Vince squinted at the stranger in his living room, studying him a moment before his eyes widened. “I know what you are!” he shouted, pulling his gun on the stranger, with every intention of firing. Only, it didn’t happen like that. One minute he was standing in his living room, and the next he was somewhere else. It was a stark white room that seemed to go on forever, his boots echoing endlessly as he walked, trying first one direction, then another. “Oh fuck this.” he yelled into the nothingness, listening to it echo. This time however, it only echoes through half the room.
Noting this, he began to walk in the opposite direction. As he walked, the lighting would change. Initially, the stark white would fade to not be so glaring, until it got…well, dim wasn’t quite it. More of a comfortable light, he guessed he’d call it. Vince stopped when he all of a sudden found himself in a room. It was like looking at one of those photos, where everything except the object of focus was blurry, and difficult to make out. In this case, the object in focus was a child, somewhere probably in his early teens. He was sitting on a stool, back to Vince, painting on a canvas, though the art piece itself was difficult to make out.
“Hey kid…what is this place?” he asked. The boy didn’t turn or move, simply kept on painting. Vince tried asking again, but again received a non-response. He sighed, turning to go, but found he couldn’t. With a growl of frustration, he punched the wall, wincing and shaking his hand from the pain. That was odd. It was just a wall, wasn’t it?
“You can’t break it down.” the boy finally said. “You don’t want it to fall down.”
“And why’s that?” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The sound of brush to canvas stopped for a moment, and the boy turned. He was a handsome young lad, with platinum blonde hair, angled features and intense blue eyes. He looked at Vince coldly, almost angry. “You put them there.” he said, narrowing his eye in such a way that it felt as though they pierced his soul. “You put me here.” he said, clearly angry this time, finally turning to put brush back to canvas.
“I’ve never been here before.” he growled, hating the mind game.
“No, but they’re you’re walls nonetheless.” the boy said, his painting becoming more swift.
“Who are you then?” Vince asked, trying to change the topic. Maybe if he learned enough, he could get out of here…wherever that happened to be.
“You locked the best part of you away, and now you expect me to give you answers?” he scoffed. “I thought you were supposed to be smarter.” the boy said, slapping paint on the canvas now in order to hurriedly finish the picture.
“What do you mean, the best part of me?” he pressed.
“Gods, you’re clueless.” he said, turning to face Vince again. With the end of his paintbrush, he pointed at himself. “I’m a part of you that you like to keep hidden, that you want no one to know.” he then pointed at the walls. “You built these*to keep people from hurting you. Don’t you get it yet?”
“You’re me.” he said, things finally clicking. All the pieces had been there before now, he’d just refused to put them together.
“Finally, you get it.” he said. “You realize you could have had a better life if you’d just trusted a little more?”
“Fat chance that.” Vince replied. “You wouldn’t know. You weren’t a monster yet.”
“No, I wasn’t. Not until you ran from the family who still loved you despite what was happening to you. Not until you let those wolves taint your mind and use you. Even before, did you ever let anyone use you, really?”
“You’d better shut up if you know what’s good for you kid.” came Vince’s voice, more growly than intended.
“Oh ho, big man. You can’t kill me – I’m part of you. For someone who can dish out to other people about not being themselves or whatever, you sure can’t deal with the same.”
“That’s it. I’m getting out of here.” Vince said, looking around for a door or any other way to get out.
“Oh sure, sure.” his younger self said. “You probably will. But the door isn’t there.”
“Then where the fuck is it?” Vince asked.
The boy pointed at the painting, which now came into focus. Vince walked closer to get a look. A room, familiar yet not quite remembered, was the focus. As he got closer, he felt himself being pulled into the painting, finding himself in that room. It appeared, even, to almost still be a painting. Looking back, the boy was gone, the brush strokes faded, and he was left standing in his childhood home.
“It’s good to see you again, Vincent.” said a woman’s voice from behind him. Slowly, he turned, reaching for weapons that he no longer had.
“You’re dead.” he replied.
“By your hand, yes.” she said, approaching him.
He took a few steps back. “You’re dead.” he repeated. “How is this even happening?”
“They say when you die, you meet the ancestors that preceded you. So I am here. Your father too, if you wish to see him.” she said.
“No thanks.” Vince said. Then, “I’m dead?”
“Part of you lingers on, so it must not be your time yet. But…” she said, pausing.
“But what?” he asked.
She moved up to him, placing a hand on his cheek. “My poor, sweet boy. I’m so sorry for all that’s happened to you. I tried to be a good mother to you and your sister. We didn’t know – the life you both have led…it was never what we wanted.”
“Don’t.” he said. He’d intended to bat her hand away, but instead he found himself holding it for a moment. “What…what did you mean earlier?”
“By a choice?” she asked, sighing a little after he nodded in response. “You can choose to remain here. No more weight on your shoulders, no more responsibilities.”
“I can retire?” he asked, a hint of hope in his voice.
His mother nodded. “But you need to make sure. There’s a final stop before you make that choice.”
“I know my choice.” he said. “I want to rest.”
“Be sure.” she said, opening the door, gesturing for him to exit. “Perhaps we will see each other again.”
Vince looked at the open door and moved toward it quickly. He was intrigued by the thought of being done, of being at rest, that it never occurred to him what might await next. And what awaited next startled him.
He stood in a darkened bedroom, only lit by a few lamps. He could hear someone’s breathing inside, so he headed that way. Ahead, in one of the pools of light, was a vanity with a mirror. Sitting there was a woman he would recognize anywhere. Truth be told, she looked awful, as though she hadn’t slept in days. Paler than normal, in a vague but general disarray, her fingers running lightly over something she was holding. She hummed a little, her lips barely moving, but he could hear her anyway.
“Petra?” he called, but she didn’t respond. He walked toward her, and gently set a hand on her shoulder. “Petra?” he inquired again. She gasped, looking up with a start, and turned – though she didn’t seem to see him and, after a moment, hugged herself, turning back to what she held in her hand. Looking down, he noticed it was a small canvas. Something he’d given her ages ago, and she’d apparently kept. What he’d never told her was that he’d made it himself.
“She can’t see you.” a voice said to him. He started a little and turned to the voice. A man of indeterminate age, with dark hair and hazel eyes, sat on the edge of the bed, watching over Petra.
“Who the hell are you?” he said, preparing to defend her.
“Oh, relax, I’m not going to hurt her. I watch over her.” he replied. “She’s my favorite, after all.”
“Favorite what?” he growled, his protective instincts kicking in.
“Devotee.” h said casually.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he replied.
“It’s probably easiest for you to think of me as…a guardian angel of sorts.” he replied.
“Guardian angel, huh? Then where the fuck were you when whatever the hell happened to her happened? Why don’t you fix her?” he yelled.
“Not my purview.” he said, sounding sad. “As far as that goes…where were you when this happened? I thought you wanted to protect her.”
“What makes you think I don’t?” he snapped.
“I thought you wanted to stay dead.” the other man replied.
“That -” he began.
The other man waved at him dismissively. “What’s wrong with her will hopefully be taken care of soon. You need to trust people that come by, willing to help. But you also need to remember something else.” he said.
“What’s that?” Vince responded.
“Your sister is in town.” he tilted his head. “Do you think s he’d leave her alone if she found out? If you’re dead, your sister may even blame Petra.” he pointed out.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit.” he grumbled, beginning to rapidly pace the room.
“There are others who may be able to step up and protect her, should you die. Myself among them, if I manifest long enough.”
“Manifest? What the – just who the hell are you?” Vince asked.
“Ares, but let’s move past that for now. The choice is simple, and you need to make it soon.” he said.
“Live or die?” he asked.
“Simply put. I was going to stay, do you want to die more than you want to be with her.” Ares said.
“Dirty pool.” Vince said.
“Maybe, but it’s the truth, and you know it.” He then held up a deck of cards. “Poker until you decide?”
“Why the hell not.” Vince said, sitting down near him to play a few hands. It bothered him at first that he was losing, but his mind drifted a lot, too. Just what did he want? After a while, he began to feel tired.
“Mind if I take a nap?” he asked.
“Not at all.” Ares replied, picking up the cards and putting them back into their box.
Vince laid down, intending to only be down for a handful of minutes. As he drifted, he heard a gruff voice, kind of faded, ask, “Hey. You still in there?”
The next thing he knew, he felt slightly cold. He looked around, noting the others in his living room. Reflexively, he attempted to pull the trigger of the gun he knew he’d been holding. “God dammit. Where’s my gun? What happened? Where are my clothes?”.
For now, he’d forgotten his experience. But it would come back eventually. Ares intended to see to that. It would just take a trip to see Morpheus first….