.

A squeal to my left.

Down a corridor basked in fluorescent light sits a chubby, redheaded girl in a snow-white jumpsuit. Like me, she’s in handcuffs. Unlike me, she’s shackled to a wheelchair. She looks me in the eye, points a doughy finger as pale as a piano key in my direction, and then curls up and covers her mouth to muffle a laughing fit coming on so hard her knees knock and her whole body jiggles.

I stick out my tongue.

“I see you have met Vivian,” someone says behind me.

I whip around and almost nip noses with this someone—an old guy with a salt-and-pepper beard and gray eyes. With one hand, he pulls out a notepad and a red pen from the inside pocket of his lab coat. In his other hand, he’s carrying a folding chair.

“Yeah, she’s a real hoot,” I reply.

He stares at me and me at him. He’s either sizing me up or playing a game of mental Chicken to see if I’ll balk first.

That’s cool. I’ll wait him out. No problem.

The redhead giggles. Time ticks by more slowly by the second. Above, the fluorescent lights snap and hum.

Tick-tick-tick…

“Who’re you?” I finally ask.

“Thomas Macabee, but Dr. Macabee will suffice.”

“Good for you.”

“I need some information about you.”

“Like what? Don’t you know everything about me already?”

“Sit down, Jonathon. Please.” Dr. Macabee unfolds the chair and places it against the wall near me. I remain standing. He clears his throat.

“How are you feeling right now?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“Well, I guess that answer will have to do,” he replies, grinning.

“Yep.”

The doctor jots something down, reads what he’s written, and then stares at me again. He taps the pen against his furry chin.

“I suggest you be a little more forthcoming,” he says after an excruciating few seconds.

“Huh, wow. Enlightening. Well, no offense, but this hasn’t exactly been a good day for me.”

“Agreed. You were seventeen-years-old?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Alright then, just a couple more questions.” He tucks his pen and notepad in his lab coat. “Are you still suicidal?”

“What difference does that make now?”

“You would be surprised.”

I sit down.

“Okay then, I’m not.” Not right now anyway.

Dr. Macabee’s grin seems wider and wiser.

“Almost finished,” he says. “Why do you think you ended up here?”

I shake my head.

“Isn’t it your job to fill me in on what the deal is here?” I reply. “What’s going to happen to me? What is this place? ‘Cause this isn’t exactly what I pictured the afterlife looking like.”

Again, Dr. Macabee heckles me with that grin. Blood, assuming I have blood here (feels like I do), rushes to my face and throbs against my temples. I’m not sure exactly why yet, but I’m getting angry; angry with this doctor, angry with that still giggling, fat, pasty redhead, Vivian, and most of all, angry with myself for being too blind to see this coming.

Dr. Macabee crouches until our eyes are level.

“One more question.” His voice isn’t threatening, but a few butterflies still take flight in my stomach. “I am willing to have those handcuffs removed, if you will answer me truthfully: are you going to try to escape?”

I think it over, but by the time I decide to lie, I realize it’s too late to bother.

“The first and every other chance I get.”

Dr. Macabee chuckles politely.

“Here is the deal, Jonathon. We do not have a lot of rules, but you will have to follow them if you want to make any progress during your stay.” He shows me his hand. Fingers splayed, he counts them off.

Finger one.

“There is no physical contact allowed between you and the other guests.”

Finger two.

“Act out or argue with staff and we use more aggressive treatments with you, such as having you restrained, and in all likelihood, sedated.” His eyes point to the cop, then back to me. “Hopefully, we will not have to pursue any measures beyond this.”

Finger three.

“This one qualifies more as advice than a rule, but be honest with everyone you meet. The sooner you decide to be truthful here, the sooner you will earn some privileges. Is there anything you want to ask or say at this point?”

“So we're ‘guests’ here, huh?”

“That is what we like to call you, yes. Anything else?”

“Yeah, call me Jack. I haven’t been called Jonathan since I was too little to know the difference.”

“Fair enough.”

Dr. Macabee stands and motions for me to do the same. Stepping back, he lets the oversized cop remove the handcuffs. Afterwards, he thanks the officer who nods and stalks off towards the nurses’ station. He looks me over and grins.

“You probably wear a size medium,” he says. “Hope you like day-glow orange. Oh, and by the way, Jack, your zipper is undone.”

I check and see a puff of underwear sticking out of the front of my pants. Embarrassed, I turn toward the wall, tuck myself in, and zip up. The redhead starts sobbing. I stare at her, feeling uneasy, then back at Dr. Macabee.

Unaffected, Dr. Macabee bids me to follow him.

“Let me show you to your room.”


II


DR. MACABEE LEADS me down the hallway and past a bunch of guests marching in unison, a neon army on parade. Most of them shoot me a look I don’t care for, so I screw up my face just to mess with them and get their eyeballs off me. But they keep staring at me like I’m a car wreck or a bad toupee.

He stops at a big, wooden door with no lock, just a rectangle of brass where a knob should be, and holds it open. Tinted windows on the opposite side of the room smolder with sunlight held at bay. To the immediate right is a closet and dresser. Two crisply made beds occupy the left side of the room. The walls are stark, featureless, with the same chalk-white blankness of the hallway, and a dark-gray rubber sheet carpets the entire floor.

I step into the room and glance around the corner formed by the closet. Another door, further in, but parallel to the hallway door, is closed. I test the knob. Locked. Must be the bathroom.

“What do you think?” Dr. Macabee asks.

“You going to open this?”

“We keep that door locked.”

“Why?”

“We have our reasons.”

“But what if I have to go to the bathroom?”

“There is a bathroom down the hall.”

“But what if I need a mirror to see if I have a booger hanging out of my nose or a zit on my face or something? How will I know if I can’t check?”

“We will tell you.”


III


HE LEAVES TO get me something else to wear. Finally alone, I hug myself, pace the room, and brace for impact.

Three… Two… One… My heart goes supernova. Heat streaks through my veins. White noise fills my head and sizzles against my ears. The air in this room isn’t for sucking at anymore; it’s for burning. I forget how to breathe in case all the oxygen in the room alights.

World War Me.

Looks like my emotional baggage has followed me here, wherever here is exactly.

The door opens with a soft, quick pop-pop-pop as it drags over the rubber carpet. I shake the sweat from my damp hair, run my fingers through it, and switch back on my make-believe me.

Dr. Macabee enters and tosses a couple of jumpsuits onto the bed. He pulls out the top drawer of the dresser and plops down a week’s worth of tank tops (my dad called them “wife-beaters”), knee-high socks, and tighty-whiteys. He throws open the closet and inspects a laundry hamper in the corner.

“After you change,” he says, “put your clothes and shoes in the laundry basket. I will be back in a few minutes to escort you to the Ballroom and introduce you to the other guests.”

“My shoes?” I ask.

“You are not allowed shoes on Level One, just socks.”

Yippee.

He leaves and the rubber carpet makes a sound like gunshot echoes in the distance. I remove my clothes and shoes and stand there naked, feeling the usual shame, the hospital chill nibbling on my skin.

I finish getting dressed, lie down on the bed, and try hard not to hear the hisses swishing around in my brain. The few shadows in the corners of the room begin to take the shape of large, dark birds with hooked beaks and hungry, pitiless eyes.

Nothing has changed; I’m still loony tunes. If the Doc doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to lose it. And when I lose it, I go the distance.

Another half-minute’s worth of forever passes when the birds vanish in a blast wave of florescent light. Dr. Macabee’s beckons me outside into the too-bright hallway. I step into the light, feeling more naked than naked, and follow him towards the drone of muffled voices.

We stop at an empty hive of desks next to a pair of hospital doors. A placard above the double doors reads: Ballroom. Dr. Macabee presses a cherry-red button with the palm of his hand. A woman’s voice, framed in static, tells him to come right in and we step inside.

The Ballroom is filled to capacity with the good doctor’s “guests.” Some are huddled together, while others are sprawled out over black, pleather couches. Several are wearing orange, the majority, about a dozen, are in red. Sitting off in one lonely nook of the room are a few guests in white.

Everyone stops talking when we enter. Taking no notice, Dr. Macabee weaves through the crowd until we reach a huddle of five guests in orange. The only exception to the rule is one black kid in white. He’s also the only one in the group wearing shoes.

Dr. Macabee clears his throat. Five sets of eyes glance up at me to acknowledge my presence.

“This is your group,” he says. “Group, take care of our new arrival.”

Most of their expressions are pale and passive, the faces of coma victims. They shift collectively to make room. I turn to say something to Dr. Macabee, but he’s already halfway back to the door, so I sit down, not left with much else to do.

“So… what’s the format?” I ask. “Do we spit up our darkest secrets first, then group hug? Or is it the other way around?”

A few in the group shake their heads, a couple of others make choking noises. One of the shakers, the black kid in white, speaks first.

“Shut up, you idiot.” One dark eye bulges to stab at me. The other one is skewed and translucent, a dead fish’s eye. His hands turn upward, fingers curling and twitching like dying insects.

“Calm down, Jordan,” a willowy blonde says. “He’s new. He doesn’t know anything.” Biting her dusty-pink lower lip, she reaches out to touch one of Jordan’s contorted hands, hesitates, and holds her own hand instead.

Jordan’s raving dark eye closes while the fish eye remains open.

“Mind your own business, girl. Someone like him can get us into heavy trouble.”

“Someone like me?” I ask. “What do you mean someone like me? I don’t even know you, man.”

“I know you,” Jordan replies. His afro is puffy enough you could hide loose change in it. “I saw who you were when you were following Dr. Mac to your room—just another dumb-ass white-boy who thinks this planet spins for him alone.”

He opens his good eye. His pitch-black pupil is shivering. He shakes his head again and pivots on his butt, turning his back to us.

After a moment, the blonde girl leans in, smiling from ear-to-ear.

“My name’s Angie. What’s yours?”

“Jack.”

I’m no longer in the mood to be glib.

“It’s good to meet you, Jack.” Her smile is wide and warm. Her voice chimes when she talks.

“Yeah,” I reply, “nice to meet you, too.”

The Ballroom’s double doors clack as they open. All the idle chatter ceases.

A three-hundred-plus pound monster in uniform—the cop—lumbers in, eclipsing the light beyond the doorframe. The guests in close proximity sit a little straighter, averting their eyes from his presence as he cuts a path to the center of the room. He stops. His eyes scan the Ballroom.

All of a sudden, his huge hands sweep in front of him—THWACK!—then whistle behind him—SMACK! Then again. And again.

THWACK-SMACK-THWACK-SMACK-THWACK-SMACK!

Guests part in the wake of his clapping hands. Then, as suddenly as he began, he quits clapping and stands at attention. It’s only at that moment that I even notice Dr. Macabee making his way back into the room.

Dr. Macabee flashes everyone his plastic grin. He takes out his red pen and notepad, flips it open to a certain page, and then clears his throat.

“We have learned of an escape attempt planned by several of you,” he says. “It is unfortunate that a Level Three was among those making such an attempt. I can only assume someone pressured Vivian into it.” He shoots the entire room a disappointed look and jots something down in his notepad. “The consequences for this most of you already know. And since Vivian is reluctant to reveal the identity of her accomplices, she will undergo the rest of her treatment without us.” A few stray gasps from the pack of white jumpsuits. “This still leaves us with a mystery, however.” He flips the notepad closed. “If anyone knows of, or is involved in any of this, I want you to confess to any wrongdoing right now.”

The room goes silent. Dr. Macabee begins to beat the red pen against his khakis. An expression of concern or disbelief, I can’t tell which, floats over his face. He juts out his chin and clears his throat. The pen drums faster and faster, until it’s a blur of red. He glances at each of us in turn. When he gets to me, I just shrug.

What in the heck is going on here?

“I… see,” Dr. Macabee says, tucking the pen and notepad back in his lab coat. “This is truly unfortunate. A wise man once said that ‘Trust, like the soul, never returns when it has gone.’ I truly hoped this would not go too far. Officer—” The cop cranes his massive head slightly. “Do your duty.”

The cop steps toward us, his footfalls a thudding beeline.

Jordan stands up too fast and almost falls over.

“Hell no!” he shouts. “No! Please, man! No! No! No!”

The cop doesn’t make a grab for him. He just opens his arms like he’s going to give Jordan a great, big, fatherly hug. His physical presence is overwhelming this close, an endless midnight-blue wall.

Jordan has nowhere to go. Cornered, his one good eye bounces around in its socket in search of some kind of escape-route while his fish eye concerns itself with some unseen matter to the right somewhere, a million miles away. His hands clench and unclench.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” he screams.

The cop just waits him out.

His defiance shatters and he slips to the ground in a sit-up fetal position, burying his face in his hands.

The cop cuffs Jordan, picks him up like a featherweight bride, and then carries him over the threshold of the Ballroom, leaving the rest of us gaping in terrified awe.

“Dismissed,” Dr. Macabee says.


IV


AFTER GROUP, I hurry back to my room and head to the window.

Directly across the way is another building, slightly taller than this one. Bricks have crumbled in places, leaving empty spots like missing teeth, and barely attached to the wall is a rickety fire-escape.

The bricks disappear into a fold of darkness to the left—a sliver-wide view of the sidewalk six or seven stories below to the right. Lining the curb are a few patches of brown grass, and a little further in, the trunk of a tall, naked tree.

“Notice anything interesting?”

“Jesus Christ!” I say, grabbing my chest. “I hope you’re not planning to make a habit of that!” I turn and face Dr. Macabee sitting on the edge of the closest bed.

He grins.

“Dinner will be served at exactly five o’ clock.” He smoothes a ripple in the cover. “Also, I came by to make sure you were alright after everything that took place in the Ballroom today. Some of the guests here are not too happy with their situation.” He finishes tugging at the cover and grins for me like a kid. “I hope you understand this, Jack, or at least accept it. If not, I only ask that you try to keep an open mind.”

“I’ll give it a try, Tom.”

His grin withers for half-a-beat.

“Good.”

Dr. Macabee gets up, pushes open the door, and leaves without looking back. I head to the room’s pisser before I spring a leak. I grab the knob and turn, but it doesn’t budge. I step back and knock softly at first, then harder.

No answer.

I put my ear flush against the door and hear a ragged, hysterical, intense gasping, like someone drowning. Leaning against the door, I will myself not to move. The muscles in my body tighten as if expecting a blow. The rapid, heavy breathing gets closer, louder. Whoever is on the other side is pressed against the door, desperate for help, for escape, for freedom.

“Are you alright?” I ask. “Is everything okay in there?”

It stops.

“Hello? Is anybody in there? Hey?”

All the tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. From behind, a hot, sticky breath blows through me. The scent of toothpaste fills my nostrils. I spin around, cover my head, and squeak out a “hup” trying not to scream.

The room is quiet and empty of anyone, save for me. Something streaks warm and wet down my left leg.

Great. I’ve pissed myself. That’s what I get for falling for my dysfunctional family of senses.

I peel off the soiled jumpsuit and underwear, toss them in the hamper, and then change for the second time in one day. I crack the room door and scan the hallway for an obvious place to wash up and finish going to the bathroom. Nothing beats reeking of urine to spur the hope of finding a bathroom before anyone catches a whiff of me.

I go in the opposite direction of the Ballroom and down the L-shaped hallway until it veers right.

At the end of the hallway is the cop, his broad back facing me. The thumb of his right hand is hitched in the loop of his gun-belt, gripping the handle of a nightstick. His other hand is resting on the hilt of a holstered revolver. A nurse sits behind a desk and is chatting him up something fierce until she notices me wandering close to the wall in search of the john.

“What do you need, honey?” Her voice is low and accented, Mexican probably.

The cop rotates on his boot-heels and levels his eyes on me. I imagine a crosshair locking on me for a headshot, if necessary. I’ll try to keep it casual.

“Uh, where’s the bathroom?”

God, I’m an idiot.

“It is right here, honey.” She points at one of the two doors to my immediate left.

“Thanks. Much appreciated.” I hold my breath so that I can pretend that neither one of them will notice my new cologne.

The boys’ bathroom is mirrorless. A half dozen narrow shower stalls line the wall on the right. Everything, the shower curtains, the tile floor, the sinks, the faucets, the toilets, even the floor drains are as white as bone. It’s as if I’ve walked into Heaven’s outhouse. It’s so white it takes me longer than it should have to find the hand soap.

I take the rest of my leak, finish washing up, and make my exit quicker than necessary. I feel conspicuous in all this whiteness, like a bloodstain on a wedding dress. Returning to my room, I collapse on the closest bed and try to forget where I am long enough to fall asleep…

Blue flash. BOOM! I am alive. I am crying. I am dying. The moon’s reflection is shrinking. My heart implodes. The water snaps at me, spits on my face… I scream from my guts, from my bones, for my soul. Body is numb and failing. I go against gravity toward a black, furious sky. Too far below, buried under darkness, the river waits. Above, through a mouth in the churning storm, the moon grins, glowing ear to ear. A hurricane wind blows. Blood red. BOOM! The rain stings like thousands of cold needles rat-a-tatting my skin. A drenching, all consuming hurt as I hang suspended above an abyss. Pain in a cold, pure blackness. Pain. I am…

Awake. My face is wet. My heart is broken. All I can do is cry until I feel self-conscious enough to stop.

Over a hidden intercom somewhere in the room, a nurse’s clipped voice announces, “Please proceed to the Dining Hall. Dinner is now being served.”


V


THE LINE OUTSIDE the Dining Hall is a human Day-Glo train. The Whites go first, next the Reds, and last—and got to be least—the Oranges. Two Whites and a Red serve food from aluminum trays. Angie is the one in red, doling out what seems to be the only worthwhile portion of the meal: some kind of fried apple compote. Even at the end of the line, I can hear her birdsong voice asking each guest if they want to try some.

By the time I get my turn, they’re out.

“Kind of a gyp for the tail end, huh?” I ask as I shuffle past her station.

Angie’s eyes get big and her right hand disappears behind the tray.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Jack. That stuff was overrated.” She tilts her head, winks, and smiles a tee-hee smile at me. I suppress this crazy urge to get closer to her, as if her charms possessed their own law of attraction. Her caution-red jumpsuit is unsnapped low, and dangling between the “V” of cherry-red cloth is a gold crucifix, the Messiah’s head hanging at an enviable angle.

Some guys have all the luck.

“Jack?”

Oops. Busted.

Angie raises one of her golden eyebrows.

“Umm, I noticed you got bumped up,” I say. A little bit of Angie’s cheerfulness dims.

“Yeah, Dr. Mac let me know right before dinner.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, red looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” Angie begins scraping at the corners of the tray.

A presence presses against me. There’s no need to check to realize that the cop is hovering above me. Standing under his shadow is like smothering under a heavy blanket.

“This is the best I can do, Jack.” Angie dabs a spoonful of apple compote rejects onto my plate. “Sorry.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. Thanks anyway.” I step around the cop, avoiding the gaze drilling into the top of my skull, and scout out a place to sit. I find a seat near the foot of the long table in the center of the room.

Dr. Macabee is at the head of the table. He waits for everyone to find a seat and then laces his fingers together. The rest of the partygoers follow suit. Just for the heck of it, I put my hands together and join them for grace.

“Angela?”

“Yes, Dr. Macabee?”

“Please say grace.”

Angie nods and bows her head.

“Dear Lord,” she says, her lilting voice now as solemn as a funeral procession, “thank You for this bounty we are about to receive. We ask that You protect the minds and spirits of all those put here from harm, and to please shine the holy light of Your eternal mercy on those who have lost their way. Also, we ask St. Michael, the banner bearer, to conduct those lost in the darkness into this holy light, which Thou hast promised to Abraham and his seed. Amen.”

A chorus of Amens follows. Several guests cross themselves.

I’m too busy chowing down to bother.


VI


I HAVE TO do a double-take when I get back to my room to make sure I didn’t accidentally go through the wrong door.

Jordan is lying across the bed closest to the window in an orange jumpsuit, his hands behind his head, lost inside the jungle of his hair.

“You came through the right door,” he says.

I circle around to the end of his bed.

“You, uh, doing alright?” I ask.

“I’m fine.” He rolls over onto his stomach.

“Hey man, I’m sorry if I offended you earlier. I was just nervous, you know? This place definitely doesn’t seem to bring out the best in people, from what I can tell.”

Jordan presses his face deeper into the pillow.

“Anyway,” I say, “if you get the sudden urge to do an impression of a socialite or nice guy or something, let me know. I love impressions.”

He pulls the pillow over his head as a sigh rattles out of his chest. It’s getting too dark outside the window to take in the view, so I kill some time fantasizing about Angie—my own private Aphrodite.

Around seven o’ clock-ish, a nurse’s voice crackles over the intercom again to inform us that Level One small group will begin in five minutes. Jordan swings his legs over the side of the bed and rubs the sleep from his good eye. When he’s done, he offers me a hand across the gap between beds.

I stare at it.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m offering my hand in friendship,” Jordan replies.

“In friendship? Just like that? Don’t you want to get to know me a little bit better first?”

He lays that dark, penetrating eye on me.

“Believe me when I tell you that you’ll need as many friends as possible in here. Besides, you better take it now before I do get to know you better. You might change my mind and then it’ll be too late.”

Something in his gesture reaches me. He knows, as I know, that it’s us or them in here, in everyplace I’ve ever been or never will be, especially when your life felt like something that never really belonged to you in the first place.

“Alright, count me in,” I reply. I take his hand, shake it, and for the first time since I’ve met him, Jordan cracks a sliver of a grin and chuckles. After seeing that, and even though not a damn thing about this situation is funny, I laugh until I’m on the floor clutching my stomach with tears streaking down my face. Jordan watches me, shaking his head.

“Let’s go and get this over with,” he says.


VII


JORDAN LEADS ME to a door flanking the Dining Hall, across from the bathrooms; the door to where he says our small group meeting will take place. “The Blue Room,” he calls it.

We kill time outside the door shuffling our feet and hanging our heads, prisoners of war awaiting trial in enemy territory.

While we wait, some Reds make their way out of the Dining Hall. Angie is at the head of the pack. She strolls towards us, hips swaying. The Reds behind her are making fun of her for it, the worst of them some guy at the ass-end—a stabbing victim or something from the way his face is cut up.

He wags this hideously long, almost purple tongue at Angie, and then whispers something to a buddy who points at her and sniggers.

Angie waves at me. I return the wave as she passes by and then plant my foot in the perverted jerk’s flight path. My foot hooks his shin and I do a little spin as he trips and stumbles a few feet in a losing fight for balance.

I can’t tell if it’s his skin or the tile floor that squeals from skidding out.

He gets on his feet, his marred face turning crimson like it’s filling up with red ink, and bares teeth as white as aspirins against that radiating mask of scars.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” I say in my best concerned citizen tone of voice. “I was just stretching. Guess I didn’t see you there.”

He comes towards me, his lips frozen in a permanent snarl from the tug of scars.

“Yeah right. I ought to beat you comatose for that.”

Angie hurries to intercept us, but by the time she does, he’s close enough that all I see is literally red. She puts her hands in the air.

“Stop, Darren! It was an accident. Right, Jack?”

I’m not able to answer Angie right away because of her right hand. Lifeless gray digits dangle from her wrist, limp and spidery. I stare at her through the bars of flesh, unable to say anything soon enough to even pretend I didn’t notice.

Angie drops both arms and tugs at the sleeve of her jumpsuit to cover up her dead hand. Her eyes dampen. The evidence is all there in hindsight, like the way she hid it behind the food tray earlier at dinner, or the way she hesitated when reaching out to Jordan in the Ballroom.

She gets near enough to kiss her tears, her face partially hidden behind a veil of hair.

“You know what, Jack? Why don’t you just go back to whatever the hell it was you think you were doing.” She wipes a stray tear from her cheek. “I don’t need to be around jerks like you anyway. Let’s go, Darren. Come on guys, let’s go.” She cradles her dead hand and walks away without looking back.

Her reaction guts me where I stand, and my perfect vision of her goes blurry with pity; probably the exact response she was afraid I’d have. But I can’t help it; it’s human nature. Things, memories, people, all seem better, more precious, when they’re perfect. When she was perfect.

Darren, walking backwards, gives me the finger.

Yeah, no kidding. He’s got that right.


VIII


THE JINGLE-JANGLE of keys to our collective left. A black nurse with painted eyes and a thin-lipped mouth like a scalpel incision before it fills with blood appears around the corner. Pinched between her thumb and forefinger is a metallic-blue key that she wields like a switchblade, the key swaying back and forth in front of her with an air of menace.

She stops in front of us and we scramble to get out of her way. She unlocks the door—click—and into the Blue Room we go.

The Blue Room’s walls are a plain, powder blue, the only other shade of paint I’ve seen in this whole damn place. Oranges pile in and form a circle on the rubber carpet. I take a seat next to Jordan who’s in avoidance mode again, his shoulder tilting away from me.

Two folding chairs strike a pose on each side of our circle. Behind one chair, there’s a video camera mounted on a tripod, and just above the other chair, an intercom with a small lever under the word “Standby.”

The nurse pulls the lever over to the “Speak” position, and then circles around us and starts the camera rolling.

What’s coming next is so predictable it’s like watching the rerun of a rerun on TV. And yet, even though I know what’s coming, I can’t look away.

We’re all going to spill our guts, reopen old wounds, rat out our enemies and loved ones.

We’re all going to share.

I rehearse what’s going to be said before anybody says it. How our step-fathers had beaten us or locked us in closets. How our mothers hadn’t loved us enough or loved us too much. How our uncles, brothers, neighbors, and babysitters touched us in our “bad touch” places. How it’s somebody else’s fault that we’re stuck in here. How everyone else is to blame.

The nurse finally sits down. Moments later, Dr. Macabee comes in with that patented grin of his and claims the seat near the intercom. The nurse’s razor-thin slit of a mouth tightens. Dr. Macabee crosses his arms and puts on a stern expression.

He says, “Today, I think it is important that we begin with a discussion about trust. The lack of honesty between guests and staff recently has been demoralizing to everyone here and we want to be certain that there are no leftover issues in need of addressing.” He pauses. “So, with that in mind, does anyone have anything to say?”

Almost every one of us notices something interesting about our fingernails or the sparse décor to fascinate us. Jordan bounces his head to a beat of music only he can hear.

“We are like a family here in Purgatory,” Dr. Macabee says, “and for a family to work there must be trust. Without it, we cannot survive.” He folds his hands in his lap and leans forward. “So again, I ask if there is anything anyone needs to say?”

I can’t shake the notion that his question sounds more like a decree.

“I do, Dr. Mac,” Jordan says. He places his hand in front of his head as though he’s blocking sunlight from his good eye, or protecting his face from an incoming blow. “I want to apologize to everyone for…” Jordan glances at the camera, the door, then back at Dr. Macabee, “… for giving up on myself.” He bobs his head again as if agreeing to each word before uttering it. A tear forms under the dead fish eye and Jordan pushes the palm of his hand into it to keep it from taking a dive. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry and that I’ll to try and improve my outlook… I want to do right. I want to get better and to be an honest person and—” He’d keep puttering on, but mercifully, Dr. Macabee puts a cork in him.

“Good, Jordan. I am pleased by your willingness to learn from your mistakes…” Dr. Macabee pauses to let us wallow in the abrupt silence for a moment. “Wisdom is found in repentance, but remember that when we make bad choices, we are not just affecting the present, but the rest of our afterlives.” He points at Jordan who flinches. “And the afterlives of others around us.”

Now if only someone would put a cork in Tommy-boy here.

Jordan begins to rock back and forth, then side to side, to the point that I’ve got to scoot a few feet away just to give him enough room. After building up momentum, he goes into full rotation over his legs like he’s trying to break free of them. Almost everybody in the room stares at him and the number of eyes on him only seems to fuel the intensity of his swaying. The nurse fidgets in her chair. Dr. Macabee eyes the intercom.

“Jordan? Hey man, hey.” I’m talking before I even realize why. “It’s okay, relax. It’s all right. Everything’s all right. You said your piece, everybody heard you. You did good.”

Jordan slows his spinning and gives me a look.

He says, “I move to keep still. It’s the only way. You understand right? You understand?”

“Yeah, man, I got you. I got you two-hundred percent.”

What a full-on freaking fruit bat.

“Do not be concerned, Jack,” Dr. Macabee says. “Jordan is just coping with his mistakes in his own way. This is the first time you have seen him like this so I understand if you are disturbed by it—”

“I don’t mean to interrupt…” I grin real big just to see how he likes it. “Wait-a-second, yes I do. But you shouldn’t worry about me feeling ‘bothered’ since I’m not the one who was eyeballing the intercom in case Jordan here went…”

Wait for it…

“BOOM!”

Almost everyone in the entire room jumps with a few mousy yelps thrown in for good measure, everyone except Dr. Macabee and the nurse.

Dr. Macabee plucks his pen out of its pocket and drums it against his knee.

“Jack, it is the staffs’ job to help guests take responsibility for their actions,” he says. “You are used to living a life without having to face the consequences of your mistakes.” Dr. Macabee mirrors my earlier grin. “In here, however, you have to pay the penalty for the mistakes you made in life. Everyone here knows this and accepts this. And eventually you will too.”

The door to the Blue Room opens and the cop steps in. Dr. Macabee doesn’t even bother to acknowledge him and keeps staring into me instead.

A palpable hush fills the room. Jordan freezes, too terrified to chance even a quiver in the cop’s vicinity.

I surrender a nod to Dr. Macabee.

“Alright,” I reply.

Dr. Macabee waves and the cop shuts the door, leaving only his wrath lurching in the doorframe.

“Do you know anything about cockroaches, Jack?” Dr. Macabee asks. Jordan flinches again and moans.

Great. I gladly would have spent the rest of small group waking up to my brand new spanking reality, but like a bad winner, Dr. Macabee can’t let it go. Now he has to pour salt on his victory and rub it in.

“Umm… what?” I reply.

“When the world ends,” he says, “roaches, along with the meek, will inherit the earth.” He pauses as if waiting for a laugh track to die down so he can deliver his next zinger. “Roaches have two mentalities, two modes of scrounging out an existence. The first one is where the roaches are few in number. They live in the walls and come out only at night to seek crumbs of food and drops of water that sprinkled the floor while you were doing dishes.” He nods to the walls in the Blue Room. “You do not even know they are there, but they are. The second is when the roaches are so numerous they become brazen. They come out during the day and do not scurry away to hide when the lights are on. On occasion, they drip down from the ceiling like diseased, black snowflakes. They get in your breakfast cereal, your shoes, your clothes, your hair. Simply put, they have taken over. Your home has become their nest to eat, to live, and to breed.”

“Okay.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.

“Disaffected youth are a lot like roaches,” he says. “You have to keep everything clean, and by clean I mean honest, to keep their attitude from spreading. Otherwise, they begin to infect others and no matter what you do to stop it…” He holds his palms up and shrugs his shoulders. “Too late. Everyone has to suffer their infestation, even those who deserve better, and who should know better.” Jordan hangs his head. “Do we understand each other, Jonathan?”

“Yes, I think we do.” I don’t, but right now all I want to do is get out of here, get back to my room, and shout into a pillow until I run out of breath.

“Happy to hear it.”

IX


JORDAN AND I hold an unspoken race back to our room. At the gun (in my mind), I burst out of the gate, leading off the shot by a length. My horse, the Neon Avenger is strong, chock full of bull-crap and a limitless supply of empty anger. But Jordan’s horse, the One-Eyed Black Knight, is in more familiar territory than mine and pulls ahead in the turn—

Keep your eyes skinned racing fans! It’s One-Eyed Black Knight moving ahead by a nose. But wait folks! Don’t toss away your betting tickets just yet. Yes, the Neon Avenger is making his way up on the inside! The Neon Avenger is pushing forward… This is going to be a close one! Does the Neon Avenger have what it takes to win this race? WATCH HIM GO! It’s the Neon Avenger, NO! The One-Eyed Black Knight, NO! The Neon Avenger claims the lead! CAN… HE… KEEP… IT? CAN… HE…? IT’S NEON AVENGER ALL THE WAY!

I practically dive through the door to win our race and stumble onto my bed. Jordan doesn’t follow me in. Suddenly, I’m alone, lost without running away.

Fear and sweat begins to swelter under my skin, beading red-hot on my brow. Shadows swarm, taking the shape of things I know aren’t really there, but are there anyway. They always appear when I’m about to have an attack: big, dark birds with glassy eyes and hooked beaks, squawking and hungry.

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