Chapter 1: Purgatory

“State your name.”

I couldn’t find where this voice was coming from. The sound of a gunshot was ringing in my ears. The ground beneath me felt nonexistent. An absence of oxygen surrounded me. I questioned, “Wha… where am I?”

I couldn’t see anything; a blindfold of oblivion masked my senses and memory. Everything was numb. I tried to mentally retrace my steps to figure how I came to this point, but nothing enlightened me. I heard the old voice again, “State your name,” so I did as told.

“Edith Rothschild.”

I tried to find my body, but nothing. I couldn’t tell if I were blinking, running, or even speaking for that matter. 

The old voice became the only thing that made sense, “Ah, here you are. Oh dear, you’re miss Noa Charon.”

My response was tangled on my tongue, “Noa Charon? I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

Suddenly a wave starting from my feet, flood my entire body. All my senses heightened tenfold along with a massive headache. My first reaction to regaining my senses was to rub my eyes. They burned from the intense light that teased my pupils. I would peek in between my fingers to try to adjust, but the light never settled. 

Toughing it, I opened my eyes and let the light set my sight ablaze. The stinging settled, I couldn’t help but feel emotionally exhausted by the light. I felt as if someone had told me a thousand tragic stories, all of which ending with me being the monster. I felt off, hostile, and guilt all at once.

I held my face as I absorbed my surroundings. The truth of my whereabouts came to existence from a dispersing fog. Dull golden walls mixed with red brick held up the ceiling of books. Hundreds of winged creatures arranging them.

At my feet were dozens of scrolls: ripped, charred, and crumbled. I wasn’t able to even recognize the language that was written on each scroll. The piles of scraps led to clearer area that consisted of tall oak booths, looking as if cut fresh from the earth. Five rows and five columns of men dressed in black robes wrote vigorously; each with a frown as depressing as the next.

My sight now was clear and concise; there wasn’t a thing out of focus. At least a hundred feet from me I was able to read the plaques that marked each column of men. Gabriel, Kafziel, Mashbir, Masshit, and Af and Hemah. 

A terrible taste in my mouth was pungent enough to distract me from the bizarre world around me. Without much thought, I walked toward the rows of men. No one even seemed remotely interested as my footsteps echoed to every corner. 

Five brick and wood podiums, with a glue of gold stitching it together, stood in front of each column. All of them were empty except for the one in front of Kafziel, where a ginger woman stood staring at me. She spoke kindly, “Is that better, dearie?” I noticed she had some sort of European accent; I couldn’t make it out though.

Shyly, I murmured, “Who are you... where am I?”

The ginger woman gave a sympathetic smile as she lowered her gavel, folding her hands on the edge. She gestured for my hand, “My name is Ardith and I am your purgatory advisor and you, my dear, are in Limbo.”

I gave a confused smile as I debated whether to give her my hand or not, I did. It only seemed polite, “I’m sorry? Limbo? Is there a hula-hoop advisor I need to speak with as well?” The joke didn’t land, I coughed and asked, “who are all those men behind you?”

“They keep this department running smoothly.”

She let go of my hand and began skimming through a large book on her podium. She was smiling which made her quiet search creepy and awkward for me. I didn’t want to interrupt but I was entirely too confused to care, “I’m sorry, but in all seriousness… where am I?”

She looked up from her book; she was wearing glasses that I don’t remember her putting on. She looked at me confused; her old eyes squinted and glazed, wandered onto my eyes as if she were looking for an answer in them. She thankfully broke her silence, “Noa Charon, it’s so sad we have to meet like this and I have to give you this news. But according to your records you are here because you have committed suicide.”

I stared at her as I again lost all feeling in my flesh. I couldn’t possibly fathom what she had revealed to me, it was beyond my understanding. Ardith looked at me getting ready to tell me more but waiting for me to prepare myself. I couldn’t mask my state of alarm, but I gave her a nod to explain further, “You now must serve purgatory to make up for what you’ve done. But remember, dear one, that serving purgatory is also a service to your soul.”

Every once and a while she checked my gaze to see if I was still listening, my disposition didn’t change. I had no recollection of what brought me here so her words meant nothing and, yet, everything to me. All I could ask was what limbo was. Ardith looked at me, disappointed that I wasn’t retaining any of the information she told me.

“Purgatory, dear… is a place that asks you to stop running. And focus on what is important.”

“Ardith… what exactly was I running from?”

Ardith picked up her gavel from the podium and stomped it three times. She looked beyond me to a distant fog that grew thicker and larger.

A whirling, hush whimpered in the far corners if this world. First quiet like ones ear in a seashell, then grew louder, faster, and angrier. I turned back to Ardith who was now gazing at me with a calm empathy, as if to tell me, “Don’t be scared, it will be over soon.”

It happened quicker than I could ever react, a wave of white water came at me from all sides. The ground beneath me turned to sand and I sunk into its wrath. Screaming and grasping at nothing, I drowned in a memory I wish I had not asked to return.

The water whispered and shimmered images of the living, of my life before death.

A world of wit and games, where the rules of young happiness are controlled and bent by the ones whose worth are measured by what they own.

Sometimes, I took too long in class to write down all the notes in class. It drew a lot of attention to me, attention I wasn’t seeking. The two boys in front of me always made snide comments, they whispered words of humiliating names and cruel accusation.

I had long hair when the year started, long hair that I cherished and nurtured, it was my only confidence. Someone from behind me cut a chunk off in class, about six inches from my eleven inch length. The adjustments I had to make to my hair weren’t horrible or made me look any negative way, but the constant reminder that I was not liked now brushed my shoulders and face. 

I stopped trying to tell my teachers what was happening, it was always met with, “You two should try to be friends.” And, “They only treat you like that because they like you.”

Thus making a clear statement to me about the structure of male to female relations, abuse is a form of affection.

I had only one friend, Vincent, we grew up together. My sweet Vincent, my friend who’d never harm a soul. 

But even the mighty fall, for a rumor spread that Vincent and I had had sex, he never denied it. He let the lie spread, he did nothing to stop it. He ran my reputation through the mud to be better liked by those who don’t even like themselves. 

The quick visions and sounds of my past twisted around me in a tragic harmony, writing out a story that I already knew the end to.

When you think about killing yourself, the thought forms long before the commitment to it. At first, you start acting out little forms of suicide; you stop eating, you stop talking, you stop bathing. You make yourself into a ghost. And then you prepare; you arrange your life and tie up loose ends. Whether it be through a note, a phone call, a clean room. You prepare something. Lastly, you decide how. And that part can last the longest, for myself I kept a hand gun I stole from my uncles cabin in a shoebox under my bed. I let it sit there, I let it wait for me there when it was time. 

Nothing was quite different about this day than any other, nothing was at all more tragic or drastic than any other. And I think that’s what killed me, the idea that my current life was already a cruel, stagnant repetition. 

Tears eventually end, you eventually have nothing more to bleed out of you. My mouth was cracked and dry, my stomach ached. I felt hallowed out, an empty shell, a shadow of my former self.

And then the idea hits you. It clicks in your mind and there is little to do to stop it. There’s a moment when every breath you take sighs for endings.  

I have one intention running in my mind as I straighten up my room. I open my computer and write one line, “Come what may.” 

I take the gun from the shoebox under my bed. The cold steel numbs my fingers. 

Loading the gun, I arrange my final thoughts, repeating to myself, “Come what may.” 

I try putting it between my teeth but the chilling ache from my gums makes me hesitate. I switch to my temple but the shiver frightens me from committing to my action. I place it over my heart, where it is out of sight from my twitches and hesitations. 

The chilling bitterness from the cold steel presses against my shirt. Like pushing a key into a lock, the ring of the barrel finds its purpose. 

My hand doesn’t feel like it’s mine anymore, my fingers don’t belong to me. I wait for my body to give in, instincts of survival keep me from being quick about this, giving me time to stumble on final thoughts.

I think of my mother, I think of-

My finger slipped and the trigger is pulled. I wonder where that thought even went.

The waves rushed into reverse, twisting me clockwise and dropping me back into the world of numbing white. I tumble and am disoriented, walking in circles I scream for my mother and father.

Falling on my side, “What have I done,” I whispered, over and over, with even smaller cries whimpering for my mother and father.

Ardith, “Please stand so I may assign your position in purgatory.”

I roll to my knees, crying without tears, “Why am I still being punished?”

Ardith seemed offended, but not angry, she stepped off from her podium and walked to me. Her hands extended for me to take them, “Please, do not think of this as punishment.” She takes my hands, “Please, stand.”

I wobbled to my feet, “Then why am I here? Can’t you please let me rest?”

“I cannot,” she holds my hands in hers, “Because you are not at peace. There is something in your soul that you’re holding onto, something that keeps you from dying.”

“Keeps me from dying?”

“Something that tethers you back to the living realm, something you need to find and let go of. No one is keeping you from paradise, only you are committing this act. So here in purgatory the Creator has arranged work that will help you save yourself and set you free.”

I can’t stop myself from swaying side to side, “How long will it take?”

“As long as you allow it.”

Ardith broke her stare, marched back to her podium, and pulled out a large stamp as she unraveled a larger black scroll. She announced loudly, “Noa Charon… from this moment forward you are sentenced to carry out the deeds of the Grim Reaper. Your sole duty is only to bring to limbo the souls of suicide victims.” 

Before stepping from her podium and handing me the scroll, she smacked the large stamp on it, “Benzion will teach you the Reapers Rules and will take your signature if you are accepting. The reaper before you will teach you the Reapers Ritual. Be brave… young reaper, and most of all… don’t lose faith.”

I couldn’t help but drown in my shaking bones. Choking on questions and desperation. I was in shock, the weight of this reality weighed heavier than many oceans, so I did what I always did. I had a little box in my mind, a box that my father called The Maze. I let these heavy thoughts get lost in the maze, so that I could function. 

In my blank stare, I hadn’t notice Ardith’s absence till one of the frowning men was standing in front of me. Holding out a large book, whom I presumed was Benzion, I was instructed, “Take it and listen closely.”

Lifting the book from his single hand, I had trouble carrying it with both as I traded him the black scroll. He started walking down the opposite direction of the podium. A path of white brick and mist, but I failed to react to his command. Hands tucked behind his back he was a couple meters away when he called out without turning around, “Haven’t forgotten how to walk, have we?”

“No,” I stammered, “No, I’m coming.” I fast walked to the side of the seven-foot man. His black robe dragged behind him. The frown sketched on his face remained. I asked timidly, “Where are we going?”

In a business like manner, “To your mentor. But in the meantime we’re going to go over the rules for reapers.” He tapped his finger on the book, “Turn to page one.” 

I heard him but couldn’t bring myself to open it. It was emotionally too difficult to have to open it. It’s leather binding didn’t feel good against my skin. Kafziel was sown in large letters along the spine. I hated every bit of what I was holding; it terrified me to open it. Benzion abruptly repeated himself to open it. I did so with much caution and read aloud:

1. YOU MUST LIVE WITH THE LIVING

Benzion, “Because your soul is still attached to the living world, you must remain with the living. You will be stationed near a private school in Georgia till further notice. Relocation is subject to change without your say in the matter. You must live and learn with the people you may possibly have to reap. Keep reading. Section B of rule 2.” 

I made a difficult swallow before continuing:

SECTION B

2. YOU MUST NEVER INTERFERE WITH SUICIDAL DECISIONS

Coldly, “Your only job is to reap and deliver the souls of suicide victims. If you were to try to prevent a suicide, depending on the courts decision, you will spend all of eternity as a Reaper or be reassigned in purgatory without graduation. You will never rest. Carry on.”

3. YOU MUST NEVER FALL IN LOVE

“The water in your new body is poison. If anyone come in contact with your fluids, they will perish. This prevents any actually relationships from growing. The dead cannot partake in an experience that is solely meant for the living. Next rule.”

I couldn’t help but sound shaky as I continued:

4. YOU MUST NEVER MURDER

“This is the harshest of them all, if you are to end a life, or aid in the murder of any life, in your time as reaper, your sentence will remain permanent with absolutely no chance of passing over. Do not take a life, for you will carry out your sentence for all eternity in Hell only to return to earth to reap the souls of the,”

“dead.” I finished. My teeth chattered in my mouth. I could barely stand, “Benzion, I”

He interrupted, “I’m not finished.” I shriveled behind the colossal book, Benzion stopped walking and for once made eye contact with me, “I need to make some things clear. You are not the only reaper or creature of your kind. There are millions, but note that not all are your friend. If you are to discover someone of your kind you may reveal yourself. Know that it is impossible to reveal yourself to the mortal world, there is no possible way for you to confess to the living of your condition.” 

I nodded. He pulled out a long, white whistle made of what looked like a small antler. He continued, “Know that if you are to abuse or misuse your abilities as reaper your sentence can be lengthened. Your existence in time can be easily manipulated. Just be wise and you should be fine.”

Be wise? Clearly being wise was not one of my strong suits considering my situation. I huffed, the mist surrounding my head pushed. I peeked farther into the book. Seeing page after page of animals. They were mostly of birds, an intricate sketch of an owl caught my attention before Benzion snatched the book urgently, “That is not for your concern.”

“I’m sorry.” I stood with a heavy shrug, avoiding eye contact with Benzion.

Benzion laid a hand on my shoulder, “I’m sorry, I do this often, it tends to bring the worst out of me when I do cases like yours.”

I accepted the apology with a small nod. Afraid to speak. Benzion adjusted the whistle in his mouth, taking in a large breath. On the exhale the whistle, rather than a high-pitched squeal, played a song. It sounded like people humming in every chord known to man in perfect harmony.

The faint sound of clicking hoofs came from the distance ahead. The white-bricked road with no visible end, due to the fog, showed signs of something coming our direction.

Still shaking, I crossed my arms to hide my anxiety. Benzion seemed not phased by the ominous gallops. The sound of stones hitting each other bounced around the endless room. My heart felt dark and small in my chest with every click that approached. 

“Signature please,” Benzion held out a pen and the bottom of the scroll where a blank page called my name.

I took the pen and took in another huge swallow, the taste of my own saliva gave me a dark thirst. I looked at Benzion but he he was unmoving, his frown pulling on his face and sitting violently still on his jaw. 

I took the pen, it felt like marrow but weighed heavier than it looked. I pressed the pen to the page and dragged it across the given space. Red ink bled on the scroll as I wrote my signature, thinking Edith Demetria Rothschild but writing Noa Charon. 

Come what may.