2 Corinthians 11.14
It hadn’t been a good start to the day. So far, I’d managed to burn everybody’s breakfast, argued with the kids about the proper practices for homework – namely, they were supposed to actually do it and not leave it in a big pile on the kitchen table for me on a Monday morning – and, as a quick glance at the dashboard in the car reveals, I’m late for getting them to school and probably for work.
Sighing, I look in my rearview mirror at the trio. My youngest, a baby-faced little angel with the temper of a crotchety old man, is arguing with my eldest, a lanky, wonky teenager, whose proportions look all wrong and whose front teeth and nose are crookedly and bulbously inherited from my grandfather. Calmly in the middle sits, funnily enough, the middle child, mashing the buttons on his game console, his face screwed up in concentration and small pink tongue poking out of his mouth.
As I turn in my seat to furiously tell them all to shut up and let me drive in peace, I notice several pairs of eyes watching me - a bemused-looking mother and two babies, bundled up safely in their expensive diesel car. In one of the back windows is a brightly decorated sun shade, on which two smiling bumblebees fly happily around a painted pink flower.
It’s the last thing I see before my world jolts into a sudden blackness.
Upon opening my eyes my first thoughts are of my children. Are they okay? Are they hurt? Where are they?
Speaking of which: what happened to me? Glancing around, I take note of my surroundings. I’m not in a hospital bed, neither am I at home, nor am I in my car, nor at work. When I bring a hand to my face I can’t see it, nor can I hear my breathing, or feel anything underneath or around me.
With calm insanity, I conclude that I am nowhere.
But no, that can’t be right. Taking a deep breath, I force my shoulders down and relax, and look once more. My hands are where they should be, I can hear the noises of cars roaring towards busy days, and quite clearly I’m lying on a roof… which doesn’t seem quite right. Sitting up, I instinctively move to shield my sensitive blue eyes from the glittering white sun, only to find that I can stare right into it and not feel any pain.
A dirty, orange boot steps through my hand, and through stammered apologies I brace myself for the pain, but it doesn’t come. With the first feelings of panic swimming around in my stomach, I look up towards the man to whom the boot belongs. Piercing green eyes set in a lined face stare at a point behind me, and I turn to look at what’s apparently much more entrancing than the person whose hand you’ve just crushed.
A somewhat wonky aerial sticks out of the roof, and down below on the road a painted van is parked. Connecting the dots, I peer over at the repairman (who’s now hemming and hawing over the aerial), and then at his ladder.
…Well, he hasn’t noticed me yet. Sneakily, I stand up, intending to creep down and try to find a payphone or something, and promptly fall through the roof into the house below. Cringing although there’s no loud, incriminating noise, I quickly pick myself up off of the shag carpet and disappear out of the open front door.
Storming past the obvious owner of the house, a woman clutching a steaming mug and watching the roof concernedly, I make it across the road and to the pavement, where my legs fail me and I slump into a heap on the ground. Nobody can see me. Nobody can hear me.
Memories seep into my head, slowly and unsurely, like wary deer. I try to encourage them further – a flash of colour, a screech, bumblebees – but they flee back into the recesses of my mind, plummeting into the abyss to join the other memories my brain would rather forget. Defeated, I put my head in my hands and think about weeping.
A rasping, grating voice hums softly into my ear. “Another lost lamb, I see.”
Gasping out of fright, I shoot upright. The speaker is a tall man, who’s so skinny he’s almost skeletal. He wears long, flowing robes and is barefoot, but what really draws my eye is his face. Or rather, his lack of one. He speaks through a gash in a white mound, and whilst in theory it should be frightening, it isn’t.
“Who… are you?” I ask, spellbound.
“A spirit, just like you,” he replies, chuckling. The sound sends pulses of electricity down my spine. “Do you need to be pointed in the right direction?”
“I’m not religious,” I say ridiculously.
“You’d be surprised at how often I get that,” he says, like we’re old pals.
He tells me that to get “where I need to go”, I need to fulfil certain requirements, and also that I’m dead - but I don’t see how I can be. I’m breathing and I feel alive. I can see and move and think. Ominously, he tells me that unless these conditions are met, I’ll lose those abilities. My world will fade out, as will I.
What feels like several hours have passed, although in reality it could’ve only been a few minutes. Or perhaps it’s been days. My perception of time feels hazy and my head hurts, like I’m trying to think through a dense fog.
I sit on the corner of the pavement, watching a group of children kick around a half-deflated football. Absent-mindedly, I reach to pick at the scab on my left arm that I can’t leave alone, only to find that it’s gone. Sighing, for now I have no means with which to distract myself from what I can only see to be the truth, I contemplate my options.
If I do nothing, I will slowly fade out of existence. Any physical form I might have will disappear and I will cease to be alive. Cease to think, or to feel. Looking at my hand, I shudder. Can I see the road through it? The persistent weeds sprouting through cracks in the pavement? The bushes dotted like blobs of green paint in front of the white houses? It looks like I can – in that case, am I already disappearing? Was it meant in such a blatant way?
Survival instinct kicks in. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die because it means my children will lose a parent, because my parents will lose a child and my husband his wife. But mostly, I don’t want to die because I’m scared. I’ve never believed in an afterlife. Once you die, you die, and that’s that. Idyllic pictures of heaven, chubby angels lounging on beds made of cloud, a warm, loving god waiting for you, arms outstretched... those are thoughts for people who can’t live in the real world. But now, with this strange man, with my own mortality being dangled in front of me like some tantalising prize to be won at a fair, I don’t know what to believe.
So… my other choice.
A dry sob forces its way out of my throat. One of the children boots the ball into a makeshift goal of purple school jumpers, scoring a point and earning a cheer from his team. If I do this, my family will be safe. He promised me.
“Careful, sweetheart!” calls the woman in front of the house, leaning on what presumably is her car. One of the little boys raises a stubby hand in acknowledgement of his mother’s worries, rolling his eyes as soon as her back is turned.
If I don’t, I’ll die. When my children die, they won’t stand by my side. Nor will my parents, nor my husband. They’ll fade away, and I won’t ever see them again.
An uproar of excitement and indignity floats over from the boys as a tall, burly child misses the goal.
I look at my hand again. It’s bruised and swollen, and panic rises in my throat like vomit.
An overenthusiastic kick sends the football flying, and it shoots through my stomach, bouncing quietly down a previously unnoticed alley behind me.
Despite not feeling anything resembling pain, I cough throatily, covering my mouth. To my horror, my hand comes away red and sticky.
The son of the concerned mother is the boy that comes jogging over to retrieve the ball. He’s younger than I thought. His kind brown eyes remind me of my middle child.
“Your other choice – your only choice, if you want to live…”
Looking back, I see the ball has rolled through the alley and now rests on a forgotten road. Standing on wobbly legs, I follow the boy and call out to him fruitlessly, warning him to be careful.
Hopping onto the road without looking, the boy retrieves his ball. As he steps safely back onto the pavement, grinning at the prospect of resuming his game, a car turns the corner.
“…is to take the life of another.”
My heart judders uneasily, and my mouth goes dry. I lick my lips nervously, and at the same time notice that one of my teeth is loose. Without thinking, I step in front of the boy.
He sees me. His eyes widen and his mouth hangs open, but he clings onto the football. The car approaches.
“B-But – I can’t.”
Slowly, I reach forwards and put both hands on his tiny chest.
He’s frozen, too scared to speak or move.
“If you want to live, you can. If you want your family to be safe, you can.”
I have to. For my family. For me. I don’t want to die. I’m afraid to die. I can’t. Tears spill from my eyes and he starts to cry too, his body shaking, his eyes shining.
“But – another person. With family, friends… children. I can’t.” The car picks up speed.
The car picks up speed.
“…I’m sorry. I really am. But it’s the only way.”
With my last strength I push and the boy falls backwards. Time seems to slow down. Our eyes meet briefly. There’s fire in my brain, ice in my belly. Screeching, the car comes to a halt, but it’s too late.
There’s a distinct lack of noise. Nobody’s noticed yet – not his mother, not his friends. Unbelievably, the driver picks up speed once more and disappears fast around the corner. The world flickers at the edges, and in the distance I see the tall, faceless man. I call out to him, waving my arms, urging him to take me to the place he promised. He waves back, but doesn’t move. I take a step towards him, but my legs shake and give up, and suddenly I’m on my knees, begging, pleading – save me, save me. Black spots appear and disappear before my eyes, and from behind me the first worried shouts of the boy’s mother become audible. By the time she reaches me, I am gone.
The football bounces in the empty road.