Body of Immorality (2 page)

It becomes a part of me. I can’t get enough of it. I feel as if I could sit here for hours, impressed by the weight of the gun, looking at it. I’m surprised this magical destroyer is in my hands. I can do a lot with this simple, glossy black piece of stainless steel.

The safety, I check again, is off. I sit up straight on the couch. I can still taste the steak, the last cigarette, and the beer.

I pull the hammer back on Angel. It makes a satisfying clicking sound. I smile again. I position the barrel inside my mouth as I’d practiced, up slightly, angled Angel.

“Hooray! Hooray! He’s gonna do it!”

“
Would
you keep your voice down!”

“Sorry.”

So, they know each other. I don’t understand it. They’ve been here since I can remember.

“It’s about time. This is everything you’ve been looking for. Silence. Sleep. Blackness. Oblivion. We’ve been waiting. Just end it. Just pull the trigger. Angels? Demons? Give me a fucking break! They’re not real. Who said you couldn’t die with a clear conscience? We’re happy to have you.”

I clench my index finger against the trigger. It takes too long. For as far back as my finger goes, there is
no
sound. Nothing.

I focus on the angle of the barrel. Angel.

A split-second later, it happens. An explosion ricochets between my skull, a deafening roar, a ringing in my ears. A slight buzzing noise follows, then a blinding flash of intense white light. In the next second, a syrupy darkness replaces the white.

The taste of gunpowder is in my mouth. It leaves a film on my tongue. Something sulfuric, the tinge of hot smoke burns my lips. Curls of smoke rise into my nostrils.

An instantaneous, very precise force—the size of a dime-head—shoots with lightening speed through the roof of my mouth and out the back of my head. It’s a laser. My brain—bits of tissue and bloody fragments of bone—splash against the wall behind me. The gore makes a thick, wet sound. The smell of fresh, raw, coppery blood is in the air. I slump against the couch, my head whipping back from the force of the blast. I pull a muscle in my neck, I think.

My bowels loosen. No dignity, just the suit.

My hand falls, holding Angel. I hear blood dripping—maybe from the shelf—maybe from the ceiling. I can’t see from where I am, motionless. Only blackness now, not even the glow from the stereo.

It’s hard to describe what happens next. It’s very dark, pitch black. It’s all I know, all I remember. I can smell my blood and the fresh, strong, pungent stench of gunpowder. I can smell my soiled clothes. I can’t see anything because of the pitch black. It’s dead silent. I can’t speak.

If I’m dead, why am I able to
think,
able to…
remember?
Why can I remember my life before I shot myself?

Why am I not…nothingness?

A garbled jumble of voices fills my head. Nothing makes sense. A shapeless, hulking shadow breathes into my face, something empowering, destiny perhaps.

Whatever it is, it’s no angel.

Barriers

This can’t be right,
Carrie Weis thought.
This is some kind of joke? The rest of my life is not going to be this way.

But this is the rest of your life. Welcome to it, skinny.

The voice of reason throttled and tormented his life’s spirit. In this mess, spirit was a cage. If this was redemption, he wanted his life back. Every minute that came afterward, every abhorrent reality that he was dead, and not a damn thing could he do about it. Jesus, he realized, was not going to save him.

Carrie Weis was thirty-four when the truck hit him. He was here because of the stupid truck. Life proved stupid, and death was no different. Mother, on top of everything, had given him a girl’s name. He’d heard about men named Carrie before, but that never made him feel any better, especially now. He was still fuming about it. How they’d teased him at school! The heckling never stopped.

“Carrie! Carrie! Carrie, the Fair-y!”

“Didn’t she see your little wee-wee? Oh, yeah, I guess that’s why she gave you a girl’s name!”

Mother was in on the joke as well. She and the Great Almighty were sitting on their celestial thrones laughing their lordly asses off. If she’d wanted a girl so badly, why didn’t she adopt one? Would naming him Carrie change him into the precious beauty she’d hoped for?

“I named you after your great-great grandfather, Carrie,” she’d said, when he was thirteen.

“Was he a homo?” Carrie had asked.

A hot sting numbed his face when she slapped him. He’d gone to his room, feeling the imprint of her hand on his cheek for two and a half hours.

She could have at least put a ‘Y’ on the end,
said the voice of reason.

Yeah. A ‘Y’ would have made
all
the difference. A ‘Y’ would’ve kept him from this horror, this deadpan world of craziness, a nightmare of things gone terrible awry.

He’d cried when he realized the horror, the predicament he was in. At least he’d tried. Tears, apparently, were non-existent in death.

He should’ve adopted a pet, someone to lie next to him in his misery, keep him company. What would that do, though—a dog, a cat, or a fish—besides curl up and beat its tail against his thigh?

Doom,
he thought.
Nothing but doom. To see the sun again! Time with friends! That girl I never called!

Only now can you appreciate how good living was,
said the voice.

“Why don’t you shut-up?” Carrie said, into the dark.

The casket hemmed him in from all sides. Nicely pressed, seeing nothing but darkness, nothing but the picture of memory.

Maybe this was stage one, he told himself. After all, he hadn’t been here
that
long. Maybe he had to familiarize himself with hell before ascending to the stars. It was only a matter of time before he took the climb was all. He’d ask God what the hell this graveyard shit was all about!

Instead, much to his horror, Carrie heard the voice of his mother:

You’re a grown man, for God’s sake! Why don’t you just shut-up and deal with it!

Maybe the voice belaboring him and his mother’s were the same. There was a ghoulish thought.

“If you can’t make up your mind, then just shut the hell up!” Carrie cried.

In reply to his outburst, laughter boomed through the cemetery. Was it possible to go mad in death?

He could talk. He couldn’t move his lips, but when he voiced his thoughts, they cracked over the graveyard for every soul to hear.

Oh, the unhappy days he’d spent in resentment! To think release was possible only to come to this! Shouldn’t tears be a sign of mercy?

I’ll be better next time! Just a chance to say I’m sorry, look for that job, that girl! What was her name? I know one of them would’ve made a difference!

The dead could shout a warning! Get the scientists to ponder
this! Someone
had to find a way out of this madness!

God was an unconscionable nut-ball, Carrie decided. A warped comedian! It was the only thing that made sense.

His ability to hear was unfathomable. He saw nothing but blackness, but he could hear as well as Superman! A radar in his head scanned over the cemetery. Every plot had a voice, issuing thoughts across the graveyard. Televisions were audible from the street below, neighbors fighting with one another, dogs barking, horns sounding, kids playing, and birds singing. The worms, spiders, and centipedes slithered through the mud outside the casket, making wet, creeping noises. Death should’ve been called, Ears. What did the deaf think? Did they obtain the ability to hear in the afterlife? Who could he ask? Obviously, death had nothing to do with it. Death, a term misinterpreted to mean ‘the end,’ was
not
the end at all, but a nefarious form of immortality. Perhaps Carrie
was
in Hell. God had been usurped from His throne. Carrie’s
mother
was running the show!

For sale,
he thought,
one body stuck in a lifetime of paralysis and torture. Casket and suit included. Wait for our introductory offer!

He wasn’t the only one suffering at least. The dead, too, were caged alongside him in their black, silent prisons. They overpopulated the dirt with senseless ramblings, madness, and confusion. No one got up to smell the cemetery flowers, seeking bigger and brighter things. This put new meaning to the phrase, ‘Final Resting Place.’

Hell was the only thing that made sense. No other explanation was logical. The flames and brimstone were all a big, fat lie.

Death, quite simply, was a cruel and rotten joke.

He couldn’t wiggle his fingers and toes, couldn’t make wet popping noises with his tongue, couldn’t blink. What happened if his nose began to itch? Was he condemned to lie in the darkness of eternity listening to his own insipid thoughts?

It couldn’t stay this way forever, could it?

Could it?

But it
will
stay this way forever. Don’t you see? There’s no turning back. That ticket is non-refundable. You paid for it. They took it, and now you’re here. Enjoy it. Look around you! Isn’t it a
lovely
place? There’s so much to see and do!

Carrie reached for hope. Hope was crucial, especially now. If he didn’t have hope—

Actually, you don’t have hope either,
said the voice.
Hope is the first thing they take. I mean, how can you have hope in all this? And as far as dying goes, well, that’s pretty funny, Carrie-ole-girl! You’re a
riot!

If he listened to the voice, he’d go crazy. If he went crazy…

Haven’t we been through this before?

Carrie Weis wailed into the darkness. He’d contemplated madness before in death. When he was alive, in fact. It was a strange possibility. Were there any requirements, he wondered?

I think you meet those requirements, Carrie.

Using the capacity of his lungs and mental will, Carrie shrieked in defiance from his tomb! The long dead lunatics of Rose Hill Cemetery paused when Carrie disrupted their banter. If they could, they would’ve turned to one another and grinned, eyes wide. A
newcomer!
After the pause, Rose Hill erupted in another barrage of lunatic cackles.

This isn’t happening,
Carrie thought, groaning.
This is some hideous dream. When the sun comes up, it’ll all be over. The covers are over me, tight and snug. That’s why I feel like I’m suffocating. I’m in bed dreaming is all. Other than that, I’m fine. I’ll be making coffee soon.

What else could he do but take the punishment like a man?

Or a woman,
the voice said, and giggled.

To pass the time, he had no choice but to listen, to
hear.

Crazy death?
Carrie thought.
How can that be?

Stick around, I’ll show you.

“Shut up,” he said.

A snicker came from the darkness to his left. The mocking, the heckling never stopped. The dead couldn’t stay quiet for a single second! It drove him
crazy!
Some played music trivia. Others were journalists, asking every question imaginable. Others passed the time solving riddles or complex equations, and trivia was always fun from any category. Families chatted idly and told jokes together.

“Dirty shoes go on the porch! You know better, Malcolm.”

“ Ah, mom, my feet ain’t dirty. I’m
dead!”

“ I don’t
care.
Do as you’re told. You know that dog’s been leaving piles all over the yard. God knows what kind of filth
he’s
been trackin’ in here.”

“ Ma, the dog’s been dead for longer than
you!
His days of poopin’ are
over!”

Some hummed tuneless melodies or sang songs. Some recited poetry.

Yeah, what do you have Carrie, but eternity? Ponder why your mother didn’t put a ‘Y’ on the end.

It wasn’t as if he had any pressing engagements. He couldn’t
feel
anything. He might as well get comfortable. He had all the time in the known universe. Could he have done something else to make his situation better, more endurable?

To lie and think,
Carrie thought.
Contemplating every second of my soulless existence, this barrier of eternal darkness and lunacy. Can’t cry; can’t moan; can’t move my lips, but somehow, I’m able to voice my thoughts. ’Can only make the sound without knowing why or how…

Realizing this made his predicament more disturbing. Not words spilling over the graveyard, but thoughts themselves—perversions, sins, deeds, vices—out there for everyone in the land of the dead to hear.

Time and ears is all you got, buster. Be thankful. I could’ve just
given you time.

“ Yes, sir,” he said, or
thought,
rather. “Name’s Carrie Weis, and I’m a newcomer. Any alcoholics with us tonight? Yes, sir, I’m just sitting here watching the time go. Watching the darkness, rather. Can’t really
do
much. Can’t see much, but if you need a safe cracked, I’m your man. I can hear a pin drop in Montana.”

Don’t forget it,
the voice said.

How
could
he forget? Wasn’t staring into the permeable dark reminder enough?

I’m waiting for you, cousins, family, friends,
Carrie thought.
I’m waiting for you to see what I see, hear what I hear. A song, a song, a tuneless melody…

People waited their whole lives for death, the hope of mercy and forgiveness. Ascending into mountainous air and pure clouds, however, wasn’t here, and even in death, thoughts of suicide plagued him.

Just hold your breath,
he thought.
If you hold your breath, you’ll blow up like a great big balloon. You can use yourself as a flotation device, rise slowly out of the ground, above the trees, and into the clouds. At least you’ll have a view. You can ask the Big Cheese what this graveyard shit is all about.

No sleep. When he grew tired, he lied still and tried to nap. But he
never
grew tired. His mission in death was suicide. He had it now!

He just wanted to know
why,
for God’s sake? Didn’t that
mean
anything? Wasn’t that a question worth asking? How could
this
be all there was, unable to lift a finger, flutter an eyelash, yet he was trapped, powerless, except to listen to the dead. He’d never heard a final, ‘Lights Out!’