Purgatorium Read online

  20 Minutes

  I leave my car and walk to the park across the street.

  The grass and trees are dead or dying. I find a bench on top of a small hill looking out over the vast, brown expanse. A distant Ferris wheel turns slowly on its own, the eerie sound of rusted metal echoing across the park. I open the newspaper but the words are scrambled and a gust of wind takes it away.

  I hear the sound of something flapping from the breeze nearby. I see a tattered blanket with an old picnic basket beneath a large, lifeless tree. Nothing feels right.

  A deer wanders from behind the tree looking for food. I briefly consider offering my apple but decide against it.

  Survival of the fittest, remember? Every man for himself.

  I walk down the hill and across the open space, past a Michelangelo-type statue, its hand extended, holding a glass box. Where did it come from? There’s a hole in it, big enough for a person to fit inside. A weird feeling overwhelms me.

  My watch beeps, letting me know it’s time to leave.

  25 Minutes

  I am content.

  I turn away from the tree and start walking to the other side of the park where my publishing company building stands, thirty stories high. Built this company from the ground up, aspiring fiction stories that have made billions of dollars. My glass elevator runs up the side of the building making its way down to greet me.

  As I take the elevator up to my office, I watch the park get smaller while more of it comes into view. I see the cut on my neck in the glass. Weakness. A mistake I can’t redo. A mistake I can’t change.

  I look away. I am perfect and don’t make mistakes.

  My watch beeps as the elevator doors opens to my office.

  30 Minutes

  My office is cavernous. There’s a full bar, leather sofa, and treadmill. My bookcase, with all the works that I have published under my name through the years, stands across each row. My legacy is in this bookcase. My only treasures in life.

  I head over to my king-sized desk. A glass case at the end of it holds two flintlock pistols pointing towards each other, as if held by invisible duelists.

  The gun on the left features a dark stained wood stock, engraved lock, and a simulated engraved blunderbuss barrel with a lamb on the butt plate. The gun on the right is almost identical except it has a lion on the butt plate. Behind the desk is an old phonograph sitting next to a grandfather clock, its ticking the only sound to be heard.

  My office is surrounded by windows, just like my apartment. I gaze out over the city, and in this moment, time is passing, second by second, shaking me to my core.

  Time is the secret of life. Everything is run by time. Time cannot be bought or sold, wasted or delayed. Time makes you a better you. Time dictates what you do and who you are. Time is all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-seeing. Time reveals the truth of one’s self. Hours and minutes are eternal but finite. Everything is fine because of time.

  Seconds pass, and time reverberates through my bones, echoing in my heart. I feel the earth spinning through space and time.

  But I digress. It’s time to get to work.

  I sit down behind my enormous mahogany desk. There’s a small business card holder, but no name on the cards. There are a number of framed diplomas and awards on the wall, but no names on those, either.

  I open a folder on my desk and inside are blank pieces of paper. I take my pen in hand and begin to write the title of my book. The ink hits the paper and I stop. Not being able to think of anything, I left my pen up, crumble the marked paper, and throw it in the trash.

  I start again with a clean sheet and put the pen down, knowing I have it this time. Still nothing. I look down at the tiny ink splotch I made and quickly crumble the paper again. I toss it over to the garbage can where the other mistakes lie.

  The grandfather clock seems to make the time pass slower. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

  With every tick to every tock, I throw away another mistake.

  I feel like it’s been hours as I look back to the garbage can filled with crumbled up paper, but the clock says 34 minutes. Looking down at my blank sheet, I think to myself that it will come tomorrow. Writers block comes and goes sometimes. It has definitely come to me today.

  I am content.

  I leave and go down to the lobby. I walk outside and there is no one else to be seen.

  I cross the empty street towards a restaurant that looks like a lighthouse. My watch beeps insistently for a moment, reminding me of the grandfather clock.

  35 Minutes

  I enter what turns out to be an elegant French restaurant with no one inside. The room is saturated in crimson—carpet, wallpaper, even the ceiling is painted a deep blood red. Each table has two chairs and is perfectly set with antique silverware and origami napkins folded into bloody swans. Above the untended bar hang five unique masks, representing the cards of a royal flush.

  I take a seat at the center table, my usual place to sit, and a door swings open. A waitress walks out with wine and a covered platter. I look up to find it’s the same woman I saw across the hall from my apartment. She pours a glass of red wine and removes the silver cover, revealing veal medallions in raspberry truffle sauce, along with sea scallops with puréed artichoke hearts. More crimson.

  She averts her gaze and hurries away. I don’t stare at her as she leaves. My watch reads 39:00. I take out my wallet and remove four twenty-dollar bills, place the money on the table, and leave.

  Once outside, I descend the stairs to the subway. The ticket booth is unmanned, but I swipe my MTA card anyway. I wait alone on the platform. The train arrives and I get on. As the doors to the empty car close behind me, my watch beeps once more.

  40 Minutes

  In the window opposite my seat, I see the reflection of a little girl staring back at me. I look back in her direction but she is gone. I think nothing of it.

  I stare dreamily back out the window into the darkened walls of the subway tunnel, then gaze upon my reflection. Looking into my own eyes, I find the green in them almost mesmerizing. My mind soon plays tricks. The green turns into cash. I watch as the tiny green papers rain down upon me. It consumes me. Never once blinking, I let it bury me in wealth and power.

  Releasing myself from the window reflection’s hold on me, I blink my eyes while wondering what I was even thinking about.

  My watch reads 42:02. Almost home now.

  Suddenly, there’s a deafening, high-pitched squeal, growing louder with each second, almost unbearable. My eardrums feel like they’re about to burst; the pain is excruciating.

  I start to lose consciousness and feel myself falling.

  I am content.

  I black out.

  45 Minutes

  I hear a faint beeping.

  Is that my watch?

  Why is it beeping so early?

  I open my eyes and a metal grill comes into focus, blurry at first, then clearer. I see the cushioned seat, then the window of the train car. I look at the time and see 45 minutes has passed. The train grinds to a stop as light from the station streams in through the windows. I check my ears for blood and get to my feet, brushing myself off.

  I exit the train.

  I am content.

  Streetlights flicker on, illuminating the empty roads. I walk towards an old bridge, its iron expanse grim and deserted in spite of the Christmas lights along its span. I see a billboard on the other side. A woman with brown hair and eyes seems to look right at me from the advertisement. “Madi” appears beneath her face.

  Her elegance is in her beauty. Her smile captivates all who stand to gaze upon her. She appears to be a singer and the billboard is advertising her new, eponymous solo album. As I cross the bridge and walk towards her, I realize this is the best I’ve felt since waking up, which makes me feel oddly vulnerable. Her face lo
oks familiar, as if from a dream. I look at my watch.

  I must keep moving. I shouldn’t be thinking of her anyway. I am content.

  I watch the aurora borealis glowing in the night sky. Its colors accompany me all the way back to my apartment building.

  In the elevator, I see the painting once again. It almost seems as if it were staring back at me, grabbing hold of my soul. As I press the button for the roof, my watch beeps.

  50 Minutes

  I walk out onto the ledge, looking out into the night sky. I gaze through the eyepiece of a telescope but see only darkness. Before I can determine why, my watch beeps.

  55 Minutes

  I take the elevator one floor down to my apartment on the sixth floor, staring at the painting as I go. Why I am so fixated with it, I do not know or understand, but the doors open,and I don’t have any more time to contemplate it any longer. I head out for my room.

  I strip naked and go into my bedroom. I find the snow globe still on my desk. Still curious of its odd placement in my room, I walk towards my desk and grasp it in my hand.

  As I hold the globe up to the window, déjà vu overwhelms me. I stare through its tiny city and outside to the real city beyond.

  I give it a shake and watch the tiny snowflakes fall over the city. Nothing happens.

  I am content.

  I put it back on my desk and slip into bed. My alarm clock display reads 59:40. I remove my watch and place it beside the alarm clock, the snow globe to its left. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It all feels so…inevitable. I manage to keep my eyes open long enough to watch the display count up the last remaining seconds.

  59:57…59:58…59:59…60:00.

  My eyes force themselves shut and once again I slip into the darkness, hidden between thoughts and memories.

  Freezing wind numbs my face as I struggle to unlock the car door. I can feel the cold through the loose knit of my gloves. The key finally turns and I pull up on the handle. The door is either frozen or just stubborn, unmoving like something old clinging to the past. I yank harder and it finally gives way. I jump inside, quickly slamming the door against the weather.

  Dark circled eyes stare back at me in the rearview mirror. I’ve seen better days.

  I hear the passenger door open and close. The rush of cold air hits me like a freight train.

  I have to keep moving.

  There’s a whisky bottle in a bag on the floor. I ignore it and start the car, trying to forget the reason I left it there in the first place. The engine purrs. The dash illuminates. A rush of air from the heater hits my face. Everything comes to life at once.

  A thick layer of snow obscures my view of the road and I switch on the wipers, slightly reluctant beneath the weight of accumulated snow. I catch a glimpse through the snowy windshield of what lies before me. My headlamps flood fifteen yards down the ice-packed shoulder. Tree limbs hang over the road like spindly fingers.

  I turn the heater up and listen to the sound of the wiper blades for a moment, mesmerized. Whirr, thwack, whirr, thwack. A familiar sound interrupts. Beeeeeep. Beeeeeep. Beeeeeep.

  I turn my head toward the sound and everything goes black.

  SATURDAY

  Covenant

  I jolt awake to the sound of the alarm clock going off.

  Just a dream, I think, wiping the sweat from my face. I shut the alarm off and the seconds start counting up: 00:01…00:02…00:03…00:04…

  I am content.

  The handbook is on my bedside table, again. I shove it back in the drawer. I also see my watch and waste no time putting it on my wrist.

  Order and control.

  I force myself out of bed, walk to the window, and open the curtains, scanning the skyline. I look over to my desk and see the snow globe. Curious, I go over to pick it up. Once in my hands, a sense of déjà vu comes over me like a spark that has ignited in my head, sending me a series of never ending slide shows from the day before. I put the snow globe back down and think to myself that before I touched it, I had no recollection of what I even did yesterday. But now, all of a sudden, I can remember bits and pieces.

  I try to wave off everything that has just happened. I have a deadline I must meet. I look away, wanting to stay focused on the day. I glance about my high-rise apartment and take a single breath to extinguish my worries.

  I am content.

  I quickly move past the snow globe, not wanting to even look at it anymore. I pass the hatchet in the glass case, the bookshelf, and stroll into my living room where all my books are still neatly stacked in columns.

  Looking at the time, I drop to the floor for 30 pushups, followed by pull-ups in the doorframe.

  Time to shower.

  No water. I try the sink—none there either. I shave anyway and cut my neck. Blood trickles into the sink. I feel as though I’ve done this before, but that can’t be possible. I don’t make mistakes.

  I finish shaving, slick my hair back, and check my watch: 3 minutes, 10 seconds. “The Light in the Piazza” plays in the living room. It’s a player piano. I switch off the amp and suddenly feel compelled to examine the snow globe again in the bedroom. I gaze into it, feeling something intensely familiar, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it is.

  I stare deeply into the globe, then back out to the city view. How odd, they are one and the same.

  I slowly take a hold of it. Nothing happens. No spark. Nothing. Maybe what I saw was all in my head. Not sleeping well could cause high delusions of the mind. Maybe that’s all it is.

  I am content again.

  I put down the snow globe and head to the closet.

  I get dressed. Black suit, midnight blue dress shirt, black vest, coat, shoes, cufflinks. There’s a Jack of hearts in my vest pocket. I lift it up halfway. I open my wallet and find a business card.

  “Peter J. Cameron”

  I wonder how I got it. I open the cabinet in the closet and take one of each bill.

  I find a steel flask in my jacket, inscribed “Après moi, le déluge.”

  Why can’t I remember this? Or the business card? Or the snow globe? Did I drink too much last night?

  My head begins to hurt, thinking of things that are not a part of my deadline. I look at the time and seconds have passed with me, dwindling on these useless thoughts. I focus once again.

  I am content.

  I speed up to catch what seconds I lost. I grab a book and an apple, and head out as my watch beeps.

  5 Minutes

  I open the door to three clear plastic bags with sticks of gum inside. “Tredstones.”

  The waitress comes out of the door across the hall. Did she put these here? I wonder. But she’s already gone. I drop the bags down the trash chute.

  The elevator doors slide open. I’m surprised when I see a young man, probably mid-thirties, standing inside. A quick look tells me he’s wealthy—expensive-looking suit and shoes, hair neatly cut and slicked back. In his vest pocket is a yellow handkerchief behind a playing card, the King of spades. He smiles, genuine, suggestive, and full of promise all at once. His confidence is almost contagious. I look into his green eyes, familiar to my own.

  “Going down?” the stranger asks. “Or somewhere in between?”

  I press the Lobby button and watch as the elevator doors shut us in.

  “High rise, aye? Very classy. I bet it cost you a pretty penny, no doubt.”

  I keep my focus to the front, not understanding what he is getting at.

  “If you could only live once, why not live rich, am I right?”

  His thoughts amuse me enough to glance over towards him. He holds out his hand to me.

  “Name’s Barachiel.”

  I look at him in silence, not knowing what he is trying to get at.

  I see his outstretched hand but back away from him, not wanting to sh
ake it. He humbly lowers it back down. I begin to notice the stranger has a very familiar necklace with a coin tied to the end.

  “Apartment 101. Just six floors down from you. It isn’t the high-rise but I make do. We can’t all rise to the top.”

  I turn back to face the front, looking at my watch to pass the time.

  “I bet you are wondering why a man that lives on the first floor was just up at the high-rise floor?”

  I keep still, not caring whatsoever.

  “I was actually coming from the roof. You see, I like to spend each of my mornings gazing out from this fine building at the view. Watching the city awaken, to come alive, is a beautiful site unto itself. Living on the first floor does have its drawbacks in that category of scenery. Watching through my window at cars going by just doesn’t have the similar feel. You know what I mean?”

  I stand there, still silent. There’s nothing I want to say to this strange fellow.

  “Who am I kidding, of course, you don’t. Your magnificent high-rise alone is just as, if not equal to, the rooftop scenery. How the economy works in some people’s favors and not others.”

  Is he trying to paint me as an arrogant aristocrat?

  “My apologies if that came off a little cold,” he says, almost precocious-like.

  “We are kinda both the same, you and I. Taking away the money aspect. Meaning, I have noticed a few times before that you have spent a few nights on that same roof. You must like the rooftop view better than your high-rise view?”

  He has been watching me?

  I keep an eye on my watch, wanting the elevator to hurry up.

  “Which makes you a dreamer just like me! We both find inspiration in its subtle beauty. I watch the city awaken and you, when it falls to sleep. Me being in the light and you in the dark, as it were.”

  Silence.

  “I never did get your name,” he says with ease.

  I don’t wanna tell him and furthermore, can’t remember what my name actually is. I’ve drawn a blank. How could I forget my name?

  I feel myself panicking for the first time. My heart beats wildly, making my body feel uneasy.