Monster

I’m the monster from your worst nightmare. I’m in Heaven. Sure, I look foul. I’m the ugliest man you’ve ever seen. I’m not quite human, but not inhuman either. I take whatever form you fear. Whatever visual makes you cringe, but all I want is to connect with someone. If you look into my eyes, you will find love there.

That’s all I want to say right now: “I love you. You are beautiful. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to scare you. God sent me to you as a test to see how you would respond to something—someone—who didn’t look the way you thought they should.”

I was born in Brussels. I’m British so, if you had listened, you might have been comforted by my voice, but you screamed so loud you couldn’t hear me. I feel guilty for causing you pain, for taking on such a form. It was a test God put me through: to the be the worst of all bad dreams, to be all nightmares’ most terrifying monster. I want you to know that you’re enough, no matter what anyone says. I want you to know that you’ll always be okay, no matter what has happened to you. I would hold you, but I came to you as a hedgehog with spines protruding from my body. Once, I was a clown, with a frown painted on my face—too red to be real. My face was painted a pale white and I wore a wig. I thought I looked silly. For once, I hoped I wouldn’t scare children. Maybe they would laugh, but, as I walked to the park in my disguise, my heart sank as I realized this was not the case.

Sally Sue burst into tears and ran away. Tommy Timington pointed at me and laughed, but then he screamed as I came closer.

“HE’S TRYING TO HURT ME.”

Half of my wish had come true, I suppose, but I wanted to be laughed with—not laughed at. Also, I wasn’t a predator. At least I was trying desperately not to be…No, I wasn’t. I’d never laid my hands on anyone. I’d never even uttered a mean word to anyone. On the contrary, I was just terrifying to look at. It was the definition of judging a book by its cover. My disguises always led to the worst-case scenario, and I had God to thank for that, but now I am in Heaven. I am a beautiful man, and everyone comes to see me. I have all kinds of friends in every part of the world, and I even answer prayers sometimes. This is my reward for persevering and, I must admit, it was worth it.

Timing: A Short Story

I’d do it again. I was playing in the band when they shot him. My name is Martha. Martha Cooke. I’m a pastry chef or, at least, I was. I went to jail for a few months—white collar crime: you know, I tried to pay fewer taxes than I was supposed to. That was wrong, I suppose. Of course, I’m not sure what’s wrong or right anymore. Some people say you’re not supposed to kill babies; other people say you’re not supposed to restrict women’s rights. You’re not supposed to impose your belief system on other people. I don’t know and, quite frankly, I’ve stopped caring. I used to care about the world. About the way people treated each other, but not anymore. I’ve stopped caring about anything actually. This place will do that to a person. Purgatory. I mean, it is what it is, I guess. It’s not horrible, it’s not great. It’s the definition of mediocre. So is the salad. Look, I wasn’t the best back on earth but hey, I wasn’t the worst either.

I was a millionaire, but I gave to the poor once a year. I had a million and I gave $10,000—enough for me to seem generous and remain comfortable. I cooked during the day. Had a daytime show and the whole works. I baked, I should say. I made all kinds of cookies but, mostly, I created elaborate cakes of all kinds. I was also a bass player and I jammed with that man. The man who was shot in the band. What was his name? I should remember this. Oh yeah. Florence. Florence McCarson—lead singer of The Lost Souls. Whoever the bastard was came in, shot my friend, and left before we could spot him. We didn’t even see anyone with a mask or anything. He made it quick, at least, though I hate to say that. I suppose it would have been much worse if the whole incident had been drawn out, but it wasn’t. I still remember the blood pooling around his body as I stared at him. It was honestly a bit disturbing. Well, really disturbing. I honestly wish I would have done something, but I didn’t. I did nothing at all. I just sat there and waited for someone to come and save me, but no one did. That’s my whole life really: waiting for someone to save me. There wasn’t a soul there. Not a soul at all. It was wrong of me to not say goodbye, but I was in shock. My body stiffed up and my mouth fell agape so I had no chance to say a word. My emotions got the better of me. I would have taken a bullet for Florence. I should have. I replay the memory in my mind every Friday—the rest of the week is good, then Friday creeps around and I realize how foolish it is to relive the past that I cannot change yet continue to attempt to despite myself. I would have jumped in front of him and been killed myself, yet it was too late. It was too late by the time I realized what was going on. It all happened in the span of a minute. It’s amazing how much a minute can change everything. The crowd was freaking out, screaming and running, leaving the beloved musician alone as he died—their adoration escaping them as they were consumed by fear. It’s horrible, the way people are. They care about you when you’re doing well and when everything’s good and then, when you’re literally dying, they snap into self-preservation mode and leave you alone, not giving a damn. I would put my hand to my mouth if I had one. Well, I do have one, but it’s all transparent because I’m (nearly) invisible. I shouldn’t say that word. It’s not banned here though. You don’t get into more trouble for swearing. You don’t get into trouble for anything at all really. Monotony is your punishment. Our punishment, I should say. I have a sweet little spot here. I’ve got a nice leather couch and a book shelf filled with tomes. They’re not my favorite ones, but they’re alright. Anne Rice is on here. So is Charles Dickens. Poe is a bit too dark for this place, and Nicholas Sparks is a bit too light, so I’m stuck with books that, for some people, would be incredible but, for me, they are just okay. Not particularly horrible or anything, but just not my favorite.

In the kitchen, there’s a pot of tea. I make a cup for myself every day. It’s always chamomile. One thing they don’t have a lot of here is options. I guess that’s my punishment for going a bit crazy with all of the resources I had when I was alive, well, and very, very rich. I spent too much money and that was that but, because I had so much of it, it didn’t make too much of a difference, so I just kept wanting more, and more, and more. Honestly, if I did commit a sin, it was indulgence. All of this was incredible, for a minute. Then I got tired of it. Tired of the comforts. Tired of the excessive nature of my life. I was quite lonely really. I didn’t have a husband and, although I would have settled for one, I didn’t have a wife either. I was 72 when I passed away of natural causes. Old age, I suppose, was what the doctor said. I outlived both of my parents and all of my friends. Sometimes, I wonder if my life was worth it. If I should have spent so much time making cakes when I could have been with friends and family. All of this was difficult. I could have been better, I suppose. I know I could have been. I could have been there when my mother was dying of cancer. I could have been there when my father passed away in his sleep, or when my sister was going through a divorce. Instead, I was slaving away by a hot oven, focused intently on baking cakes. I had to pay the rent, which was inordinately expensive, and it was all just too much. I made the wrong choices. That’s probably why I ended up here—too self-absorbed, as they say.

I thought I had no choice at the time, but I could have quit, if only for a month or two, or even five or six. I could have lived with my father, who outlived my mother, and taken care of her during her illness, but I didn’t. It was too much for me. If I’m being totally honest, I wanted to escape the situation. My sister was the one who was with her—not me. I remember her visiting me once, anger boiling through her veins.

“You need to be there for mom,” Karen said.

“I can’t be there. I have work to do. I have to pay the rent. I’m barely making ends meet as it is. I’m sorry, Karen, but I can’t do this.”

“You have to be there. You can stay with dad. You can stay with me. Anyone, Martha. Anyone. We need you here with mom. She wants to see you.”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at the kitchen counter, avoiding her gaze.

“I would lose everything, Karen. Everything. That’s six months we’re talking about, at least. Do you know how many clients I would lose?!”

“You selfish bitch!” She shouted.

She wasn’t wrong, exactly. I was a selfish bitch. I still am, I suppose. Even here in Purgatory, all I do all day is drink tea and read some novels. It’s a bit sad, really. I can’t bake anymore. I can’t do anything I love—only things I like. I used to play the bass, as I mentioned, but I stopped, even when I was alive: It reminded me too much of that day. The death day, I called it. The murder day would be more accurate.

I couldn’t play the bass anymore. There wasn’t an instrument here. I suppose I would have liked to if I had the opportunity, but that was one thing I didn’t have a lot of here: opportunity. The walls were painted grey and, although I had asked God if I could redo them in a nice muted lavender, he had said no.

“Your punishment is to be surrounded by dullness, and your reward is to be okay—to be more comfortable than you would be in Hell.”

“Alright. Thank you, Sir,” I’d responded, thinking it was likely a good idea to remain on my best behavior. I was speaking directly to God, after all. I wasn’t sure they’d let me do that here.

I’d run into a woman in my hall on the way back: It was the only time I was able to communicate with others because I was out of my room since I wanted to make a special request.

“We can talk to God?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty cool. I did it too.”

We both nodded at one another and went back to our respective rooms.

I looked at the rug. It was a granny green with faded roses. The floor was hardwood. There was one light above. I wanted it to be a chandelier. It wasn’t too hot though: there was a ceiling fan I could use, but no A.C. at all. This was all there was, well, aside from a small kitchenette. The problem was that there wasn’t much food to speak of: just cheese and crackers. Of course, it’s not like we can go grocery shopping here. We don’t have a currency. I suppose that’s why we’re all here: We weren’t quite responsible enough to go to Heaven. We had food, water, tea, and enough provisions for ghosts to live on though, so we weren’t quite in Hell. I’m sure this place is much better than Hell.

I wonder to myself where Florence McCarson ended up. He was a bit of a bastard, really, but I say that from a place of fondness. He would always crack crude jokes and enjoyed the darker side of humanity, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly, no matter how much it buzzed around him, provoking him completely. He was someone who was incredibly resilient. He wasn’t sensitive or anything like that, unless he was singing, of course. He didn’t deserve to die, but I wonder, sometimes, if he was good enough to go to Heaven. He was a good person and all, but he swore like a sailor. He had many rough edges, I’ll just put it that way. I just hope he’s alright, wherever he ended up. I’d hoped to see him after I died, but we can’t see one another here in Purgatory unless we are going to speak to God directly for special requests. We’re only allowed one of those every hundred years, so it’s not exactly lenient. The rest of the time, we must abide by the rules of The Man Upstairs. We must stay in one room and go about our days. I have a weekly calendar. I think they realized I couldn’t bear a lack of organization, what with having been a pastry chef back on earth and all. The only problem is that I don’t have a clock in here. I guess that makes sense, since I’m not in Heaven. I’m allowed to feel remotely good, but not great.