Chapter Eleven

Chief Constable Evelyn Glasgow died and the entity found itself trapped in yet another corpse. It scanned the room for weak minds it could easily penetrate and realized Isidora had vacated Darcy’s. It entered Darcy.

Hello, little bitch, it said. Darcy stood over Karl, in a haze. Aren’t you a violent one! We’re going to have to put those killing skills to use today. 

Darcy’s eyes became yellow. Karl, wheezing, tried to push himself away from Darcy using his one good leg. Darcy looked down at him and smiled.

“Someone’s been up to no good,” she said.

“My apologies,” said Karl in a choked voice. Beads of sweat, as well as tears, ran down his face from the pain in his leg and chest, the fear of greater pain and imminent death, and the helplessness of having his hands cuffed behind him.

Darcy looked back and smiled at Edward.

“Eddie,” she said politely. “I was wondering if you could do me a favour,” she asked. She cracked her neck from side to side.

Edward nodded, because opening his mouth to speak would have been far too painful given his recent mauling.

“Could you give me the wire-saw next to you? I would like to take Karl’s handcuffs off and I’m sure it would cut through steel.”

Edward looked at Karl. He shook his head. Edward turned to Darcy. He generally thought she was a lovely young woman, almost as kind as his nana, though something seemed off today. He picked up the wire-saw and walked over to them.

Edward held up the wire-saw to Karl and Darcy, pointed to it, pointed to himself, and finally to Karl, hoping it was clear he intended to cut the handcuffs off himself. Something told him he shouldn’t give the wire-saw to Darcy like she’d asked. He bent down and took Karl’s wrists.

“We have to get away from her, quickly!” whispered Karl, which caused him a great deal of physical pain in his chest. He watched Darcy grab a chair and raise it over Edward’s head.

“Behind you!” shouted Karl.

Edward turned and was hit face-first with the chair. Darcy beat Edward repeatedly until his head was an unrecognizable pile of flesh, bone and blood. Karl tried to push himself back with his one good leg as he was sprayed with blood from the attack on Edward. Darcy took the wire-saw out of Edward’s lifeless hand and walked over to Karl. She grinned.

* * *

Quentin sat in a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees. His head rested back against the wall. He tried to focus, resisting the urge to acknowledge the excruciating pain burning through his entire body. The more he gave in, the worse it got.

Compared to Isidora, he looked rather well. Though his skin looked more like scales and his eyes were dim and bloodshot, he was still recognizable.

I’m not going to burn in Hell, thought Quentin. That wasn’t the deal. The deal was I get to be in a computer program forever. I’m going to stay that way. I’m not going to burn in Hell. I’m sick of being a prisoner. 

He tuned out the chaos around him and within him. He tried to think of ways to keep his mind occupied.

 

There once was a girl named Izzy,

Who I fucked to keep me’self busy,

She went through point zero

And wants to play hero

But burns herself into a tizzy

 

There once was a priest named Pete,

Who fucked everyone he would meet,

He shot an old man

To help little Stan

But fell for the old man’s deceit

 

There once was a man named Hitler

Who fucked his ex-boyfriend’s sister,

He sold us a gun

Said thanks for the fun,

And went back to being a barrister

 

There once was a man named Quentin,

Who had just gotten out of prison,

Then a scientist said

You’ll wish you were dead

When I’m done with your mind and your skin…

 

Quentin looked at his skin. It dried up and cracked with every movement he made. He bled the acidic green substance. He shut his eyes and went back to his limericks.

* * *

Father Peter watched Isidora analyze the code in Dalton’s mind, and followed her as she raced through a maze of digits and symbols. She was as beautiful as ever, though something seemed different about her. He felt her humanity fading away as her supernatural ability to understand the intricacies of Dalton’s mind patterns increased. He thought of reaching for her hand, but he felt he’d only get in the way of her investigatory delight. He felt somewhat useless, following her lead, until he recognized a hauntingly familiar melody.

“Isidora, do you hear that?” he asked.

“Rachmaninoff’s prelude in C# minor!” she said. “Let’s follow it.”

“But it’s coming from everywhere, Izzy. The old man is taunting us.”

“Then we must be getting close.”

He followed her until they reached a dark, narrow corridor lined with steel doors on either side. She stopped, and Father Peter caught up to her.

“This is it,” said Isidora. “Where Dalton has stored all his memories related to wrist-cutting.”

Father Peter stepped into the corridor, slightly opened the first door to his left and peeked through the crack. On the other side was a diminutive flat, where two small, grey-eyed children, one boy and one girl, no older than two, sat on a grey, carpet floor. Father Peter stepped inside. Dirty laundry lay around in piles, and unwashed dishes covered the counter. One dish had fallen and broken into several pieces, and no effort had been made to clean the mess. The little boy toddled toward the kitchen. The girl began to cry.

“Eleanor, one of the littl’uns is cryin’ again!” said a man’s voice from another room.

A young girl, who looked about sixteen, with long, auburn hair, made her way over to the living room and picked up the girl.

“Now now, what’s the matter, Darcy?” asked Eleanor.

Little Darcy pointed toward the kitchen. Her brother had made his way over to the broken dish on the floor, picked up a few pieces and was now examining them.

“Dalton, put that down, now!” said Eleanor, rushing toward Dalton.

He played with the pieces of ceramic and cut his wrist. He cried.

“This isn’t the right memory,” Isidora said to Father Peter, as she watched the scene unfold over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Father Peter and Isidora stepped out of the room and shut the door. They entered the room across the hall.

Inside, teenage Darcy sat on top of a bunk bed and Dalton lay in the bunk below her, reading a book. Across was another bunk bed, on top of which a girl with blonde hair spoke to Darcy. In the bottom bunk below her, another teen was fast asleep. Father Peter had seen enough foster homes in his life to recognize it as one.

“Have either of you ever tried cutting before?” asked the girl.

“No, and I shan’t,” said Darcy with a shudder.

Dalton’s eyes lifted from his book and he listened in on the conversation.

“It’s harmless. Even quite thrilling. And it takes the pain inside away.”

“I’d rather have pain inside than cut me wrists,” said Darcy.

“You should try. Just to see what it’s like.”

The blonde girl reached under her pillow and pulled out a kitchen knife. She leaned forward over her bed and handed it to Darcy. She looked at it, and looked back up at the girl, hesitantly. She gestured a wrist-cutting motion. Dalton jumped out of his bed.

“Don’t even think about it. You’ll go mad, like Mother.”

The blonde girl laughed. “Your sister’s already mad. She thinks she can tell the future.”

“I can,” said Darcy. “And I know you’re going to die soon.”

“I wish I were dead. I don’t feel anything.” The girl hopped out of her bed and left the room.

“How will she die?” asked Dalton.

“She’s going to hang herself, and her neck will snap. And then she’ll burn in Hell for all eternity.”

“Do you ever have nice visions of the future?”

“Yes. You’re going to get into all the best schools.” Darcy smiled at her brother. He smiled back.

“Wrong memory,” said Father Peter.

They exited the room and opened the next door.

Inside, Eleanor looked about ten years older than she had in the memory they’d last seen her in. Her grey eyes looked lifeless, and her undereye circles sank deep into her face, revealing the outline of her skull. Her emaciated, corpse-like figure sat on a torn-up sofa, and she stared blankly at a television. A preadolescent Dalton took a seat next to her. She ignored him.

“Mother, Darcy wants to watch football tonight, but I’m sick of football,” he said. Eleanor didn’t move. Dalton took her arm and tugged it. “Mother, I don’t want to watch football.”

Without moving, she acknowledged his request. “Mother doesn’t either,” she said. “Mother doesn’t want to watch anything.”

Dalton looked at the television, and back to Eleanor. “But you’re watching the telly now,” he said.

“Fuck off.” She pushed Dalton off the sofa. “Why the fuck aren’t you in school?”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Aren’t you a clever boy. So much cleverer than your daft ol’ ma.”

Dalton frowned. Eleanor looked at him.

“Tell me, since you’re so clever, I could use your advice.” She patted the seat next to her and he came back.

“I would be happy to offer some insight,” said Dalton.

Eleanor showed Dalton her forearm, took his finger, and placed it on her wrist.

“If I want to die, should I cut my wrist horizontally, like this, or vertically, like this?” She guided his finger in the two different directions.

Dalton cautiously pulled his hand away. “Transversely oriented deep wrist injuries can certainly cause a lot of damage, particularly to your nerves and tendons. Longitudinally oriented cuts will involve less injuries to nerves and tendons, but more damage to the radial artery, which is arguably more lethal,” he stated, staring at the screen, avoiding the empty look in his mother’s eyes.

A door opened and footsteps made their way down the hallway. The smell of beer filled the room. A middle-aged man walked in, holding onto the wall for balance. He held a half empty bottle in his hand. He broke the bottle against the wall, and pieces of glass fell as beer spilled on the grey carpeted floor. He threw the half of the bottle he still held in his hand onto the sofa, which landed between Eleanor and Dalton. A few more pieces of glass broke off the bottle. A sliver of the glass lodged itself in Dalton’s wrist. He pulled it out, examined the blood-tipped shard and put it in the ashtray on the beer can-strewn coffee table.

“Go on then, Eleanor. Test his theory,” said the man. He smiled, revealing several missing teeth.

Eleanor handed the bottle to Dalton and held out her arm. He held the broken bottle in his hands and stared at it.

“Go ahead, your ma wants to die,” she said.

Dalton didn’t move.

The man grabbed Eleanor by the wrist and dragged her into the kitchen, where he yelled at her and repeatedly shoved her into the wall.

“You wonder why that boy’s so strange? Look at his ma. A bloody lunatic.”

Eleanor didn’t react, accepting her situation in indifferent resignation. Dalton ran out of the flat and joined Darcy, who was seated on the curb. Her dark hair was braided back. She held her hands together, connected at the fingertips, forming a circle around a spider. The spider climbed into the palm of her hand, and she cupped her hands together, trapping the creature. She turned around and smiled at Dalton, holding out her hands to him in an offering manner.

“No thank you,” said Dalton.

“Father Peter,” said Isidora, grabbing the priest’s shoulder. “Wrong memory.”

Father Peter followed Isidora out of the room. They stood in the dark corridor and headed for the next door. Isidora went inside. Father Peter hesitated for a moment, unsure how much more he could stand seeing. He entered.

Inside, Father Peter was overwhelmed with a desolate disconnect from reality. The world seemed to fade away, and sound was no more than a distant echo. He felt numb and apathetic. He wanted his miserable existence to end. He watched Dalton McGovern, sitting on the floor of his kitchen, force a knife into his forearm and drag it down to his wrist. He put the knife into his other hand, and manically cut at his other arm until he fell, laying in a pool of his own blood. He got back up and repeated these gestures.

The old man cackled. Father Peter reached for his toolbox, only to realize he no longer had it.

“Isidora,” he called out. “Where are you?”

Isidora appeared to have vanished. Father Peter walked across the flat aimlessly, looking for anything that resembled a religious symbol to defend himself against the old man. He found nothing. He tried turning the tap on, hoping he could bless the water, but nothing came out. There was a hissing behind him. Father Peter turned around and found himself face to face with the old man.

“Have you lost something?” asked the demon.

Father Peter felt something burn his shoulder. He looked over. Isidora was gripping him. Her eyes were completely black, except for the irises, which had turned from blue to yellow. Her lips were black, and her rotten skin was an ashy grey. She held up Father Peter’s toolbox and grinned. It caught fire and burned away.

“Isidora, I know you’re still in there, somewhere,” said Father Peter. “You can still be saved.”

Dalton, whom until that moment seemed unaware of his surroundings, spoke to Father Peter.

“It’s useless, Father,” he said. “You can’t save anyone. I can’t save anyone. It’s all loneliness, desolation, and suffering. Just give up already. Your God did a long time ago.”

Father Peter rushed over to Dalton and knelt by him.

“That’s not the Dr. McGovern I know,” said Father Peter, taking the knife away from him. “The Dr. McGovern I know always searches for a solution.”

“And where did that get us? Look at them. Look at you. Look at me. We’re all dead or dying, we’re all part of someone else’s sick game, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. We think we have control over our lives, that we have free will. And then something absurd occurs that throws all of our plans out the window, destroys our understanding of the world, and leaves us floating aimlessly in endless non-existence. It’s unbearable, Father.”

Father Peter took one of Dalton’s fingers and brought it to the opposite forearm.

“Dalton, since you’re so clever, I could use your advice. Would you heal more efficiently like this, or like this?” He had Dalton trace his finger over his wounds, and they closed up. He took Dalton’s other hand and did the same to his other arm.

“It would appear my advice is not required,” Dalton replied.

Father Peter felt burning arms wrap around his body from behind. Isidora pressed up against him, rested her head on his shoulder and brought a hand to his face, running a finger against his lips. Father Peter stood still, resisting the urge to throw her off him, despite the blistering pain of her body and her touch.

“I know you love me,” said Isidora with a laugh. “Join me, and it won’t hurt anymore.”

Father Peter looked into Isidora’s eyes. As evil as they appeared, they had the expression of a drowning victim, desperately clinging to her life, even if it meant dunking those trying to save her.

“The two of you would do anything to avoid suffering, wouldn’t you?” asked Father Peter. “Isidora, the minute things get tough, you have to latch onto whatever will allow you to escape how you’re feeling.”

Isidora pulled away from him and frowned. “You don’t know anything about me nor what I’ve been through,” she hissed.

“When you were alive, you drank. And now, here you are, accepting to be one of Satan’s pawns to avoid suffering and fighting off his evil within you. Frankly, it’s pathetic. Don’t you have any willpower?”

Isidora glared and crossed her arms.

Father Peter turned to Dalton. “And you. You just shut down your feelings to avoid facing the bad ones. But the good ones make life worth living. If you shut down your feelings, you won’t have any reason to live. And life doesn’t end when you die. It goes on eternally, and one way or another, you will have to suffer. There is no end, only salvation.”

Dalton rolled his eyes.

The old man stepped toward the group, towering over them. “Father Peter, when will you learn that people are sick and tired of being told how to behave by priests who can’t even behave themselves?” said the old man. “They’re sick of your hypocrisy. No one wants to suffer. Life is about avoiding suffering. Happiness is the temporary relief from suffering. Imagine if that release could be eternal. God’s sick world is full of pain and misery. Why have salvation, when you can choose liberty?”

“Suffering is not fatal nor final,” said Father Peter, standing up to face the old man. “Suffering produces perseverance. Perseverance, character. And character, hope.”

Father Peter turned to Isidora and held out his hand to her, knowing it would burn him. She stayed seated, her arms crossed, and stared at his hand, avoiding his eyes.

“Isidora, when I first saw into your soul, I saw how fragile you were. There’s no strength in repression; it’s an escape. Accept that you have to endure hardship and you will build the strength of character you need for salvation.”

“Easy to say,” said Isidora, who made eye contact with Father Peter and quickly looked away. “It’s easy to face who you are when you have a clean slate. When you’ve never done things that you regret. Not everyone is like you, Father, carefree and joyfully present-minded. Some of us have baggage. And living with what we have done is the worst torture of all. I’m not fragile, I’m damaged goods.”

“Our sins can’t be erased; they are a part of who we are, and who we become. But what you choose to do with those mistakes belongs to you. You can avoid facing them and save yourself the suffering that comes with self-loathing. Or, you can do your best to make up for your wrongdoings and the harm you’ve caused. If you can face your mistakes, you can find redemption. And you will be forgiven.”

Isidora looked into his eyes and shook her head. “What happened to Stanley… nothing I can do can repair the damage I’ve caused. He will be scarred for life, and it’s all my fault.” The yellow in her eyes faded back into their natural pale blue colour.

“He’s tougher than you think,” said Father Peter with a smile. “He’s resilient, and he’ll overcome the suffering he’s experienced. If he can, so can you. Trying times change people; there’s nothing you can do to go back to the normal world you once took for granted. But what you choose to do with those changes belongs to you. Redemption is the key toward salvation.”

Father Peter turned to Dalton, who sat on the ground, staring at his own reflection in his blood on the floor.

“Dalton, you have to persevere. You can’t anticipate what life has in store for you. There isn’t much you can actually control. You never have, and you never will. You have to face the present state in which you find yourself, and work with that reality.”

Dalton looked up at Father Peter. “What am I supposed to do? Accept that the world will fall apart, in bitter resignation?”

Father Peter shook his head. “Dream, take action, but accept that you can’t calculate and manipulate the world around you. Embrace your fate. When you find the right path, God will light the way. You will find hope.”

Dalton nodded hesitantly. “But I’ve ruined it. By trying to manipulate the world, I destroyed it. There’s nothing more I can do.”

“Take responsibility for your mistakes. Get out of your head and face the mess you’ve created. Fix it.”

“Dalton, Isidora, ignore the silly priest,” said the old man. “He knows we’re going to win the war. And when we win, suffering will end, once and for all. The sick God of martyrdom and the veneration of pain will fall, and freedom shall prevail.”

Dalton looked anxiously at Father Peter upon hearing of an imminent war and stood up abruptly. “The apocalypse,” said Dalton. “My God, I’ve started the apocalypse.”

“Yes, He’s your God,” said Father Peter. “And it’s not too late to stop it all.”

“First, we’ll have to do something about that bloody old man in Dalton’s head,” said Isidora, standing up. Her skin was regaining its pink undertones.

“Pray with me,” said Father Peter, holding Dalton’s knife in his hand. The three walked toward the old man, who backed away.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” said Father Peter, which Isidora and Dalton echoed.

The knife in Father Peter’s hand blazed in a bright blue flame. Isidora and Dalton each grabbed one of the old man’s arms and pushed him down. The old man knelt; his arms were stretched out as though he were being crucified. Father Peter stood over him and held up the knife.

“Unclean old man, you are forgiven.” He stabbed the old man between the eyes. He vanished into a pile of ash.

“Where did he go?” asked Isidora.

“When a soul is destroyed, they float in the void for all eternity,” said Father Peter.

“All right, everyone out of my head, now,” ordered Dalton.