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The first time she died was fast. She had sensed it even though she hadn’t seen it coming. She saw it in The Young Boy’s eyes, with the look of sheer dread that overcame them. It didn’t matter if it was a tidal wave, a swerving car, or a stray bullet as it were; the look on the boy’s face spoke of imminent and non-negotiable death. She knew she was going to die, not in a literary or debatable sense; she just knew it as a feeling, one that she couldn’t argue. And when she knew death was coming, it was as if all of the drugs and hormones that her brain amassed, all leaked into her conscious being at the one time and she felt, for an instant that played out longer than any in her entire life, a moment of pure and absolute peace.
This though was hell; being dragged by her arms and her legs, inside a mash of twisting bodies. Though her body was not immersed in water, this, she thought, must undoubtedly be what drowning is like. She had no idea which was up. Her body twisted and turned, and flipped and spun in all directions. It bent and contorted, and stretched to the point of dismemberment. Her arms and legs were nearly picked like petals.
She couldn’t scream. There was so much weight on her chest and barely any space between her gasping mouth and the hundreds of hands that were pinning her down. And with each breath, the weight sank heavier onto her body.
The Father stretched his hand as far as he could, into the swirling mass. He had no idea where she was, but he had hope, and he extended it to the very tips of his fingers, screaming at the girl to reach out.
“Take my hand,” he shouted.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
From within the mass, something grabbed The Father’s hand and pulled him off his feet. He landed head first on a pile of writhing bodies and immediately, was being dragged inwards, where arms and legs wrapped around faces and throats, and bodies contorted in the most unimaginable fashion. The Father couldn’t see who or what had his hand, but he could smell the suffocation.
The first time she died was quicker than this. The Young Cripple paused for a second as she wondered, “Can I even die in Heaven?”
It was at this moment that the sensation of drowning vanished, and with it, the feelings of claustrophobia and suffocation. She was still there, beneath a mire of madness, but she was longer dying. She was calm and content as if she were waiting for a bus, or without rush, in a line at a butcher, waiting for her number to be called. The hundreds of hands were still there. Their work was still dire - in their hearts and in their minds – but to the girl, their burden was not hers to carry, and their violence was not hers to ward off or condone.
And it was when she was the most comfortable that her own body started to loosen. It was no longer angular and rigid, and therefore, no longer prescribed to the idea of being stuck. She merely twisted her shoulders and her hips and moved her neck in the same manner that she would if she were lazily stretching after a long hot bath. As strange as it was, she was at a heightened point of absolute relaxation. And it was at this point where her body undid all the knots and tangles and simply slid free from beneath the mash of souls. She didn’t have to struggle. She moved lightly between the gaps and holes that the tension and struggle of her captors provided.
The Father, on the other hand, was like a shut lock. His body seized like a board with his legs spread wide and his knees dug into the necks and backs the souls below him. It did little good to slow his gradual pull.
The Young Cripple stepped over the mash of writhing souls. She walked in a calm, unsettled demeanour. Each foot was placed perfectly, be it on a back or face, or ridden on the swing of a clenched fist. She passed over the chaos with little address to concern or safety.
“Come with me,” she said, in a soft and gentle manner.
The Father turned. His body was still tense. It looked as if a current were running through his veins. He appeared strong, but his strength did nothing but sink him further into his troubles.
The Young Cripple placed her hand gently beneath The Father’s body and unhooked whoever or whatever it was from his clenching hand. She then turned The Father’s head so that he was looking at her, as opposed to what he assumed was his unquestionable demise. She turned his focus so that he no longer defined himself by what bound him.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
“The fear is overwhelming,” she said.
The Young Cripple started to shake. Her eyes looked like distant satellites, and her skin turned sickly white. The Father caught her as she collapsed and carried her in his arms.
“Where do we go?” he said, but less urgent.
She was listening for the radio, but it was hard to hear anything anymore. It sounded like the most horrible kind of party, one where there were as many casualties as there were celebrants; more tears and remorse than there was actual celebration, and more broken windows and broken bones, than there were lighted candles and well wishing. The more she tried to hear it, though, the more frustrated she got; until eventually, she looked back at The Father, and more so, at the fire and passion that burned in his eyes, accelerated by his grief, shame, and guilt for not being able to save his son - for locking in a room his entire life and for treating him like utter shit, in a guise to keep him safe -for leaving him to live and die alone, like no father should.
The Young Cripple bathed in The Father’s sadness. She thought of the boy, and she felt too, a great weight of responsibility, for she had cursed him with a sickening kind of death. And in that instant she wasn’t looking at The Father per se, but at the ghost of a boy who lay alone and vulnerable within. The Young Cripple became fraught with intolerable sadness.
As she cried, there came the most distinct and beautiful sound from a room not far from where they stood. It changed the mood of Heaven entirely. No longer did souls push and squirm, and no longer did they pull and tug. Instead, conducted by the triste song, the dead embraced one another harmoniously. They caressed instead of strangled, and they embraced instead of tangled. Their gnashing teeth and striking fists were swapped for soft kisses, long hugs, and an endless array of genuine, sweet remarks.
“This way,” said The Father, carrying the girl in his arms, towards the sad, sad song.
They reached the room. It was obvious that the radio was there, but it was full to the brim with piles of useless junk falling out of the doorway, into the corridor, and it was impossible to see anything inside. There were words painted onto the wall above the doorway that read, “May God bless you with three times the wealth that you wish for me.”
“This is it,” said The Young Cripple. “It has to be him.”
“Who?”
“The Collector.”
The Father stared at the pile of junk. “Your radio is in there?”
“I think so,” said The Young Cripple. “T, can you hear me? Are you in there?”
The sad music stopped.
“I’m here,” said T.
“We’re coming. Hold on.”
“Wait, it’s not safe.”
They didn’t listen, though. They walked into the room without even looking. They didn’t see the humungous beast that stood in the shadow of all the useless contraptions, waiting to ensnare them. All they saw was the ground coming up towards them.
Before The Father could blink, he was face first into the floor with his arms outspread and The Doctor kneeling on his triceps, about to bury a long syringe into his neck. In the confusion, The Young Cripple slid across the room and hit her head on something thick, hard, and leathery. Her vision started to list and she could see several doctors and several fathers, each dabbling in the morose and the macabre. She screamed, but her voice was numb. She screamed some more, but nothing came out. The Doctor looked at her and smiled. “I’ll make a lamp shade of your soul,” he said, before turning back to The Father.
The Young Cripple threw what she could. The room was littered with everything anyone could imagine. There were bow ties, consoles, dresses and stockings, bricks and mortar, refrigerators, bags of gold and finely cut diamon
ds, dildos and doorknobs, and shotguns and vanity sinks. There was every type of decadent want and superfluous need; and for each one, there were tenfold more. There were mountains of things; square things, circular things, white things, gold things, and things that made music when they were used according to their boxed instructions.
The Young Cripple didn’t look. She just grabbed what she could reach and what was light enough to hold, and she threw it at The Doctor’s head. “Get off him,” she screamed, but the words didn’t come out. The Doctor took one of the projectiles – a small sand globe and shook it once or twice, before aiming it at the girl’s head. As it flew, the girl screamed, and this time, her voice broke through but it couldn’t stop the sand globe from hitting her square in the head and then bouncing onto the floor and smashing into a thousand tiny pieces.
The Doctor turned back to The Father and dug the needle into his spine.
“What you do here?”
A fist came from nowhere and struck The Doctor on his chin. He let go of the syringe and fell off of The Father, hitting his head. The bag that he was carrying slid off his shoulders and ended up at the feet of the gargantuan man who threw the punch.
“This is house of Collector. No guest allowed. You want good things, you wish for me outside, and maybe God give to you. You do not come inside. Are you understanding?”
The Doctor crawled backward as far as he could and held his hands in front of his face. “Do you know who I am?” he said.
It sounded almost like a threat.
“You have problem with memory, my friend. Maybe you see doctor.”
“I am a doctor,” said The Doctor.
“Good. Problem resolved. Now fuck off from house of Collector.”
His size alone was frightening. From where The Young Cripple sat, she could barely make out his shins, such was his incredible height. His voice sounded like a plane crash. And each word whistled as it left his mouth. It might have been a speech impediment, or it may just have been from the great distance that each word had to travel to be heard.
“What have we here?” said The Collector, picking up The Doctor’s bag from the floor and examining its contents. “You steal from Collector?” he said, holding the radio in his hands.
The Young Cripple’s eyes lit up.
“T,” she thought.
“It’s not what you think,” said The Doctor.
“What kind of doctor are you? One that know what Collector think?”
“That radio. You have to destroy it. Can’t you see what it’s doing? The music….”
“Collector like music. Music very good. Funky beat. Heavy beat. Soft beat. Romantic beat. Any beat. Collector like music. This radio is of Collector.”
“You don’t get it. Look outside. Heaven is falling apart. If we don’t destroy that radio, Heaven will be no more.”
“How to make work?” asked The Collector, more interested in the radio in his hands.
The Doctor took a small device from his jacket and screamed into it.
“Orderlies! Code six. Code six. Code six,” he shouted.
Outside in the corridor, his order did come through, but each and every orderly behaved as each and every patient. They drank heavy from cold and swollen nipples that stuck out of the walls, and inebriated by Light, they made a mockery of their once meaningful obligation.
“You know how to make work?” asked The Collector to the girl.
The Young Cripple shook her head.
“No,” she said.
“But it work. Collector hear music.”
The Doctor was still curled in his hiding spot, shouting threats.
“You giant fool,” he said.
Outside the room, fires roared.
“You see,” said The Doctor. “It’s all coming to an end. Whoever she is, her Light is infecting that radio and the music it plays….It’s killing Heaven. If you don’t stop it, all of this will be gone.”
The Collector stopped for a moment.
“All of it?” he said.
“Yes,” said The Doctor, jovial for his breakthrough.
“Collector has anything that anyone has ever wished for. All of it here.”
“Then you wouldn’t want to lose it all. Not now.”
“Collector remember the first thing he collect. Small coin. Nice lady wish for three more. Collector no have courage to ask name of nice lady. A lot of time pass and too, many nice lady, but not first nice lady. And here, somewhere in junk, that very coin does sit. If Collector lose everything, Collector start again.”
“What are you on about you idiot? There won’t be an again.”
“Collector decided. Is worth risk. Lose everything, and find nice lady again. Ask name and buy rose. Sad little girl, you can make radio work?”
“When I’m sad or scared, it plays music. It plays what I feel.”
“Hmmm. So is not radio then,” said The Collector. “Is detector of fear.”
“A what?” said The Young Cripple and The Doctor.
“Detector of fear. Like detector of metal, but it detect fear, obviously. Is missing parts, though. Collector have parts. Wait one second, sad little girl.”
As The Collector rummaged through his collection of things, The Doctor snuck out from where he was hiding. He eyed first, the radio in the giant’s hands, and then the girl, who was huddling by The Father on the floor.
“Here is it.”
The Collector pulled from the massive pile of junk, what looked like a long white metal detector. It didn’t look special at all. He attached a wire from the detector to an input on the radio.
“Now,” he said, smiling. “Before was radio. Now is detector of fear.”
There was certain smell now in Ward Number Five. It smelt like excess. As The Collector inspected his contraption, The Doctor made one last vain attempt to save Planet Heaven. He pulled the needle from The Father’s spine and thrust it into the girl’s face, just as explosions ripped through the corridor and what had been harmonious remarking turned into desperate and panicked shrieking.
The Collector caught The Doctor’s wrist.
“Is not good, how you heal. Is not good too, to hurt sad, little girl.”
“What choice do I have?” screamed The Doctor.
He dropped the needle and caught it in his left hand. There was nothing that The Collector could have done differently that would have saved his soul. The Doctor thrust upwards with the syringe so that the needle buried into the giant’s jugular. The Collector fell backward and his body collapsed in a violent heap upon a broken porcelain bowl.
The Young Cripple dived for the detector and for T, who was connected to it. She took the device from the giant’s still hands and stared him in the eyes.
“Sad girl,” said The Collector, in short weak words. “Go, in toilet.”
The Young Cripple stared into the toilet bowl.
“Is not for shitting,” said The Collector. “Is door to omniverse. Is just for sad girl to step inside.”
The Young Cripple stared at The Father who lay still and injured on the floor.
“What about him?”
The Doctor was ready to attack The Father with the broken sand globe and finish him once and for all. Overcome was he, by a rage that was anchored to his sinking beliefs. He swiped at the back of The Father’s head, spitting and cursing as he did. And again, The Collector disrupted his fight.
“God damn you,” screamed The Doctor, careening to the floor.
The Collector smiled.
“Is what you wish then is what shall be, and unto you good doctor, what you wish times three.”
“God help me,” said The Doctor, for the first time in his existence, not knowing what would happen next.
The room trembled and shook. All of the junk that was stacked, piled, and jumbled upon one another all shimmied loose and then tumbled upon The Doctor. He gasped and then stretched what little he could of his bent and crumpled fingers. They twitched once or twice, whenever he fought for a b
reath.
“What is there,” he said with barely the strength to continue, “after this?”
His fingers twitched once and then twice more, and then stopped altogether.
The Young Cripple ran to The Father’s side. He was still lifeless, but he wasn’t dead, whatever that meant. She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him towards the gaping hole in the floor that had once been excused for a toilet. Once again, she stared into the darkness and as she did, a feeling of ice cold abandon washed over her. In that very second, the radio, which was now wired to a long, white detector, let out a sharp squeal. So painful was it that she clutched her eyes and dropped the instrument. Were it not for the giant’s sure and quick hands, it might have smashed entirely.
“There is knack to follow fear,” said The Collector. “Trick is – button of volume, keep low, so as not to be made deaf.”
“Like a radio,” said The Young Cripple.
“Fear is but a sound of which vibrates from the fragile existence of what one cares for most. Follow your fear sad girl, and you will find what you truly love. Now go.”
The Young Cripple stared into the bowl and saw immense darkness, and a shadow hovering just below. She couldn’t make out its shape entirely, but it looked like a whale.
“Light, as it were, is but current in vast ocean of time," said The Collector. "Ride it."
The Young Cripple pushed The Father in first. He landed on the back of the whale without much fuss. Before she jumped through, The Young Cripple stared at the giant. His right eye bled horribly and his left was gradually closing. It had become clear now, stupidly obvious, that even in Heaven, one could die.
The girl took the fear detector and jumped through the hole in the floor, landing square on the whale’s back. “Go,” she screamed, “there’s no time.”
“Where would you like to go?” asked The Whale, extraordinarily polite.
It spoke in a slow and docile manner.
The Young Cripple stopped for a second. Her mind echoed with a thousand words - all of them differing ideas. None of them made any sense whatsoever.
“Follow the fear,” she thought.
She took the detector and turned it on. It screamed and squealed when she aimed it up through the hole, just like it had before, but this time, like the giant advised, she turned down the volume. When she turned it away, though, facing out into open space, there was no sound at all; nothing except for a faint pulsing. She turned the volume up on the radio and she could hear, just barely, the sound of The Young Boy’s voice, arguing with The Demon.
“Please. Take me in that direction.”
She pointed out to a tiny star in the distance.
“Hang on,” said The Whale, as they disembarked, and then rode the passage of time and space.