Letters Written in White (2 page)

Between Heaven and Hell is Purgatory, which holds some variation of souls—most likely the vast majority of those who pass away in a state of grace, but are in some way tainted with unpai
d-
for sins. These souls are sentenced to a term in Purgatory. Here they are to be purified through a process of intense suffering, and regrets are abundant.

For those who claim to never regret, I can say this: We all regret, some more than others. Regardless of your belief system, don’t take the life you have been given for granted because one day you may very well have to face them.

“Depression is like water.

It finds all of your cracks

and trickles in inch by inch.”

I WAKE UP feeling laden and groggy. My mouth is dry and the air causes my skin to prickle. It’s so cold. As my eyes slowly open, the brightness of the light is close to blinding. Trying my best to shield my face from the gleaming vivid white light, I hold my hands up in front of my face. Suddenly, I remember and sit up quickly trying to figure out where I am. I look down at my body. I’m wearing a long flowing white gown and I’m barefoot. I check my wrists and there’s no evidence of what I did.
Am I dead?
I must be. There’s no other explanation. I look around and all I see is a large stack of white paper with a white plume pen resting atop it.

Strange
.

Nothing but stark white surrounds me. It’s a huge empty room with bleached walls and floors. There are no windows, only two white doors. I notice one of the doors has a glass knob. I squint trying to look at it more closely. It glimmers. The other door doesn’t have a knob at all. I stand up on weak legs and steady myself when a thought occurs to me. I place my hand over my heart and close my eyes. Nothing. There’s no heartbeat, just silence.

I’m dead.

I’m dead and this is Hell?

Heaven?

I have no idea where
this
is, but for some reason I know I have to open the door with the glass knob. I feel oddly drawn to it. I walk across the cold floor anxiously. Once I get there I reach out, grip it, and turn it. It won’t budge. I try harder and harder, but still it won’t turn, not even a little. There’s an intense urgency, a desperation of sorts, coursing through me that I can’t explain. I must open this door.

Confused, I frown and look around and then back to the doorknob. There’s a little keyhole where it looks like an old skeleton key would go. It must be locked. I
need
the key. But where would it be? There’s nothing else here. I look over to the other door and cock my head to the side, examining it further. Maybe I have to go through that door to find the key to this door, but how do I get through it if there’s no knob? I don’t know, but I have to try. I feel a sense of determination like I have to find this key because opening the locked door is imperative.

I’m standing in front of the knob-less door, thinking. Maybe the knob is invisible. Nothing here makes sense, so that’s not far-fetched. I reach out and grasp air. I try again. It doesn’t work. I look around the room once more, hoping for a clue, but alas, there isn’t one. Maybe I should just push it? The idea gives me hope, and I reach out with both hands and push with all of my strength. Before I know what’s happening, I’m through the door and I’m falling. My stomach is in my throat and gushes of wind whirl around me. I scream in panic, trying to reach out and grab something, anything to brace the fall. I look up, and the bright light is getting smaller and smaller. Looking down, all I see is darkness. Everything precipitously slows down, like I’m in slow motion. The darkness below me parts like the sea and everything is crystalline. My feet touch down softly as if I was guided there.

I’m now standing on a smooth glass surface, afraid to move. What if it breaks? Large rectangular mirrors line the walls and are completely surrounding me. I tiptoe ever so gently across the cold floor. I can see right through it. Beneath my feet is what looks like dark waters. I can see small currents rippling in it. The thought of falling through makes me uneasy, so I look back up. One of the mirrors looks almost liquid. It intrigues me. I walk over and stand before it. There’s no reflection when I look in it. Movement resembling rivulets of mercury wrinkle out to the edges continuously. I want to touch it. I don’t know why. As soon as my finger makes contact, a seizing feeling of heat radiates through me, but I can’t pull away. I watch as the wrinkles still and the mirror before me transforms into what seems to be a portal of some kind. I jerk my hand back, but I’m transfixed. It’s me I’m looking at. I’m on a bed, crying. The memories rush back to me, and it’s as if it’s happening all over again, but this time I’m not only feeling it, I’m watching it from the outside looking in. I try to look away.

“No, Riah, watch,” a deep voice says from behind, startling me.

I try to look behind me, but I’m frozen.

“It’s of no matter who I am right now. Just watch,” the voice says as if having read my mind.

I don’t try to argue. I obey the strange voice. I watch my very last moments on Earth as I bleed out every drop of pain I ever felt.

My legs weaken and I fall. “What’s happening?” Where am I? Answer me!” I scream.

I wait for the voice to answer, but there’s only silence. I look back to my limp and lifeless body in the mirror. I want to pick me up. I want to hug me. I reach out, but I can’t reach through. I tap the mirror lightly with my finger and it cracks. The crack spiders, and in an instant it shatters into a million jagged pieces, falling all around me. Nothing’s left but a black hole where the mirror once was. I look to the next rectangle. I’m too scared to stand before it and see what it holds inside. I don’t want to see anymore.

“Go, Riah. Every mirror in this room leads you closer to the key you want so desperately. You have to look into them all before you’ll be able to find it.”

It’s like I’ve climbed a steep mountain, made it to the top, and then tumbled back down to the bottom without ever taking the time to enjoy the view while I was up there. I was too busy falling to see the beautiful landscape that was my life. Fear overwhelms me as I begin drowning in a pool of desolate regret. The further I sink, the closer I get—to what?

Nervously, I touch mirror number two, and oddly it brings me back to the white room, where I find myself sitting beside the tall stack of blank papers. Nothing here makes sense.

“Take a paper, Riah. Take the pen too. Go back to the room of mirrors and watch. Then, I want you to write about what you see.”

I turn my head to the right and then left.

“Who are you and why do I have to do any of this? What is this place?” I whisper.

There’s no reply.

I drop my head into my hands and close my eyes. All of this is insane.
I’m dead!
Why does any of this even matter?
A million questions pillage my thoughts. There’s not a reasonable answer for any of them. Lifting my head, I focus on the paper. When I pick up the pen, I run my fingers across the soft plume. A drop of ink falls from the tip into the inkwell.
White ink?
I’ve never seen white ink before.
How am I supposed to write with white on white? You won’t be able to read a single word.
I let out an exasperated sigh and decide to do it anyway. When I get back to the knob-less door with paper and pen in hand, I dread enduring the fall once again. Taking a deep breath, I reach out with one hand and press it against the cold door.

Back in the glass room, I go straight to the next mirror. I try to prepare myself for what I’ll see on the other side. It becomes liquid just as the last one did. When I touch it, I see all of them in our kitchen. My eyes grow wide and sadness stirs deep within me. I see them…all of them.

My family.

“At first depression flows languidly.

You begin to feel the dull ache of sadness

and then it morphs,

pressing upon you heavier and heavier.”

WHEN YOU GOOGLE how many ways there are to die, you won’t find a definitive number. Some say there’s an infinite number of ways to take your last breaths on Earth. I can’t think of that many, but I do think about death often.

Suffocation.

Overdosing.

Car crash.

Jumping from a bridge.

Drowning.

Gunshot.

Stabbing.

Heart attack.

Cancer.

Alcoholism.

Drug abuse.

Anorexia.

Bulimia.

Obesity.

Diabetes.

Electrocution.

Suicide.

I’m disturbed, I know. Who sits around and thinks about dying?

I do.

The angel of death has spent years seducing me in the name of anxiety-laced depression. I know who walks to and fro the earth seeking to devour me. Satan is real. I know and I believe. He takes on many forms. I’ve come face to face with him as a young girl. He’s always in disguise. Don’t be fooled. He’ll allow you to see him just before he tries to destroy you, kill you. If you don’t believe, you will in that very moment. He pervades, relentless. Nothing will be more terrifying or clear than in the moment when you look into the darkened holes of his face. Once he finds your weakness, he moves swiftly, and with precise measure.

I don’t recall the exact moment when death became an obsession for me, but I do recall the day I came face to face with the Devil. I tried to look away. I was weak. Misery poured into my heart and a sickness began to rot my mind. Woven with threads of despair, my heart was slowly wrapped in a heavy cloak of darkness. Sadness seeped into my veins, and it became a drug I would forever be a slave to. My mind is now a leaky roof.