The Complex Death

By: Zachary Silvia

    I woke to the sound of dripping water in a room lit only by one forty-watt light bulb planted in a lamp that was far out of my reach. As I sat upright I looked around only to find an industrial-size washbasin on one side of the room, the cot I was apparently sleeping on, and, that lamp that happened to be in the corner of the room. There was also a large brass door with no handle, just a safety latch. It looked like the entrance to some sort of sadistic meat locker.   

    If you were to ask me where I was the only educated guess I would offer is that I was in some industrial slaughterhouse turned into a nightclub for cadavers. I would also like to let you know that, aside from the cockroaches swarming to-and-fro, conducting their meaningless daily feeding frenzies, I was very much alone.

    Part of me felt good about being alone. I do not operate well in awkward situations such as this. And sharing this moment would only complicate matters more. On the other hand, I was secretly praying for someone to pop in and say "Zach, welcome to (insert your lavish, five-star shit-hole). But in all honesty, the only thing I could imagine popping in for nice visit is some nightmarish creature like those of the Hellraiser movies. Then, much to my amazement that very thing did happen. Only it wasn’t exactly a scene from Hellraiser, but it was pretty goddamn close.

    A six-year-old girl wearing a red dress with white long-stockings and blonde, pig-tailed hair entered my cell. She swiftly walked up to me and stopped an inch from my face, pressing her nose against mine. I could smell her minty-fresh breath. Then in an instant, her jaw dropped and she shrieked. The noise coming from her orifice annihilated my eardrums and instantly made me bleed. The forty-watt light bulb you and I discussed earlier burst and sent powdery glass shrapnel soaring at a devastating pace, plunging directly through my foot. Then she stopped.

    I dropped defenseless to the cool, damp floor and began to cry in pain. In the darkness the hellish child could still see me. The little brat was even giggling. She then put her lips up to my warm, red ear and whispered "whimpy-whimpy, poo-poo".

    I got up and lunged at her. I was going to snap her neck. Instead of heading for her, my ankle twisted and my head clipped the edge of the washbasin. Blood spewed out like the waters of Old Faithful.

    "Ah, ah," said the child, "that’s what got you here in the first place". Then she laughed a devilish laugh. She was in hysterics. She walked to the door and exited the room, leaving the door open. I took the chance and bolted out of the room, introducing my foot to a whole new world of pain upon every step.

    As soon as I passed through the door I fell. However this wasn’t "falling" in the "have a nice trip see you next fall" sense. It was as if I consciously ran off the roof of a New York skyscraper.

    As I fell closer to the earth below, the dark basement haze turned into a heavenly bright blue. There were even puffy, white clouds all around. Then reality hit and so did the ground. Luckily it was soft, but I still think I broke my jaw.

    I stood up in the warm, green grass and looked ahead. In the distance I could see the silhouette of a man writing under a large apple tree. So, naturally, I headed over to greet him.

    "Hello!" I cried" Sir! Sir! Can you help me sir!" As I approached he exited his current train of thought to give notice to my battered self.

    "Help? Depends on what kind of help you seek. If you mean it in the ‘help me I’m lost’ sense then I think philosophically speaking we all need ‘help’. However if you mean it in the ‘show me the way out of here’ sense then you might as well keep running like the bloodied fool you are because you’re not gonna get any help from me."

    What a kind man he was. But I had to try anyway.

    "Sir, I need you…." I said.

    "Ah, you were not listening to me. I know what you were going to say before you even said it. I will not help you. And please stop calling me ‘sir’, I am not ‘sir’ I am Ernesto Hemingway."

    As if things could not turn anymore for the worse I had to get stuck in a strange place with Ernest Hemingway? What kind of god-forsaken place was this? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with Ernest Hemingway, but this wasn’t the time and he wasn’t the person to guide me back to my normal life. And besides, I thought Ernest Hemingway was dead.

    " Ernest Hemingway? I thought you were dead…"

    "Some seem to think I’m immortal. I guess I am immortal technically speaking. But I am also very much dead as you say."

    "I thought so, you died over forty years ago. But then how are you here?"

    "Why don’t you first tell me why you are here?"

    "I was trying to figure that out myself. I think I was kidnapped then brought taken to some slaughterhouse where some little brat screamed in my face and that’s where I got this bloody foot and face…"

    "Hahaha, I see you’ve met Allison. She shows up every now and then. You’ll just have to learn to deal with her."

    "Well that’s the thing, there won’t be a next time I’m leaving as soon as possible."

    "I don’t believe you’re going anywhere. You really don’t get it do you. We are in a place often referred to as hell. There is no escape. You were chosen to be here for an eternity, as was I. Over time you will start to remember things from your life, and they will make you depressed. Then the day will come when you remember the reason why you are here. I can assure you that your coming suicide attempts are useless, since you are already dead. You can try I suppose but you’ll only be torturing yourself. I tried to slit my wrists with my fountain pen. It bled for years."

    "Hell, what a crock. I cannot be dead. And I never did anything to deserve hell anyway. You’ll see this is all just a big mistake." I knew he was right but who wants to come to terms with that?

    "Suit yourself. But the longer you wait to realize where you are, the worse it will be when you remember your life. Let’s walk, I’m tired of this place I’ve been here for months."

    "How do you tell time in hell?"

    "You don’t, I say it as a figure of speech. In reality there is no time in hell. And why should there be? We’re all here for the same length anyway."

    We walked for what seemed to be hours, but like Ernest said, that is irrelevant. This place was kind of pretty for being hell. I could see myself getting used to it. We walked until we reached the side of a road, which, on the opposite side, had rows of cornfields spanning its length in each direction and seemed to travel for miles. I broke the silence and asked Mr. Hemingway if we should head left or right. He laughed and said, "In both life and death no matter which direction we travel, we all end up in the same place." So we went left.

    We continued to walk in silence and by now the once beautiful, rolling green grass morphed into brown, dead strands of retired cells. As the grass died I began to remember a little about my life, and how I ended up here. I recalled working or playing in a mill with some of my friends. I remembered smashing glass off of a second story balcony. Scratch what I said about the working or playing, we were taking photographs of the abandoned mill. This is all I could remember at this time.

    I didn’t mention a word of this to Mr. Hemingway.

    The browning grass had now turned to loose soil and the sun appeared to be beating on us a lot harder. I could feel the formation of premature sunburn on my forehead. Ernest was sweating profusely and, now that I think about it, so was I. My clothing was drenched.

    On the horizon I could see a gas station slowly coming at us. After walking this much you begin to wonder if you are actually in motion, or if the earth is moving underneath you as if you were on a treadmill. I could see a woman pumping gas into a blur Ford pickup truck. As we approached we diverted her attention and she stopped pumping and stared at us.

    "Heya boys!" She called out, "It ain’t every day you run into people ’round these parts. What ya’ll doin’ round here?"

    "Not much" said Mr. Hemingway, "Just trying to enjoy a beautiful day in hell, I guess. Pardon me; my name is Ernesto Hemingway. Pleasure to meet you Ms…."
"Ms. Monroe, but you can call Marilyn. And what’s your name young fella?"

    "Sorry, my name is Zach."

    "Just Zach?"

    "Yes," I replied. I don’t take kindly to strangers I guess. "Yes it is just Zach."

    "Well then, hello Just Zach. Pleasure to see so many kind faces. It gets lonely out here you know."

    What a sarcastic bitch. I hate celebrities like her. I decided that to be a ball-buster I’d refer to her by her real name, Norma Jean.

    "So Ms. Monr…. excuse me, Marilyn. Where are you headed?" I think Ernest was kind of taking a liking to her. There was a sense of flirtation in his speech. "And where ever it is, could you give us a ride?"

    "Sure thing hun’. Although, I don’t exactly know where I’m goin’. You know how things get out here. Anyway get in the truck."

    We set off in the direction Ernest and I had previously traveled, but the grass didn’t turn back to green. However the cornfields still dominated one side of the road. Ernest and Norma Jean talked for quite some time and I began to drift off into sleep.

****************************

    I dreamt that my friends and I were back in that mill I told you about earlier and we were snapping photographs of interesting objects struggling between light and dark. Rob, who wasn’t taking any photographs took hold of some empty beer bottles and began to smash them.

    "That’s what I think of you’re drunken lifestyle!" He yelled to Ron and we all laughed. Then Ron grabbed a half-full bottle and threw it at Rob to scare him. Rob ducked and the bottle smashed on the wall behind him. I witnessed the whole event from the balcony above. To take part in this game I grabbed a pane of glass that had been previously knocked out of a window. I tossed it over the edge of the balcony without thinking and it landed directly on Ron, slicing the side of his face and finally resting in his neck. He died immediately.

    Ashley screamed a blood-curdling scream, which made my ears bleed. Everyone reacts differently when others die in front of his or her face. And any remorse I was supposed to feel at that time just wasn’t there. But I still felt I had to take responsibility for my actions. I stepped up to the edge of the balcony a dove headfirst. On my way down I clipped the corner of an industrial washbasin, killing myself instantly. I guess that is how I arrived here.

****************************

    When I awoke from that nightmare I was in tears. Ernest had taken notice to this and was laughing hysterically.

    "I was wondering when you would finally remember. I could see your dream as you slept. Quite and interesting situation you had there. Rob and Ashley must really love you for what you’ve done!" He continued to laugh. I sobbed like a little child.

    "Oh don’t be such a baby Zach!" giggled Norma Jean, "You’re friends will be here soon enough to let ya’ know what they think of you."

    I got up and yelled directly in Ernest’s face.

    "Oh yeah, why don’t you tell us your story then huh?" I screamed, "I bet you weren’t any much better!"

    "Actually," he replied smoothly, "I didn’t do anything wrong in my life. People actually liked me for who I was."

    "Then how did you end up here? Huh!" I think Ernest though he was actually going to get away with something. "Everybody has a reason for being here!"

    "Look," he grabbed me by the hair stared coldly into my eyes, "I already told you why I’m here. You were just to stupid to hear me say it!"

    I took a shot at his face, but missed. "Liar! You goddamn liar!"

    The truck then struck something very large and it went up on two wheels. We hit a pothole, sending the truck into the cornfields and stopping the vehicle abruptly. We all got out and ran back forty feet. On the roadside laid Allison, the demonic child I met earlier.

    "Stay away from her!" I shouted, "Stay away"

    "You’re already screwed," said Norma Jean.

    Allison lifted her mangled body off the road and appeared to levitate. She laughed as she coughed up blood and began to glide towards me.

    "Stupid boy," she whispered, "You wimp."

    I began to cry out fear of the coming pain. There is nothing worse than anticipating disaster. The child grabbed me by the neck and swung me up over her shoulders, then slammed me directly into the ground. She continued to pound me down until the pavement cracked. I could taste the soil beneath the pavement. She then soared up approximately sixty feet in the air and then sent me head first into the ground shattering my skull with the force comparable to a plane crash. The final assault on the pavement sent my entire body busting through the ground. Instead of being firmly planted into the soil below (as I should have been), I was again falling. This time I fell and landed in the mill I had died in.

    I rose and looked up at the balcony I dropped glass from what now seemed ages ago. Mr. Hemingway and Norma Jean were standing upright and were highly amused.

"So was it one of these panes of glass?" Norma asked, holding up a square of glass.

    "Yes," I replied then asked, "Please put it down. How come I’m the only one being tortured? You should have gotten punished just like me!"

    "And why?" Ernest asked, "This is your pre-death hell, not ours."

    "My pre-death hell?"

    "Yes Zach! Christ do we have to explain everything to you?" Norma Jean said. She was getting very irritated. "If you are this stupid now I could only imagine how you were in life. Then again you did murder your friend in the name of fun."

    "What she means Zach is that before one dies they experience a dream state that simulates hell, but is really just a distorted collection of memories. When one reaches the dream state while asleep the whole experience can appear to last months, even years; but in reality the whole thing only lasts a few seconds. Did you know that you’ve only been dead for ten seconds? Your friends are still hunched over your dead body in that mill and your friend Ron is experiencing something very similar to this right now. You can end this experience at any time, but that will be the end of your life. You will not go to any other place but your grave."

    "I can end this suffering right now?" I asked. This seemed to be quite a deal.

    "Yes, you could end it now…however you must realize that after this you are nothing. Your body will shut down and even your mind cease to exist. We will disappear and so will you. You will become nothing more than the memory of others. The only alternative is to live in this hellish dream state until you give up."

    "It’s quite the catch-22 ain’t it Zach! Ain’t it lovely!" Said Norma Jean. "I just love these situations."

    "So you mean to tell me that in order to stay a conscious being I have to suffer for eternity?"

    "Yes, only it wouldn’t of been suffering if you didn’t live such a terrible life. If you had a pleasant life, you’d have pleasant memories. Sort of like the field with the apple tree you found me under."

    For the first time ever I honestly had no idea what to do with myself. I couldn’t comprehend the idea of not mentally existing, but it was a reality I had to face. Or I could stay alive locked in memories of life in this devilish lucid dream. I looked up and saw that now Allison had come back again for another beating. Her hands were behind her back as if she were to ask me which hand the toy was hidden in. I cannot even describe the demonic smile twisting the pink of her lips.

    "Well whimpy boy," the child whispered, "are you ready to play?"

    Although I had another option, this seemed like the obvious decision. I looked up and said, "Yes, I am ready to play."

    Allison giggled and from her back she unsheathed a rusty, steel knife…