The Drazen World: Purgatory (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Purgatory

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16~ Hunter

  Chapter 17~ Gabby

  Epilogue ~ Gabby

  THE END

  Author's Note

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Flip City Media Inc.. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original The Drazen World remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Flip City Media Inc., or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  copyright ©2017 by Eva LeNoir.

  All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original works comprising the Drazen World remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Flip City Media, Inc., or their affiliates or licensees.

  Purgatory

  by

  Eva LeNoir

  To Christine Reiss aka #BookCrackGoddess.

  You broke my heart when you killed Gabby. So, I brought her back to life.

  Thank you for creating her.

  Prologue

  Tonight, I walked off the end of the Santa Monica pier.

  I purposefully placed myself in a situation that created a devastating ripple effect, affecting the lives of many and yet, too few for my liking. I know I'm no longer alive, but somehow, I don't feel as though I'm dead. I’m in the middle of the nowhere-in-particular. In the eye of the hurricane or the crater of a dormant volcano. It's quiet, but I know deep down in my gut that the turmoil is just around the bend. This limbo is the story of my life and the reason for my death. I'm always just out of reach of happiness, of fulfillment, but at the same time not completely in the depths of Hell.

  I had wanted it all to end, but...nothing had truly begun.

  I had wanted to be happy, but...my mind would never allow it.

  I had wanted to dive into the darkness, but...I was too afraid of succeeding.

  I had wanted to live but...life was just a series of disappointments that I could no longer endure.

  So, I created a circumstance where, ultimately, the decision was not my own. The consequences not mine to bear. The guilt...oh the fucking guilt, was not mine to carry.

  I stopped my medication, I drank and then I walked off the end of the pier.

  But like the story of my life, the epilogue is just as fucked up.

  My name is Gabby and I'm in Purgatory. Unfortunately, this is not a euphemism. This is the story of my death and then some.

  Chapter 1

  "Do you understand, Gabby, why you are here?"

  It was the third time the old man had asked me that question. All I heard was blah blah fucking blah. I was too distracted by my surroundings to focus on details of conversation. The fact that he creepily resembled a cross between Santa Claus and God himself, was mildly destabilizing but that wasn't the worst of it all. No, what kept my mind wandering to anything except his words was the decor.

  We were sitting in an office of sorts. The walls were bookshelves without a single book inside. It reminded me of an old piano I had once seen, the black and white keys had been removed so they could be restored to their original beauty. I remembered thinking that a soundless instrument was an abomination. These bookshelves were much the same.

  The sadness slithered from my chest and radiated out toward my extremities until even my fingers and toes were bathed in a painless agony. Somehow, I had convinced myself that dying would be the sole cure for my ailment. The magic pill against the darkness that controlled my every move, thought and opinion. I ardently believed crossing over to ‘the other side’ would lead to a brightly lit tunnel with angelic music guiding my way into immediate happiness. Just one more fuck-up on my long, inexhaustible list of them.

  "Gabby?" Oh, him again.

  "Yes."

  "Yes, you understand?"

  "Why is everything charcoal gray?" I needed answers before I could continue, longed for the familiarity of knowledge

  "Why do you think it's charcoal gray, Gabby?" His even, calm voice never fluctuated. The pitch annoyingly stable and yet not necessarily monotone. How did he do that? It was painful to my musical ear. My mind was spinning in ten different directions, trying to understand how the sound coming from his mouth could have no variations. By definition, sounds had their own pitch, their own scales. This was insanely unnatural.

  "Why are the bookshelves empty? It's a waste of space." And immeasurably sad.

  "Why do you think the bookshelves are empty, Gabby?" Jesus All-Fucking-Mighty.

  "Are you fucking kidding me right now? I didn't die just so I could be analyzed by some after life ‘death shrink’. Trust me, I've had my share of the living kind. I don't fucking know why the room is completely gray. I don't know why the bookshelves are devoid of books. I don't know why your desk is completely bare. Why are you sitting there looking like you just stepped out of the freaking Bible and yet wearing a three-piece suit that looks like it cost more money than all the Kardashian's asses put together? Who are you? Are you God?"

  I watched the man throughout my tirade. Not a flinch, not a frown, not a single reaction. At that moment, I wished I had my laptop so I could do a thorough web search for his man. Find out everything about him. Cross-reference him with all the Biblical characters I'd heard of throughout my life. But then, I supposed there wasn't a Purgatoryclassified.com for me to actually get these deets.

  He sat back on his office chair, his mouth in an honest smile, his eyes never leaving mine. "No, Gabby. I'm not God. I'm his personal assistant."

  It took me a second, but then the burst of laughter erupted from my mouth and echoed across the empty room. I wasn't amused, I was annoyed.

  "You're God's PA? What, do you fetch his coffee and make photocopies for him?" I asked him between fits of maniacal giggles.

  "Everyone has a personal assistant these days, Gabby. Even God needs a second right-hand." There may have been a bit of humor in his voice but I couldn't be sure.

  "Jesus, this is unreal. This is just a ridiculous coma-induced dream and Monica is sitting next to me blabbering about something or other while I'm lying on an uncomfortable hospital bed. Ohmygod, I need to wake up. This gray is driving me crazy." That just made me laugh even harder because who was I kidding? I was already fucking cray-cray, right? That's what everyone used to tell me.

  "No, Gabby. My name is Ernest and I'll be evaluating your exit from Purgatory. Whether you go to the Penthouse or the Basement is up to you. I have to say though, if you keep using the Lord's name in vain, you may end up on the fireman's pole with a one-way ticket down."

  His words had a sobering effect, causing my laughter to die. Silence hung in the air like a cold mist on a winter's morning. "What does that even mean?" I had to shake my head, trying desperately to disperse the fog that had taken permanent residence in my mind.

  "Essentially, you are neither here, nor there. This is merely a waiting room before we decide where you belong for the rest of eternity. Whether you take the elevator up or down is entirely your decision. Or more ac
curately, your evolution throughout your stay will be the deciding factor. Each resident has his or her own suite with the bare necessities. No colors, no sounds, no variations. Only your thoughts upon which to reflect."

  Perfect. I had never been able to save myself before, so essentially, I was again destined to fail.

  But then, I had already known that.

  "Shouldn't this be a cut and dry case? I mean, I caused my own death, right? I understand that my religious knowledge is limited but I'm pretty sure suicide is a big no-no in your world. Why don't you just press the down button and get rid of me? One less sinner on board. Bam. Done. Next!" My arms waved around like a person drowning in a sea of despair. Oh, Irony, will you ever leave my side?

  "That's not how it works, Gabby. If life, or death in this case, were so simple, the human race wouldn't be destroying itself at every turn. We are not convinced that your actions were purely suicidal. Thus the need to evaluate and judge the facts. All of these books written about our Maker and His history were written by men, therefore by definition, they are not always accurate. The Bible, the Koran, the Torah and every other guideline basically tell the same story but all essentially lack important facts." Chuckling at some internal joke, he shook his head slightly and pinned me with a gaze so intense I couldn't help but flinch. "Only those who come face to face with me can hope to understand, eventually. All others are merely guessing." His words penetrated my confusion, clearing my addled thoughts. Unfortunately, the questions kept adding up.

  "My understanding of," I swept my arms around to show the vast expanse of the room and beyond, "all this, was that Purgatory was merely a waiting room for Heaven. I mean, if you were destined to Hell then, I don't know, down you went? No passing Go and no collecting your two hundred dollars." As I said those words, I idly wondered if Ernest, here, even got my reference to the age old Monopoly game.

  Judging by his tentative smile, it seemed God's PA was very well familiar with America's favorite family game.

  "Some cases are, indeed, cut and dry, Gabby. Suicide, however, never is. We cannot allow a good soul to burn in the depths of fire simply because of its profound suffering. That would make us more evil than Satan, himself. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" His words were coated in jest. Had he just made a joke? Cue in the Twilight Zone theme song and my experience would be complete.

  Ernest rose, extended his hand and smiled which was more expression than he'd had all throughout the meeting.

  "We'll meet again, Gabby, but before we do I need you to reflect. Step inside of yourself and take inventory." With those parting words, he nodded in sign of goodbye and stepped away.

  I snorted, a bad habit I'd learned from Monica when we were younger. I would reflect until the cows came home but it didn't mean I'd get any milk out of it. At least none that wasn't spoilt. But here I was, being given a last chance to search my soul and as much as I wanted to throw out some type of sarcastic, unhelpful comment, I found myself throwing out an unconvincing "Sure, whatever," as I shrugged my shoulders in near resignation. It wasn't as though I had anything better to do.

  Before I had time to rise from my seat and wander around my newfound home, I heard Ernest behind me, addressing me in his hypnotically calm voice, "I want you to write music in your head. Something new. Time here is of no consequence so I'll just tell you that I'll be back soon. Follow the signs for room twenty-six, that will be your suite." Having made his request, which sounded more like homework than anything else, he smiled again and turned, walking out the door without making the slightest sound.

  "Bye bye, then, Mr. God's PA." I muttered before following him out the door and locating the signs that guided me to my new residence.

  Writing music was my only comfort. Thankfully, he didn't ask me to cook dinner.

  Chapter 2

  "I can't hear it!" I huffed in exasperation. There was no way of knowing how much time had passed between arriving at my suite and the moment I realized that music wasn't coming to me. Throughout all of my fucked-up childhood, disappointing adolescence, and downright unfulfilling adulthood, music was a constant. My driving force, my hiding place...my ultimate demise. It had been my sanctuary and now I couldn't hear it. It never occurred to me that with death would come complete silence.

  "Maybe I just can't write it." I was reduced to talking to myself since no other sounds accompanied me in this soundproof existence. I decided to try something else. Maybe I could hear music that already existed, that I had learned and memorized. Maybe, I could reproduce.

  Sitting on the gray comforter adorned with gray pillows and surrounded by gray walls, I poised my fingers as though a piano sat at their tips. My left hand caressed the invisible white key, my index finger searching the note. My middle finger grazing the black key on a G-sharp and my thumb pressing the white G.

  A-minor.

  G-sharp.

  G.

  Nothing.

  Sliding further down, my index summoned the F-sharp before my middle pressed the white F.

  F-sharp.

  F.

  Nada.

  Back to the index on the G and the middle on the A.

  "No. This cannot be happening." I started over, again and again only to become frustrated with my lack of success. My music was silent, my world was dead. I couldn't even play fucking Led Zepplin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’, that’s the accepted default to every musician's fingers, how painfully ironic that it was inaccessible now.

  A knock at the door pulled me from my frantic thoughts. A welcome distraction from the worst possible scenario of my existence.

  "Come in!" I called out, guessing it was my Shrink/Judge coming to check on my homework.

  "Hey. I just wanted to introduce myself. I live in the suite next door."

  Definitely not Ernest. I sat there, on my bed, my fingers poised in mid intro, staring at the man standing at the threshold of my room. I didn't respond, I couldn't.

  Without invitation, he walked in and kicked the door closed with the heel of his booted foot before walking up to my bed and making himself comfortable. My eyes followed him as he laid out beside me and propped himself up on his elbows, a wicked, sexy grin lighting up his face. I allowed my eye to do a quick scan, taking in his attire. Contrary to Ernest, who had been the only other person with whom I'd come into contact, this guy was wearing well-worn jeans that hugged his tapered waist to stunning precision. His torso was covered with a V-neck tee-shirt revealing strong, capable and most importantly, inked arms. He wasn't buffed-up but he was solid.

  Still, I said nothing.

  "My name's Hunter," he started, resting his weight on one elbow and extending his right hand, waiting for me to shake it. "Cat got your tongue?"

  I could feel my eyebrows slanting in confusion. "Why are you on my bed?" It was obvious the concept of personal space eluded him. Hunter looked around pointedly before making eye contact with me again, his brow raised on one side questioningly. "I don't see anywhere else I can sit."

  "So, you decided that sitting on a stranger's bed was the acceptable alternative?" Although, truth be told, in my living years I would have probably been already making out with him. Physically, he represented the ideal man. Tall, tatted and with a bad attitude. And by bad, I meant annoyingly forward. With hair cut short, almost shaved completely and what looked like a perfectly trimmed five o'clock shadow, he seemed too sexy to be dead.

  But the eyes.

  Hunter's eyes were kind, playful and soul-searching. I hated them. Hated their chocolate depths that beckoned my deepest, darkest secrets. I didn't like anyone getting too close to my soul and possibly seeing the damaged parts of me that no life or beyond could possibly ever redeem.

  "You said to come in...so I did. Thanks, by the way." He winked right before he took his hand away. I never did shake it, nor had I yet told him my name.

  "So, you're one of those, huh?" He asked, laying back with both arms curled under his head as he stared straight up at the gray ceiling. With
every movement, the tattoos on his forearms danced like living entities, begging to be noticed.

  "One of what?" My attention landed back to his expressive eyes, immediately narrowing my gaze with my question. If he thought he could just insult me and get away with it, I'd punch him in the balls to prove otherwise.

  "The quiet ones. The ones who have so much guilt they feed off it." His gaze never wavered, his voice steady and sure.

  It was official. I hated Hunter and his witchy ways.

  "And you're one of those, huh?" Two could play the game.

  "Ah, here comes the defense mechanism. Go on, Mozart, give it to me."

  Arrogant prick. And Mozart? He couldn't possibly know I'm a musician, could he? Regardless, the joke was on him since music had properly written me a "Dear John" letter with a clichéd formula of "It's not you, it's me" in big bold letters.

  "The judgy kind," I replied with as much snark as I could muster. "An answer for everything. Must be lonely up there on your high and mighty throne." There. I felt better.

  "Nah. I'm just chatty. I like the quiet ones, it allows me to talk more." He answered, matter of factly.

  I looked over at him and sighed. Maybe a constant voice would be better than deafening silence. "My name's Gabrielle. Everyone calls me...or should I say, called me, Gabby." The familiar weight of my ever-present guilt pressed against my chest, making my heart squeeze in phantom pain. Selfishness is a fickle thing. It's obvious in others and yet nearly impossible to decipher when you're the one in possession of it. Monica and Darren had given up so much with the hope that one day, all of their efforts and sacrifices would be paid back by a simple, genuine smile on my face. It happened, of course, but they were few and far between and as ephemeral as a butterfly's lifespan. Instead of acknowledging their love and support, what did I do? I took it all away in a moment of self-doubt and anger. No goodbyes, no closure. Nothing but unabashed selfishness. The only positive point was that, now, they could both go on with their lives without having to worry about poor, little Gabby and her perpetual egg shells. I usually disregarded my fraying emotions and, technically, I was dead so I couldn't understand why all of my mortal feelings were so constant. So omnipresent. It was disconcerting and I didn't like this vulnerability, not one bit.