Third Time's The Charm

This is a short story btw.

Sounds surround me. An orchestra of many, many sounds. 

What’s always most audible is the loud chatter of people sitting at restaurants, babbling nonstop about their experiences here as tourists. 

“Did you visit the aquarium here? The one with that giant stingray?”

“What about surfing? The water’s absolutely gorgeous.”

The runner-up is the jazz music coming from the cafe paired with the annoying “honk-honk” of cars near the highway, stuck in afternoon traffic.

Soft sounds of waves crashing against the dock would provide some relief if it weren’t for the seagulls squealing at the top of their lungs. 

Around me, the footfalls of pedestrians walking up and down the cobblestone streets are distinct, employees eager to get home after a long day of work. 

The harsh, discordant, mixture of sounds pound through my ears, echoing in my head over and over, overwhelming me with a sense of urgency. Walking around during rush hour really gives me a headache, especially when partnered with the brightness of the scorching sun during summertime. This island that I used to love is now overly crowded and anxious for me after the incident.

The incident. I freeze, taking ragged breaths as flashbacks of that day enter my vision. The buildings around me flip upside down, swirling into a mixture of bright yellows, reds, and blues. I suddenly feel lightheaded, as if I could collapse to the ground at any second. Before I can fall any farther into that deep, dark corner of my mind, I start my Calm-Down-Routine. Closing my eyes and breathing in and out five times, I give myself a timer of ten seconds before I enter back into reality. What am I doing, going all berserk like that? Hell, I don’t even want to think about it. 

“Pull yourself together, man. You’re a successful businessman. Act like one,” I think, shaking away the dark thoughts that threaten to once again cloud my mind. People walking past me take turns staring at the tall figure looming over them, who was just telling himself to man up. I may or may not have said my thoughts out loud. Again. 

Realizing this, I duck my head with embarrassment and speedwalk my way to the community library; my only sanctuary of peace nowadays. I zip by the tall buildings with red brick roofs, yellow, red, and blue painted walls, and green window frames. A bright blue-green canal with what might be the cleanest water in the world runs through the middle of the small town. Restaurants and cafes line the streets, each one busier than the next. Tourists flood the sidewalks, giving me quite the headache as I try to suppress my uncomfortability with a smile. When I finally get to the library, I exhale a huge breath with relief. This building is possibly the oldest building around here, so naturally it isn’t so eye-catchingly bright as the rest of the island. This place used to be a chapel, but after the new one was built, this one became the library; newly constructed, big and tall, but radiating an ancient ambience. As I enter through the main doors, the librarian gives me a quick nod from the front desk, paired with a sweet smile. I nod back. 

“Hello again. How are you doing? Is there anything you're looking for?” Lisa, the librarian, asks me in a polite tone. Her hair is in a tight bun today, with a pair of blue pearl earrings, perfectly matching her striking blue-grey eyes. She’s a redhead, not often seen around here, her freckles making her even more unique. 

“I’m doing fine, thank you.” I say back. “Nothing much I’m looking for. Just here for some personal reading time.” 

Lisa smiles at me again and motions towards the reading area, where I often curl up into a man-ball and read for an hour or so. Inwardly, I’m hoping no one notices. 

As I head to the beanbag I had eyed, I once again survey my surroundings. The ceiling is stretched high, a beautiful chandelier dangling from the tallest point. Colorful stained glass windows surround the library, each depicting one of the fourteen Stations of the Cross. Shelves line the space with books top to bottom, setting up the perfect library atmosphere. 

Grabbing a book out of my briefcase, I sit down on the beanbag in the corner and open to the page I had last bookmarked. As a child, I loved mystery novels. In fact, I read so many that a mountain of mystery novels began to pile in my room. But as time progressed, the moments I spent reading became limited. I desperately want to finish this book today. 

As I immerse myself into the plot, I find myself mentally siding with the female lead, who kills herself from the guilt of indirectly drowning her lover’s nephew. Suicide…it’s almost surprising how that’s never crossed my mind, considering the fact that I drowned my family too. I’m stunned that I’m somehow still breathing and functioning like a normal person, even after the incident.

The incident. Afternoon. Bridge. Yes, that’s where it happened. Two beautiful girls sitting in the backseats of my car, singing “Say You Won’t Let Go” by James Arthur at the top of their lungs. My wife, doing her makeup at the vanity mirror, a slight smile on her face. A slight turn of my head to look at my girls, and I lost control of the wheel, turning our car straight off the bridge and into the deep river below. 

I was the only one who made it out of the submerged car alive. Many times after that day have I told myself that their deaths were not my fault, that I just couldn’t have saved them. That it was their fault for not unbuckling their seatbelts or opening the car door, for not freezing there in shock and fear. My wife should’ve been awake, not lying there unconscious, completely unhelpful. My daughters should’ve moved, they should’ve done something, anything. But, all this time, that transfer of fault was just a lie I’ve been telling to myself. The truth lies behind something much darker. 

I could’ve saved them. I could’ve used the last of my energy, the last of my air to break down the glass to the passenger seats, getting my family out in time, and dying a peaceful death. Instead, I chose to save myself. I chose to swim to the surface and look back at the dark abyss below, where my eldest daughter looked up at me, fear reflected in those bright teal eyes. 

I am the selfish father that left them. I am guilty of murder. 

I find the exit out of my whirlwind of thoughts, but I can no longer focus on the task at hand. Sighing, I put my book away and stand up, feeling rather disappointed since I couldn’t finish it. I decide to go back home to treat myself to a nice meal, like I have for the past few months. 

On my way home, my senses are heightened. The ghosts of my family follow me throughout the city everywhere I go. The children laughing in the streets, the restaurant we always ate at, the sound of the waves that had killed them, the happy couples eating ice cream under the sunroofs. Everyone seems to be taunting me, and suddenly, I feel a pang of jealousy, a fire of hatred and wrath burning through me. Not hatred for those happy couples or innocent children, but hatred for myself. For killing my own family. 

I turn the corner to my neighborhood, quite isolated from the rest of the lively city. Finally reaching the front door of my house, I yank it open with much force. I step inside, surveying the living room. The lights are off, but no afternoon sunlight seeps through the blinds. I’ve rid the couch of anything colorful, with only basic furniture lying around. A half-empty bottle of antidepressants sit on the island, along with a photo of my family, lying face down on the counter. I peel off my jacket and kick off my shoes, simultaneously placing my briefcase on the counter near the front door. 

I grab the remote control and turn on the television, listening absent-mindedly as the news broadcaster rambles on and on about some random guy who suicided by hurling himself off a bridge somewhere in the world. I look up from the counter where I was chopping lettuce on a cutting board, eyes staring straight at the screen where live footage captures a helicopter searching for the body. Seeing this, a scene, a vision flashes into my mind. A man, standing on top of a guardrail, staring into the deep, dark river below. Suddenly, he turns his head, teal blue eyes reflecting the light coming from the streetlamp, staring into the depths of my soul. Life seems to be sucked out of me as the man topples off the guardrail straight into the river below. 

“No!” I yell on instinct, running in my vision to reach the man that had fallen. But I am too late.  The sound of my pounding heart brings me back to the present. Was that man…me? I’m breathing too hard, my lungs completely deprived of air. No…that couldn’t be. But it was. It is. I walk to the nearest mirror and look at my reflection. Dark, teal eyes stare back at me. The same eyes that I saw in that vision before he disappeared below the bridge. The same eyes that stared at me with fear in that submerged car. My head keeps replaying that scene, and frighteningly enough, I find it rather comforting. I can suffer the same death that my family suffered; that my children suffered. Dying this way…it’s almost too perfect, too right. 

The thought of dying, God, help me, seems peaceful. I want to die. Yes, I want to die, like the girl in my book, like the person in the news. 

***

It doesn’t take a meticulous planner to figure out how to die. Making up my mind within split seconds of confirming my decision, I walk to the bridge. The same place where I killed everyone that matters to me. The bent bridge railing has long been repaired from the damage I caused when I rammed into it. As I approach the spot where it had all unraveled, I look down into the water. The city lights reflect into it, making a welcoming, swirling portal that’ll hopefully transport me to the afterlife when I jump down there. Not surprisingly, it seemed to be calling out to me. 

“Come down,” the river urged. “Join your girls.”

A tiny voice in the back of my mind reminded me that I wouldn’t be seeing them. I would be going straight to Satan. It didn’t really matter. Anything was better than living in this inferno, torturing me with nothing but flashbacks and memories. 

I climb onto the guardrail, just like I did in my vision. I take a shaky breath. In the dead of night, with barely any cars around, no one will see me here. The night is clear, with tiny, twinkling stars winking at me, wishing me good luck. The island air fills my nostrils, possibly the last breath that I will take while on earth. A small smile creeps onto my lips, but my heart is shoving doubts into my head. Pushing aside all of my coherent thoughts telling me how this may not be such a great idea, I hurl myself over the edge of the bridge. 

As I hit the surface of the water with much force, I feel pain shoot up my leg from the breaking of bones as I slowly drown to my death. Water enters my lungs and my consciousness begins to fade. Yes, this is my gruesome death, served to me on a silver platter. This is what should’ve happened a long time ago. I should’ve drowned, just like the rest of my family. I close my eyes and accept a long, painful passing. 

Finally finding the courage to open my eyes, I blink a few times. As my vision clears, I expect to find myself face to face with Satan. But, no. Instead, I find myself standing steadily on top of the guardrail, staring at the river I had just jumped into, the slight breeze hitting my face and sending chills down my spine. Did my welcoming, swirling portal of reflected city lights transport me back in time rather than to the afterlife? Is this Satan toying with me? Unbelievable. 

I was tempted to try again, but the feeling of gravity pushing me down towards the deep river still haunts me in ways that aren’t pleasant. Subconsciously, I step down, grateful that my feet hit solid ground. I sigh heavily. Thankfully, I’m not a man that gives up easily. There’s many other ways to kill myself. 

I decide that maybe dying like the character in my book is the most fitting for my scenario. After all, I did drown my family, like she did the poor kid. After a few days of researching on YouTube, I tie my first hanging noose. I’m not being manipulated to do this like the character, but the intention is the same; it’s time to see my loved ones. I attach the end of the rope to the tall tree in my backyard. The noose dangles eerily from it, and after testing several times to make sure it is strong and stable, I find a stepping stool and place it under the rope. 

That should do it, I think to myself. Slowly, I climb up the stepping stool and place my chin on top of the rope, my head fitting perfectly into the noose. I kick away the stool, indifferent to my pounding heart. My airstream is cut off immediately, and as my pulse slows to a stop, my eyes roll to the back of my head, successfully giving me a slow and painful death. My vision is once again filled with stars and slowly blackens. 

Again, I open my eyes, this time not expecting to see anything. Perhaps death is just pitch black, maybe people don’t have souls afterall. Still, I blink despite that, and the bright, green grass of my backyard fills my eyes and I’m taken aback by the brightness of the sun. I’m standing on the stool I had kicked away only mere seconds ago, and my chin is resting steadily on top of the rope. Why? I want to die. Satan should be happy that another soul has entered his land of doom. Why does he keep transferring me back to life? Is it even him behind this? So many questions fill my mind. So many doubts. 

I drunkenly step off the stool and sway back to my house, looking for antidepressants. Unfortunately, due to a certain amount of stress and anxiety over the past week after basically resurrecting from the dead, I had downed the rest of that bottle. Damn…I’m really going insane. I groan, rubbing my hand down my face. I should have an extra stash. I just don’t know where it is. 

My wife liked to hide my antidepressants, especially after we had kids. 

“Bad influence on our girls,” she had stated. 

Great. Now I have to rummage through the entire house to calm my nerves. I move around the house, looking through every cabinet, every drawer for my hidden antidepressants. I reach the bathroom to my bedroom, where my wife spent most of her time. Again, I look through every drawer, constantly pacing after a few minutes or so. After a half hour or so, I give up all hope and sink down onto the floor, running a hand through my hair. Groaning, I feel a huge wave of emotion threatening to take me over when I spot a loose floorboard. My eyes open wide, confusion replacing that rising tide of emotion. Thanks to me, my house never had loose floorboards, and since this place is relatively new, there shouldn’t be any either way. Unless, my wife purposely made it a genius hiding place. Crawling over, I yank the floorboard open to find my antidepressants and something even more horrendous. 

Inside sits a gun. A gun I had long forgotten that I owned. Suddenly, another vision flashes through my mind. Me, in the living room, the gun head pointed at my chin. A huge bang echoes through the room as I pull the trigger, splitting my brain in half. 

I tumble over, coming back to reality. That was overly gory, even for a man. But since it’s bound to happen anyways, why not give it a try. I’m probably going to end up rising from the dead like modern-day Jesus. Walking to the place where I visioned myself, I set up, kneeling on the slightly worn-out carpet and pointing the gun to my chin. Gory, it truly is, but now that I’m experiencing it first-hand, I’m actually kind of scared. Hopefully, death by shooting is faster and less painful than death by hanging. With trembling fingers, I pull the trigger. 

This time, I didn't hesitate to open my eyes. Life is full of surprises though, so I did not expect to see my body on the floor, blood from my wound, seeping into the carpet, the gun in my right hand, my body twisted at a weird angle. Oh my God…I’m staring at my dead body. 

Did I actually die this time? I frantically look around. This is still my house, I’m still on earth. Then why am I staring at my dead body? Something shifts to my right, and I see a guy in a suit, sitting comfortably on my couch. I jump. 

I look the man up and down, but still unable to place his identity. He looks food-deprived, with perfectly gelled, jet black hair, sunken cheekbones, a square jaw, and extremely pale skin. When he looks up from whatever trance he was in, his eyes are glinting, crimson red. His presence alone gives me the chills. 

“Who are you?” I ask. 

He scoffs. “Satan, the devil, et cetera. I can’t even count how many names I have,” he lazily counts on his fingers. 

Wait…did I hear him right? Satan? Ha. Right. I’m dead. I forgot. Seems that even the devil himself is living in modern times. 

“So…what do you want me to address you as?” I’m genuinely curious. 

“That’s what you care about? After you just died?” he stares at me with astonishment. “You know what? Whatever. If you really want to know, I prefer Lucifer. It’s my actual name after all.” 

“Fine, Lucifer. Why aren’t I in hell? If I’m dead, why am I still here? In my living room? Why have I been resurrecting from the dead?” Questions spew out of my mouth like a machine gun. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, kid,” Lucifer rolls his eyes. “Besides, it’s not even my fault that you’re still alive.”

“Huh?” 

“It’s you.” He looks me dead in the eye. “When your soul approached my gates for the first time, it seemed to be trembling. Most people who enter hell have already accepted their fates. Murderers, crime bosses, robbers, all sinful people, know that it is their time to die. They should’ve anyways. Their souls enter my realm without another word. But yours? It stood outside the gates, completely still, refusing to enter because it knows that once it does, it can’t return. Your soul kept looking back, as if expecting to find something. I felt bad, and assuming it still wanted to live, I sent it back to your body. I can’t believe you would send it back to hell over and over.” 

“What?” Is Satan actually compassionate? But as I think about it, I realize that he’s actually kind of right. I think back to the times I’ve killed myself, where my mind kept telling me that it wasn’t a good idea, it wasn’t what I truly wanted. I had ignored it all. 

“Think this through. If you want to live, say the word and I’ll put your soul back into your physical body. Final offer. I’ve helped you enough times. If you truly still want to die, I’ll bring you with me back to hell. But you had better hurry it up because that gunshot was pretty loud, and I’m betting your neighbor will be here with police any minute now. We’ve wasted enough time,” Lucifer says impatiently. 

“Why can’t my neighbor come in here?” I ask. 

“Are you slow? Or are you just stupid?” he laughs darkly. “Well, your brain was just split in half with a bullet so I don’t expect much. If you barged into your neighbor’s house, found him dead, and then all of a sudden he sits up with his wounds healed and he’s breathing, what would you think?”

Right…I keep forgetting that I’m dead. 

I take a deep breath. I think back to the day of the incident, the song playing on repeat in my mind. “Say You Won’t Let Go.” That song…the artist is singing about love, about living a long, long life with his partner. But maybe, just maybe, my daughters were telling me not to let go of the life I have. To keep living. Perhaps, that’s what my children want, what my wife wants, what I want. 

After confirming in my mind that I want to live, I feel a huge weight being lifted off my shoulders, and finally, I feel at peace. 

I look up, locking eyes with Lucifer. His blood-red eyes stare back at me, awaiting an answer. I swallow. I really am the most selfish person ever. I chose to save myself over my girls. I chose to kill the life that I sacrificed my children for. Then, I’m choosing to live again. But this time, I’ll live my life to the fullest. I’ll make my girls proud. I open my mouth to tell Lucifer to perform whatever magic he’s going to do. But just as I am about to speak, I watch in horror as my front door gets knocked down and my neighbor barges in along with police officers, all eyes pointing towards my dead body.