Tiger, Tiger – Part thirty one

snickering-tiger

Photo via Visualhunt

Lilavati knew that Ludger and Theda were watching her the entire time they were traveling that day. The storm drew closer and Lilavati could see everyone pulling out cloaks and covering things that were in burlap and canvas sacks.

Ludger tossed something to Theda. “Here, Great Lady,” Theda said, helping Lilavati put on a strange article of fabric. “The Great Lord sent this for you. It’s his spare rain cloak.”

“He said to tell you that you’re to stay in the cart, even when they cover it with canvas,” Ludger said. “Which is the same thing you were going to hear from me, so it’s good to know he understands how fragile you are.”

“How soon before we need to cover it?” Theda asked. The sky darkened and a blast of wind caused Lilavati to pull the cloak tighter around her.

Ludger smiled wryly at Theda. “How about now, Preester,” he said.

Theda jumped out and started helping where she could. It didn’t take long before a large piece of canvas was thrown over the top of the cart. Lilavati curled up on her side and waited.

“Let me out. Father, please let me out. I am not dead. Mother is. Father, let me out.”

Lilavati jerked, as if she’d been stabbed. She opened her eyes wide and tried to sit up. Her head brushed the canvas, but to her, it felt like wood. She shuddered and struggled against the cloak, which was now a burial shroud that she should never have been given.

“Father, father, I am not dead. I did not die. The tiikeri killed mother, not me. Why am I being wrapped in a burial sheet with her? Father, why will you not answer me? Father, why are you letting them say I am dead? Why do they call me a spirit? Father, they are hurting me. Father, father, do not go. Do not leave me!”

Lilavati screamed and thrashed around, struggling to find a way out of the hellish vision that now held her attention. She screamed her throat raw and still no one came. A little voice in the back of her mind told her that he was coming, her tiikeri. The one who would protect her, who was her mate, who stood with her. Once again she let the darkness consume her.

She woke but didn’t know where she was. Lilavati shuddered and tried to sit up. She was weaker than before. Someone sensed her movement for an arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer to a very warm body.

Lilavati turned her head. She found herself staring into a pair of accusatory amber eyes. “I told you to rest, dark scholar,” Manas said. “I wanted you to stay beneath the canvas, and yet I was told you nearly ruined the supplies by pulling it off. Why?”

Lilavati closed her eyes. The tremors started again. “It was a vision,” she whispered, not realizing she was speaking in her own tongue. She felt Manas pull her even closer, until her head was against his chest. She rested her cheek against it, listening to his heartbeat.

“What kind of vision?” Manas asked.

“Of my father,” Lilavati said. “And – I think – myself and my mother. Yet it was not my mother, for this woman was dead and my mother lives.”

“Tell me,” Manas said.

“We were being wrapped in a burial sheet. Mother was dead, which was why she was being prepared for her tomb. But I was still alive. My father watched everything happening. He was glaring at me, as if he hated me,” Lilavati said. Her voice broke. “I was pleading with him, asking him why I was being buried with my mother since I was still alive. He walked away, never answering me.”

“Do you know how your mother died?” Manas asked.

“A tiikeri,” Lilavati said. “She was killed by a tiikeri. I was telling my father it killed her, not me. I could not see either my mother’s face or my own body. But I saw the cold masks of the mortuary priests from the temple, and I saw my father’s hatred.” Lilavati burst into tears.

She heard muffled speaking, and then Manas’ voice cut across everything. “I don’t care what you say. Ludger, I’ve been weaker than this and still ridden. You’ve also said you had a few other saddles similar to mine. Do you have one that will fit Lilavati’s horse? And be comfortable for her?”

“Yes, Great Lord,” Ludger said. “But -.”

“There will be no more discussion,” Manas snapped. “I have given my orders. You will obey them.”

“Yes, Great Lord,” Ludger said. He stalked stiffly out of the tent.

“Great Lord,” Theda said, her tone sharing with them both her feelings.

“Preester, I am well aware of your thoughts on this. You’ve been telling me every chance you could get for the past two days,” Manas said. “No harm came to Lilavati, other than what her visions gave her. You say you can’t, as of yet, rid her of these dark dreams?”

“No, Great Lord. I’m not even sure what it was in the potion that affected her, and I’d rather not make the Great Lady even sicker by experimenting,” Theda said.

“I see,” Manas said. “Either find a way to end the curse, or start searching for a way to preserve my dark scholar’s mind when we draw closer to Phiri Hu.”

“I’ll do as you say, Great Lord,” Theda said.

“The rest of you, leave,” Manas said. “I’ll send one of my guards to summon you again if I need you.” Lilavati heard several soft voices, and the sound of fabric being moved. Then there was silence. Manas held her for a few heartbeats before drawing her in as close as he could. “My dark scholar, don’t ever do that to me again.” His voice cracked. “You are the other half of my soul. You are my life.” He paused. “You are the inkosi tiikeri, and I am your beast.”

to be continued…

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Tiger, Tiger – Part twenty two

tigre-de-sumatra

Photo via Visual hunt

Manas turned his face away. “I was up by the hearth fire, drinking a sweet warm drink. I no longer remember what it was. Those people who’d been so kind in taking me in returned from their travels, laughing and joking. The lord noticed me and asked if I’d like to see something ‘sure to brighten my spirits.'”

“He did not show you your own parents’ corpses,” Lilavati asked, gasping.

“Their heads,” Manas said. “I was shown the perfectly preserved heads of my mother, my father, and the dark mage. I screamed when I saw his and ran to the other side of the room. I swore to them I heard it speaking, telling me I was a traitor.” He finally met her gaze again. “They got me calmed down and explained that I was now lord of my lands and my people were waiting for me. So they sent me home with ‘advisors.'”

“Men who were selected to bend you into the kind of man your enemies wished you to be?” Lilavati asked.

Manas smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “They were my enemies, my dark scholar. I just didn’t know that until many years later.” He released one of her hands to rub his face. “I suffered under their thumb until I was sixteen. It was actually my birthing day celebration. Or rather, the night of. I’d gone to bed, though the revelry of my people and my personal council went on.”

He looked so pale, almost like one of the corpses she’d seen in her visions. “What happened?” she whispered.

“I don’t know when the beast started killing. I didn’t wake up until well after midnight. There were already corpses strewn everywhere in my courtyard. Being the young, headstrong, foolish boy I still was, I grabbed my bow and my sword and joined the defenders trying to kill it,” Manas said. “It knew when I walked outside. It ceased being interested in my people and honed in on me.”

“I was an apprentice at that time, so I too stood in defense of Phiri Hu,” Theda said. “This beast was massive.”

“What did it look like?” Lilavati asked.

“It was some kind of feline,” Manas said. “Eight heads  high at the shoulder, and with the muscle to match.”

“It was orange with black stripes, and some white on the belly and paws,” Theda said. “What you could still see of them. When I joined the fight, the creature’s pelt was sticky with blood.”

“A tiikeri?” Lilavati asked, her eyes widening as far as she could open them. “You fought a demon tiikeri and won?”

“Is that what you call them?” Manas asked.

“I am trying to think of the word in your language,” Lilavati said. She closed her eyes, calling up the images of the book of animals on her father’s desk. “Tiger? I think that is correct.” She opened her eyes again. “It was a demon tiger, in your tongue, that attacked you?”

Manas nodded. “As it drew closer, I could hear the chanting voice of that evil sorcerer. He’d come back from the Gardens of Despair to curse me. I couldn’t move. It was as if my very limbs were frozen.”

“Those around him remember him whispering over and over again the words no and you’re dead,” Theda said. “Then all of us lost consciousness when we heard the Great Lord scream.”

“The pain.” Manas shuddered. “I thought I was dying. According to the healers, I almost did die. But they saved my life. And in doing so cursed me until my last day.”

“But what form does this curse take? You have not told me,” Lilavati said.

“Let us stay with you tonight, Great Lord,” Theda said. “I can protect her.” Glancing at Lilavati’s face. “Though I have an odd feeling she’ll be safe around you no matter if I’m here or not.”

“Why?” Manas asked. “You said you’d tell us when we were alone.”

“Great Lady, do you recall what you heard about the markings on your face?” Theda asked.

Lilavati bit her lip, tugging at a few strands that had come loose from the traveling hood. “It was only a taunt used cruelly against an unwanted daughter,” she said. “My father punished my mother severely for it.”

“What was it?” Manas asked.

Lilavati took a deep breath. “She named me the inkosi tiikeri.” She paused. “The tiger’s keeper.”

to be continued…

A father’s secret

lipstick-woman-person

Photo via Visual hunt

Sabine watched stone faced as they lowered her father’s casket into the grave. All around her women wailed and men cried silently. She had no tears left. She’d cried them all during his long illness. Beside her, her sister Analiese sobbed into her husband’s shoulder.

When the funeral was over, the two sisters returned to the house Sabine had shared with her father over the past year. She was the one who’d taken care of him, tending him through the final phase of his illness. As soon as they walked through the door, Analiese shed all pretense of grief.

“So where’s his will?” she demanded, turning to Sabine.

“It’s with Uncle Phillip, who’s also the executor of the estate,” Sabine said. “We have to leave.”

“Leave? Why?” Analiese asked, glaring at her older sister.

“It was a stipulation the police were made aware of by Uncle Phillip,” Sabine said. “You aren’t allowed to take anything. All I can take are a week’s worth of clothing, my wallet, and some feminine products should my period start during the week we’re banned from the house.”

There was a loud knock on the door. Sabine turned around and opened it. Two police officers stood there. “Hello Sabine,” one of them said in a gentle voice.

“Hello Chris,” she said. “We just got here. Let me get my things and I’ll leave.”

“Okay.” He glared at Analiese until she and her husband left, muttering profanities all the way.

Sabine shoved what she needed into a duffel bag and headed out, stopping long enough to let Chris’ partner Bailey check to make sure she wasn’t taking anything she wasn’t allowed to. She was given the all clear and left.

She went to a motel and checked in, letting them know she’d be there for a week. Just as she got to the room she got a text from her Uncle Phillip. Your sister is already harassing me.

You expected anything different? Sabine sent back.

No. I just wasn’t planning on having to deal with her so soon, he replied.

That’s Analiese for you, Sabine sent back.

You take care of yourself, Sabine. It’ll all be over soon and you can get on with your life, Phillip sent.

I’ll be grateful for that, Sabine said. Thanks Uncle Phillip.

You’re welcome, sweetie. The texts stopped coming.

Exactly one week later, Sabine received a text. It wasn’t from her uncle, but from her aunt. He’s at the house. You should go there now. He told me to text you since he forgot before he started driving. There was a brief pause and then a second text came in. He also conveniently “forgot” to tell Analiese. I’m supposed to wait for an hour and then text her.

Sabine smiled, the first in a long time. Thanks Aunt Olivia. She once again shoved everything in the duffel and headed out. She paused long enough to pay for her room before returning to her father’s house.

Phillip was waiting for her. “I know this wait has been hard on you, Sabine,” he said, giving his niece a hug.

“Not as hard as watching what I did for the past year, Uncle Phillip,” Sabine aid.

Phillip nodded. “That’s very true. Tony was my brother, and I loved him dearly, but I think he relied on you too heavily.”

“I only did what any responsible, loving daughter would,” Sabine said. Her voice cracked. “And I loved him so much.”

“I know, Sabine. I know,” Phillip said, holding her close.

Analiese arrived an hour and a half later. “How did you get here before me?” she demanded, looking at Sabine who was sitting on the hood of her car.

“I didn’t go that far away,” Sabine said.

Analiese glared at their uncle. “So who gets what?”

“Well, as expected, the house and everything in it, Tony’s money, his cars, and pretty much the rest of his estate goes to Sabine, since she’s the only one who gave a rat’s ass about him over the past ten years,” Phillip said, smirking as his younger niece let out a shriek. “He did leave you something though, Analiese.”

“What?” she demanded.

“This picture,” Phillip said, pulling out a photo. “If you can name who she is.”

Analiese snatched the photo and threw it to the ground. “You can all go to hell,” she snarled. She and her husband stormed off.

“May I see the photo, Uncle Phillip?” Sabine asked.

“Of course, since it’s yours now,” Phillip said with a laugh. He picked it up and handed it to her.

She inspected the picture. It was of a woman in partial profile. Her hair was long and full of loose curls, much like Sabine’s own hair. She had gorgeous blue eyes, but the most striking thing was the full lips, highlighted by bright red lipstick. She wasn’t sure if the woman was naked or wearing something that just left her shoulders bare, but you couldn’t see anything below them, so she didn’t worry about it.

She frowned. The face was familiar. She saw it when she looked in the mirror every morning, with small variations that came from her father. She looked up at her uncle. “I’d say this was our mother, but mom was a red head who always kept her hair short and permed. She also wasn’t this beautiful.”

Phillip smiled gently. “She’s not Analiese’s mother, Sabine. She’s your mother. Carolyn was Tony’s second wife. That is Bethany Cooper-Harper, one of the kindest, most elegant women I’ve ever known.”

Sabine pressed the picture to her chest. “Will you tell me about her, Uncle Phillip?”

“All you need to know is written in both her journals and your father’s, and they’re up in the attic,” Phillip said. “I know you’ll enjoy reading those.”

Sabine looked down at the picture again. “This is worth more to me than the entire estate.” Phillip put a hand on his niece’s shoulder and kept it there as she stared into the face of a woman she’d never known.

I love you Mom

Melissa Mom Alissa Maegan Shandra

(This picture contains my older sister Melissa – who passed away from cancer in 2016, my mom – who passed away from cancer in 2003, my niece Alissa – who is Melissa’s youngest daughter, my youngest sister Maegan – who is mentally disabled and will never be able to live on her own, and my niece Shandra – Melissa’s oldest daughter.)

My mom. I still have so many conflicting emotions about her. My childhood wasn’t great living with her, but those two years before her death were amazing, and those are the ones I’m choosing to focus on more and more often now. She was so excited about my Katie being born. She so desperately wanted to be there. But her doctor told her that wasn’t going to happen. She went from diagnosis to death in three weeks – stage 4 stomach cancer that would have been discovered if her asshole doctor had just listened to her instead of brushing her off, telling her to “get a hobby” and that she was “depressed.”

Today would have been my mom’s 78th birthday. I often think about how life would have been different if she’d survived her cancer. Would we have lost our kids? Would we have ended up living on the coast? Would I have tried to commit suicide in 2013? Would she have abandoned us if we had lost the kids like the rest of our families did at that point in our lives?

Of course, the answer to all of these questions is “I don’t know.” I’ve been asked how I can love my mom after all she did to me. Well, I can honestly say my childhood wasn’t all bad. I do have a ton of happy memories from it too. There was a lot of uncertainty and fear growing up in my parents’ house, about whether my mom’s mental illness – though none of us knew anything about bipolar disorder back then – would cause me problems or not, but we had a lot of fun too.

Like cooking lessons. On her good days, those were a blast. She was teaching me how to make chocolate chip cookies and had to run to the bathroom. I was 10 I think. She told me when the timer went off I was supposed to pull the cookies out of the oven. Except she forgot to set the timer. I realized this and decided to help. I looked at the recipe, saw it said 10 minutes, and then set the timer – it was one of the ones where you twisted the dial past 10  and then you could sent the time. I watched the timer and when it dinged I pulled out the cookies.

They were burnt. I was horrified (and a little scared – mom’s nature being what it was back then) that I was going to get yelled at. Mom came out and looked at them, then looked at the timer. “I didn’t set the timer, did I?” I explained what I’d done. She just laughed and showed me how to do it properly. And that the recipe said 8 to 10 minutes and that 8 minutes was almost too much in our oven. She usually only put them in for 6. She threw away the burnt cookies and we carried on.

Then there were the camping trips. Oh the camping trips. My dad was a workaholic when I was growing up, but when he took his vacation in the summer, we did two things – went to visit my grandparents and went camping. My visits to my grandparents were never comfortable, but that’s for another post. Let’s talk camping.

I think being outdoors was soothing to my mom. She loved camping, going for picnics, going fishing, doing anything she could outside. On our camping trips, we’d go to one of our favorite campgrounds in two cars. Up until I was probably 14 or 15, dad would be driving the old pickup he bought in the late 60s packed full of our camping gear while mom brought me and my little sister in the second car behind him, along with spare gear, most of the food, and whatever else we thought we couldn’t live without.

She and dad would set up the tent, and once I was strong enough to help, I’d help pound in tent stakes. We’d get the canopy up over the table in case of rain. And when I was a kid, it rained a lot more than it does now in southern Idaho. At least it seemed to me it did because just about every single camping trip we got rained on.

We used an old gold pan (the type you use when you go panning for gold, not one made of gold) that had it’s bottom sealed as our wash basin. We washed dishes in it. We washed our hands and faces in it. Water was boiled, first on a charcoal grill we packed with us, and then on the Coleman gas grill we started carrying because it was lighter and cheaper to pack around. Cold water was added to make it easier to use for all of us.

Dad would cook, we would eat, mom and I would do the dishes, and then we’d all scatter to do whatever during the day – usually hiking or playing in the river. We always seemed to manage to snag the campground with the path right down to the water. It was my parents’ favorite spot.

At night, after dinner, we’d gather around the fire pit that dad would have lit before dinner, and tended while we ate. It would be just about right. We’d talk for a bit and then dad would break out the makeshift skewers that had been a part of our family for years – wire hangers he’d bent and twisted into long metal rods with a twisted ring and the end that we held. We’d roast marshmallows and talk and laugh. Maegan always took her marshmallows to my mom to eat, and mom would dutifully eat them. After four or five, she’d tell my sister she’d had enough and Maegan would give her skewer to dad, who burnt off the residue and set the skewer aside for the next night.

After thatwe’d light the lamps – kerosene with the little sock like burning wicks – and play cards, Yahtzee, and everything else we could think of. Then I’d read, mom would write (she’s the one who fed my interest in becoming an author), Maegan would be put to bed, and dad would do whatever it was dad did. Sometimes strum on his guitar, before his hands got too bad. Sometimes whittling. Sometimes just sitting back with his feet by the fire pit, watching me and mom.

Then there were the rare times we made it to the coast. Oh, the smiles on my mom’s face when we got to do that. I remember one time, I think I was still in Job Corps but I can’t place what I was doing or when exactly it was for sure – memories being what they are, but I do know it happened because my dad has pictures, we went to the coast while I was living in Washington.

Dad huddled in his windbreaker with the camera while mom, Maegan, and I ran down to the edge of the water. It was a gray, windy day with a light, misting rain. Pretty normal for the coast, actually. We laughed, dug for sand dollars, and just had a great time. Mom’s grin was the biggest as we held up our finds for my dad to take our pictures. She laughed, ran around with me and Maegan, and was so happy. I loved seeing her like that.

A friend of mine, right after mom’s funeral, offered to paint a portrait of my mom from any photograph I could send her (she lived in Australia at the time.) Dad picked one from that trip, with mom laughing and the wind in her hair. I sent it to her, and about 3 months later, we got a package back from Australia. Inside was the photo we’d sent, and an incredibly well done portrait of my mother laughing. My dad kept it up on the wall until he remarried. I’ve told him when he dies I want that picture. He’s agreed I can have it.

He knows I’m not the one most hurt by my mom. My older siblings got that. I’m nine years younger than my next oldest sister and there were three older than me. (It went Clayton – my brother, Melissa – who passed away last year, and Amy – the one who’s closest to me in age among my older siblings…and she’s the one who’s nine years older than me.) But he knows that I bore the brunt of things so my little sister, who wouldn’t have understood any of it, didn’t suffer what I was. He knew I took the abuse my mom would have put on her, which in turn made me a bit of a bully towards Maegan at times because I didn’t think it was fair I had to do this for her, but in the end my protective nature towards my little sister won out and I continued protecting her for as long as I could.

When I moved out for good (or so I thought), when I went to Washington, I was terrified. Not only homesick, but because I was still Maegan’s protector. But at that point I was so lost in my own life, I didn’t realize my mom was already changing. I didn’t know that she was already seeking help, that she’d been reading a lot and had found out that my diagnosis of bipolar (when I was 16 – I was 22 when I went to Washington) was quite possibly her problem too.

My dad told me she found someone who listened to her and started her on a string of medications that at first made it worse, but within six months, they’d gotten her cocktail right and she was a whole new person. She could laugh, live, love, and wasn’t afraid of hurting her children anymore. Unfortunately, cancer took her before we could get to know this new mom better.

The others said their goodbyes but I don’t know that they ever really forgave her. I know they didn’t say that they did, even though she asked them. I was the only one who said I forgave her, though at the time I didn’t know if I really did. I don’t know that I have completely yet, but I am learning to let go of the negative and remember the positive. More and more I’m remembering the laughing, happy woman from my past, and not the abuse I grew up with. My thoughts are no longer focused only on that.

So, once more –

I love you Mom. Happy birthday! I miss you every day.

All time runs out

close-up-of-wristwatch

Photo via VisualHunt.com

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

Kevin glared at Stephen. “Your watch is loud,” he snapped.

“I’m aware of that,” Stephen said, completely unfazed by the other man’s irritation. “It’s not as if I can’t hear it too.”

“So why do you wear it?” Kevin asked.

“I like it,” Stephen said. “It’s a classic.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. Everything with his former business partner had to be a “classic.” From his suits to his cars to his girlfriends. It was all he wanted in life. He studied philosophers, literature, and science. He had several doctorates in things Kevin had no interest in. He was considered well educated and an expert in many fields. Kevin thought he was a bore.

The younger man preferred the fast life. He drove sports cars, attended parties, and dated super models and movie actresses. He had two children he was paying child support on, but it was a drop in the bucket of what he held in offshore accounts. Of course, he kept enough in the States that the government didn’t get too suspicious of his lifestyle being beyond his means. The offshore accounts were if things went south so he could leave and still be comfortable.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Do you have any idea why we’re in Zack’s lawyer’s office?” Kevin asked.

“I haven’t heard from Zachary Richardson in ten years, so getting the summons from his attorney was as much of a shock to me as I’m sure it was to you,” Stephen said. “We must be patient and wait to see what we’re needed for.”

Before Kevin could reply, the door opened and a tall, thin man appeared. “Mr. Williamson, Mr. Nichols, thank you for coming. Please follow me.” Kevin and Stephen stood and were led into a large conference room. A petite blond all in black with red rimmed eyes was sitting there with a young boy. She glowered at the two men.  They took the seats they were pointed to and waited.

“I can’t see why they have to be here,” the woman said. “They have nothing to do with Zack.”

“Actually Mrs. Richardson, your husband specifically named them in his will,” the attorney said. “So I am required by law to have them present for the reading.” The woman scowled but fell silent.

“Will?” Kevin asked. “You mean Zack’s dead?”

“Yes Mr. Nichols,” the attorney said. “He passed away a week ago.” Kevin couldn’t say anything else and waited. The attorney cleared his throat. “I won’t read all of the legalese. It would be boring and waste everyone’s time. All of his wealth, worldly possessions, and all but two of his properties are yours, Mrs. Richardson. The two remaining properties now belong to Mr. Williamson and Mr. Nichols.”

“Which properties belong to them?” Mrs. Richardson asked.

“Mr. Williamson, your estate is in Greece,” the attorney said. “It is in the classic Greek style, something Mr. Richardson knew you liked.” Stephen smiled, though tears trickled down his cheeks.

“And mine?” Kevin asked.

“Yours, Mr. Nichols, is – a graveyard.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Kevin stared at him in shock. “What kind of bad joke is this?” he demanded. “Stephen gets a Greek villa and I get a graveyard? What’s so special about that?”

“It’s where you’re buried, Mr. Nichols,” the attorney said with a peculiar smile.

“It’s what?” Kevin burst into laughter. “Don’t you mean it’s where Zack’s buried? He’s the dead one.”

The attorney shook his head. “Look around the room again, Mr. Nichols.”

Kevin did as he was told. There, sitting across the table, wasn’t the petite blond woman with the young boy. Instead it was a fiery red head with a pair of equally as red haired twin girls. The woman was pale, as if she was in shock. The girls were sobbing into the sleeves on a pair of jackets he recognized as the ones he’d given to his two daughters the year before.

He turned to look at Stephen. His old business partner seemed weighed down by grief. His normally stoic expression was twisted in a kind of agony Kevin remembered from the day when his own best friend had died in a seventeen car pile up on the freeway.

“What’s going on?” Kevin demanded.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“You lived too fast a life, Mr. Nichols. It caught up with you. The mafia decided you were a threat and sent several of their people to try to force you to leave town. You argued with them and they opened fire. Your lady friend and your daughters were fine. You were hit multiple times. The doctors at JC Memorial worked heroically to save you, but three bullets to the chest and two to the head just isn’t something you wake up from,” the attorney said. He stood. “You have a choice, Mr. Nichols. You can remain in this room, watch the tormented faces of your loved ones for eternity. Or you can leave through that door and face whatever fate awaits you in the afterlife. It’s your decision.”

“What is my fate going to be?” Kevin asked.

The attorney shrugged. “I don’t know. No one does until they get there. Consider this a waypoint before your final journey.” He turned and left the room. Kevin looked at his sobbing daughters and his distraught girlfriend. Tearing his gaze away from then, he looked over at the nondescript gray door the attorney had pointed out. His feet shuffled as he crossed the faded carpet. His hand touched the knob.

Tick. Tick. Ti-