Ad Infinitum

Raging through the atmosphere, my soul effervescent. The dark and light swirling and blurring. My eyes ever onward, forward, straining to reach that celestial haven. Then a screaming halt, my soul rocketing away from my being. This couldn’t be. The cosmos whispered, it’s voice both ancient and young, “Not worthy.” Followed by crushing darkness.

* * *

Such bright light, then, nothing. I was dead. This I knew. I was rejected. This I knew, too. That grandiose idea of afterlife, perfection, heaven - gone. I was back in the cottage by the Atlantic. The waves a constant roar. What I wouldn’t give to feel the icy water. To feel anything. Now that I was in limbo.

For years, I remained. I watched my home diminish. The roof, crack and leak. The worn and loved furniture, crumble. I had no feeling except regret. I existed, remorse my only companion.

One day, a young girl walked outside the cottage. The sea raged behind the dune. She stopped before it, her head tilting, deep in thought. I watched through the cracked glass and still remained.

Time went by, the girl came back. She came into my home. Explored each corner while I sat in my chair, facing the cracked window toward the sea, always unseen.

Eventually, she brought my home back to life. Repaired the roof. Removed the furniture. And still I felt nothing.

I watched her live her life - cook breakfast, go on long walks, plant a small garden. She was kind, thoughtful, creative. She donated produce from her garden, wrote loving letters to family and painted. She was no great talent, but her love for it came through in each stroke, each color held to the light shining through the now perfect window. She was happy, but struggling.

Still I watched and eventually, I felt.

It started as worry. Winter was here, the cold gusts from the ocean unforgiving. She shivered without enough fire wood, wrapped in blankets to fight off the cold. Soon I felt fear, her canned garden vegetables stretching too far, her frame too thin.

Then, I remembered. I could save her. This artist’s soul. As she dozed in the chair by the embers of the fire, I reached out tentatively and touched her hand. The memories appearing before me, surrounding me. I showed her where I hid it, my journal, worn and black leather, now cracked and brown with age. The J for Jonas, my name once, almost chipped off entirely. Hidden beneath the floorboard under the now perfect window.

She woke with a start. Jumping out of her seat, cold forgotten by the rush of adrenaline shooting through her body. She went to the floorboard, loose and inconspicuous. There was the journal. Disbelief etched on her face.

Lighting a candle, she returned to the chair and read about my life. My unworthy life. The son of an admiral. Rising through the ranks, my father never satisfied with my achievements. Do more, be better, attain greatness. She read of my encounter with the smugglers, that I killed their captain and stole their fortune. I had known they would seek revenge. I returned to this small cottage, my sanctuary, and hid, a remorseful coward, until they found me and ended my existence.

They did not find my journal, however, which told where I buried their coins. The girl, stunned, donned a coat and went to the dune. The wind whipped her hair about her face, the ocean constant in its loud volume. She dug and dug and, finally, found it - my blood money. She faced the cottage, tears in her eyes, not only because of the money, approximately $20,000.00, but she cried for me. For my soul. “Jonas, thank you,” she breathed.

After a life, and afterlife, of feeling unworthy, I felt good, complete. This money which had cost me my very soul, would now save the beautiful soul of another.

* * *

Rushing upward, searing through the stars, I felt everything at once. Overwhelmed, but euphoric in my redemption. A whisper from that voice, both lovely and terrifying, a declaration, “Worthy.”