Chapter Text
𝐓here is no last thing for you to remember or anything for that matter. Your mind is just like your current surroundings – drowning in a colourless expanse of, well, nothingness.
Unstructured, achromatic vastness envelops your entire field of vision and overwhelms all senses, leaving behind a feeling of claustrophobia and more questions than answers. Everything is overwhelmingly white – white walls, white floor, white ceiling – if there even is a ceiling. Who’s to tell? You definitely couldn’t because to touch the upper surface of a room, the aforementioned space is required to be there in the first place—
Inhaling deeply, you close your eyes with the hope of calming yourself and escaping the obtrusive brightness. For a short while, at least. The silence is eerie and soon the lack of any outside noise causes your brain to make up its own sounds. You start to imagine breathing behind you, phantom touch against your covered arms… You shake your head and try to push yourself through your silly 'a killer behind a shower curtain while you have soap suds in your eyes' type of fear and use the time to sift through your mind for a catalyst that might have led you to your current predicament.
You don’t even know what day it was or what time. You weren’t a drinker but perhaps your best friend is back in town? That would definitely warrant a celebratory glass of gin and tonic at the bar and if that’s the case, maybe you got something slipped in your drink and are currently experiencing the drugs’ effects on your body. Honestly, it is as good a guess as any.
You reopen your eyes and blink once. Twice.
The sight of the little office setup in front of you is like a mirage in the middle of a desert; it looks horribly out of place and has appeared out of nowhere. But that is not why you are nailed in your spot. It turns out that the feeling of being watched wasn’t unwarranted.
Behind the mahogany desk, one of the two pieces of furniture present in this void, the other being a wall-like filing cabinet, sits a young man. His face is obstructed by golden ringlets of hair falling in front of his eyes as he hunches over his work. That is, until he finally senses your presence in the immediate vicinity and looks up. He almost instantly scrambles onto his feet, a pair of off-white wings with a subtle pearlescent shine now coming into view.
You are definitely drugged.
Running like the place is on fire, the little guy gets ahold of what looks like a pair of vermeil scissors and thrusts them forward. Opening them as if getting ready to cut, he does exactly that and this action surprisingly bears results as the instrument cuts a rift in the air, revealing a window to a whole different world full of pastels and gold.
"What? "
It's the first sound you hear since coming into consciousness and the harshness and abruptness of it makes you jump. The masculine voice does not belong to the little winged humanoid creature but to someone you could not quite see from this angle – someone on the other side of the tear in space.
"I apologise for the disturbance, Adam, but the in-between just received a new soul."
A soul? Your heart drops into the pit of your stomach, making you queasy and lightheaded about the implication held by a four-letter word. You turn around in hopes that it was not used to describe you but all you see is that agitating white and nothing – no one – in sight. All of this feels like a nightmare if anything so you turn back to face the previous direction with the goal of asking some questions but the words die on your tongue the moment you come face to face with another being standing mere inches away from you.
You gasp out of surprise and take a step back, scared to death.
His face stands out like an ink splash on clean parchment and if not for the lustre halo above the curved, golden-tipped horns – matching his atramentous skin – you would have mistaken him for a devil.
Mr. 'Be Not Afraid' towers over your small frame; his gilded wings, poised as if ready to take off, make him look so much more intimidating than he already is and what’s supposed to be his eyes, albeit more evocative of two empty sockets filled with glowing ichor, glare at you with so much loathing that you wish they would simply strike you dead.
Brave but not brave enough to take a step back, you lower your gaze to your feet and that’s when the angel decides to go back to the one that called him in here. Perhaps floating is a better way to describe his movements. His white ecclesiastical vestments – save for the lilac embroidery embellishments and golden bell sleeves, which make the otherwise colourless garment stand out more in the current environment – reach the ground, creating the illusion of him gliding.
Adam, you put a name to the face, picked up from the previous conversation. What a common name for an angel.
"Jude." You flinch at the mention of your own name, mortified that perhaps you spoke your inner thoughts out loud, but when you look up neither one of the angels is looking at you. Adam holds a manilla folder in his claw-like hand and when he speaks up again he talks to no one in particular. "What an interesting choice of name. Your parents really set you up for failure by naming you after an apostle who betrayed the Son of God, huh?" A patronising grin spreads across his face, showing off his sharp teeth, and it's clear to you that rather than seeking out an actual answer, he is using the question to emphasise a particular point. And that point is to tell you just how utterly fucked you are. You two stare at each other for a moment without exchanging any words when he finally audibly and brusquely declares his verdict, "Hell."
Your stomach twists in on itself and the feeling of blood rushing into your brain makes you light-headed. You want to scream – to beg for something. Forgiveness? You aren't sure yourself but you are desperate and desperate people do desperate things. Yet, like some sick joke, when you try to open your mouth, it doesn't move.
And maybe that's a good thing, because your despairing pleas would have sounded very embarrassing. Especially since nothing happens.
"What the fuck?! I said Hell! Why is this chick still standing here? I’m a busy man. I have stuff to do, you know." Adam bellows as he slams the folder on the desk, imposing piles of paperwork moving from the intensity of the hit. The outburst is more suited for a petulant child than an angel, who, at least you suspect, has some sort of authority in Heaven.
"It must be due to the overpopulation issue. I guess you will have to actually do your work this time, sir." The smaller angel shrugs and disappears through the portal, which closes behind him.
"You gotta be fucking joking," Adam mutters under his breath and with a snap of his long black fingers, he is also gone, leaving you all alone in an unfamiliar place with a messy mind and a heart that you are not sure is still beating, for a couple of reasons.
» » »
The soft pastel hues of the fading evening light bleed through the huge floor-length windows in the High Seraphim headquarters, repainting the space with new colours. In the office where Adam materialises, there are a few places to sit comfortably but Sera, the Seraph that the first man just so happens to be looking for, is standing, seemingly overlooking the promenade below. That is, until, after a closer look, Adam meets her glaring gaze through the reflection in the window.
"Please, Adam, don’t tell me you left that human soul there alone." Sera’s mellifluous voice has an authoritative tone to it, exuding sophistication while still commanding attention with every syllable spoken. Her calmness is commendable, knowing how much patience is needed when dealing with Adam.
"I wouldn’t have to leave her there if she just went straight to Hell like I told her to! By the way, what the fuck is that about?!"
"If, upon its arrival, the soul is evaluated accordingly and a correct decision is reached, then there should not be any problems. To my understanding," the seraph turns around, her eyebrows raised but not the tone of her voice, despite her mounting frustration. "You have yet to do any of those things."
"I was kinda in the middle of.. something when she arrived!"
"You are there to judge it, no matter when or what. I thought we were on the same page when you accepted this job."
To no one's surprise, Adam cares very little about the idiosyncrasies of the job in question but that doesn't change the fact that Sera still needs him to do what he promised. The Purgatory has been left with no one to oversee it for centuries, which has caused a multitude of problems. All the souls of the dead that had the misfortune of trickling into the empty space between Heaven and Hell, when left to their own devices, would get caught in the illusory current of the river Lethe and forced to drown in the state of forgottenness. By the time anyone from the angel council decided to visit, the souls would be so drunk on obliviousness that all that remained of them was empty shells barely resembling the human beings they once were – ghosts with a thousand-yard stare. Alas, where Sera saw hopelessness, Adam saw another opportunity to put his name on something. To him, it was kind of poetic – the first man being in charge of the poor lost souls of Purgatory and showing a perfect example of someone actually worthy of Heaven. Of course, it only sounded good on paper.
Sera gently rubs her fingers against her temples and circles back to the topic of their ongoing issue. "Hell is dealing with an overpopulation problem as it is and we cannot afford to be reckless with the souls that might be eligible for Heaven."
"The overpopulation is under control!" Adam snaps back, showing his more pettish nature.
The seraph visibly flinches at the mere insinuation of the exterminations, her eyes shut tightly as if attempting to block out the visuals in her mind. She reopens them with newfound willpower and continues, her voice so gentle it’s almost pleading. "It might be a good soul, Adam."
"If it got trapped in that shithole, then I don’t think it is worth it—"
"That place is a huge asset for us." Sera interrupts Adam’s rant before more profanities can leave his mouth. "Purgatorial souls are our second chance to put a stop to the steady flow of sinners. Sometimes there is not enough time for a human to change before their death and that is where the Purgatory comes in. Those souls deserve another evaluation because the option of ascending to Heaven is actually on the table for them. God created Purgatory for a reason and as someone who is in charge of that place, Adam, you play God inside of its confines. So mirror our Creator, who is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness." Moving past Adam with a seraphic smile, she heads towards her desk, indicating that their conversation has come to an end. "I won’t be talking about this subject anymore. Please return to the purgatory realm and evaluate if the soul is one of a winner or a sinner and—"
"And inform her about her death, yeah, yeah, I know."
You could almost hear a pin drop. Despite her typically placid demeanour, Sera is absolutely fuming. Her halo, six wings, and every single one of her silver curls spawns an eyeball with a slit pupil and all of them stare right back at Adam even before the seraph has a chance to turn around. "You haven’t informed the soul of its death."
If the eyes and waspish voice were not enough to indicate how much Adam messed up, then the sentence ending as a statement and not a question did the job.
"She fucking saw me in this angel get-up, for fucks sake! Almost pissed herself too, heh." He lets out a panicked chuckle, although can’t help but shiver in the High Seraphim’s shadow.
"Adam." Sera’s disappointment was palpable. She was always sure to succinctly inform Adam of the most important things, so he would have to think of something better than 'you never told me A and B', but the first man soaks up information as well as paper soaks up water. In Adam's defence, he had some understanding that Purgatory must have at least a few stringent rules to be followed but who knew them? They are not used frequently. Sera is once again facing Adam, leaning her face intimidatingly close which makes him audibly swallow. "It can have huge repercussions on the soul if it is not informed about its passing or left alone for a prolonged period of time because it is a soul! Not an angel or demon, winner or a sinner, but a soul! The lack of torture, fire and other theatrics is deceiving, but that doesn’t mean that Purgatory itself isn’t beyond dangerous! So many things can go wrong so Adam, deal with the soul correctly or else, so help me God."
She snaps her fingers, and Adam is instantly teleported back.
The moment Adam sets foot on the white plane, a palpably heavy feeling of dread washes over him, as if gravity itself were weighing on him with the intent of levelling the angel with the ground. However, the sensation pales in comparison to what an unshielded soul must be experiencing. Of course, he could always ask one. For instance, you, who just so happens to be leaning against the desk a mere few feet away from him with a piece of paper in hand that almost blends in with the stark white surroundings.
"Hey, hey! No snooping, you little wench!" In a swift motion, Adam rushes to stand in front of you, snatching away the papers from your loose grasp with barely any resistance.
Despite his harsh words and rough touch, you remain impassive and no longer tremble before him as you did before. "So, I really am dead? Where am I?"
Adam looks at what you were reading – the death certificate. There goes his chance of not screwing everything up. He still greets you, albeit a lot too late, confidently but without true enthusiasm in his voice, "Yeah, welcome to Purgatory."
Arms folded tightly across your chest, you narrow your eyes at him. Apathy, out of so many possible emotions that you could feel right now, is contorting your soft features. After learning of your death, after seeing creatures with features your human mind could hardly comprehend, after being caught off guard and left alone in total visual and audible isolation without any heads-up – after all that, you look merely indifferent!
"I don’t feel very welcome here." There is a bite to your voice, a challenging look in your eyes accompanying it. Adam has seen it before – that foolish need to play with scorching fire, the need to oppose him. The annotation – deceased – penned next to your name in red ink most certainly gave you a false sense of security and indestructibility, causing you to make peace with the perception that dying was the worst that could have happened. Too bad you didn’t know just how unstable your faith was. He will gladly put you back in your place.
"Watch it, bitch. There is a reason you are not in Heaven."
An angel with a tongue like that makes you rethink that perhaps the infernal black horns really are those of a demon. At least, despite the fact that his appearance and behaviour seem hellish in every sense of the word, he is definitely becoming less intimidating the more he speaks, even if that holier-than-thou tone of voice is still present and infuriating as all hell.
"I’m not in Hell either." You retort and glance down to look at yourself. Your simple, white, long-sleeve shirt with a sweetheart neckline – deep enough to show quite a bit of skin but still modest enough so that the dainty silver pendant of Saint Jude around your neck wouldn’t appear so blasphemous – is spotless. The same goes for your pants. You raise your hand towards the top of your head and gently brush your palm across the hair, finding it undisturbed. Nothing about your appearance indicates that you have died in some horrible fashion unless passing into the afterlife automatically fixes one's looks. "So what’s the deal with that? I don’t remember," anything. You have a surface-level comprehension of yourself and of the people who were in your life, yet you cannot recall any specific memories. It's like all of those were plucked out, leaving gaps in the otherwise fluid sentences filling the pages of your hypothetical book of life.
"That’s because all of your life events, no matter how small or insignificant they might be, are here." The angel points to the stacks of paper on the desk and saunters towards the chair. It screeches and wails under the abrupt influx of weight but doesn't protest long, coming to terms with its fate. If only you were the same. "All twenty-four years worth of documents about your boring life for me to read through and evaluate."
Boring, you muse to yourself as you watch Adam grab a piece of paper with an exaggerated sigh. Who was he to say what your life was? You don’t remember much, but in your humble opinion, there is no such thing as a boring life, period. What does a boring life even entail? Life is unexpected; that is one quality about it that is consistent and unchanging. So, how can something be boring if you never know what will come next? If anything, it's the exact opposite of dull!
"I would say that this whole process is boring and not life itself, but who am I to speak on the topic?" You shrug, feigning indifference, to which Adam clicks his tongue in utter annoyance. "And here I thought my heart would be weighed or something. It turns out that in the afterlife, everyone suffers from the tediousness of bureaucracy, even those who are in charge."
You don't expect an answer; it doesn't look like Adam is even paying any attention to you anymore. He is in the midst of plucking another sheet of paper from the pile with furrowed eyebrows until his brain registers what you are saying. Looking at you with an arched, sharp brow, he wordlessly inquires, even before uttering a single word. "Weigh your— huh?"
"You know, 'every man’s way is right in his own eyes, but the Lord weighs the hearts'."
At that, Adam simply rolls his eyes and drawls, "God, I wish. Everything is modern now and that method tends to be quite unreliable."
"Speaking of," you ignore the groan from the angel at your unceasing blabbering and ask your question anyway. "Isn’t God supposed to judge me?"
This question is what takes Adam away from his work altogether, as he kicks his feet up and indefinitely puts down the document he’s reading, giving you his full attention. "You think he has the time for that? Even God can’t handle this much paperwork all by himself on top of doing other things! He gives that privilege to the next best thing – me." The way Adam forces the word out through clenched teeth makes it evident that it's more of a source of annoyance to him than anything else yet, in the same breath, he still manages to find the opportunity to make himself seem like someone important.
Despite that, your expression remains blank as you gaze at him with no trace of recognition on your face, much to his irritation. You don’t recall ever hearing of an angel with that name only— oh.
Suddenly, the commonality of his name starts to make sense.
"Adam, as in 'the first man Adam from the Book of Genesis'?"
The wide, smug grin says it all as he soaks up the blissful feeling of being recognised, much like a plant absorbs sunlight. "The one and only, baby."
"You don’t look very manlike." You bite the fleshy inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smirking at the silly play on words, as Adam's appearance is anything but human. Despite the fact that your words are not meant to be taken seriously, just playful teasing, he doesn't find them funny. It's as if your wit was misconstrued as some sort of attack on his identity of being THE man.
"That’s because I’m an angel, you dumb bitch. I thought that was pretty obvious."
Being called baby by the original himself, which is usually a word of endearment and then a derogatory term bitch in a span of two sentences is an almost, if not perfect, show of the dichotomy of a man whose initial kindness towards a woman quickly turns to spite as soon as she 'steps out of line'. The fragile ego must be hereditary, you think to yourself.
On the other hand, Adam is said to be the one to name everything, being a co-creator alongside God rather than a silent observer, and as the woman came second after the namer of things, she was just another thing to be named. So it's only natural for him to do what he was specifically tasked to do. And according to the first man, you are a baby first, a bitch second, and only then a woman.
Your given name must be as low in the sequence as the ninth circle of Hell itself. Of course, it must be; it wasn't given by him so it's not as important.
Folding your arms, you slightly tilt your head. "That other angel didn’t have a face like yours."
"Because he's just a winner."
"A winner? Is that like the opposite of a sinner?"
"Yup." Adam nods and leans back, swinging backwards in his chair.
"A human soul who’s in Heaven?"
"Uh-huh."
"So, just like you."
You might as well have slapped him with a wet towel at the end of your line of inquiry, given how utterly taken aback the first man looks.
"Can you," Adam grunts, rubbing his eyes – unconventional-looking but eyes nonetheless – in annoyance. "I don’t know, sit and look pretty? Fuck."
That you can and do as you settle yourself in an upholstered chair. A complete opposite of the slouched lump that is Adam, your perfectly straight posture exudes grace and refinement as you stick to your unspoken compliance.
Eyeing you from across the table, Adam watches you meet his gaze with unwavering eye contact. To make sure you are doing as you were told or because he’s putting off doing his work for as long as possible, you are not sure. But the latter seems to be the correct guess, seeing that when he finally breaks off the eye contact and goes back to work, it looks like doing so physically pains him.
Paperwork doesn’t suit him; you agree. You imagine him as a more hands-on kind of guy who is involved in the action rather than staying on the sidelines. However, you suppose, doing paperwork is the most action-packed activity one could do in this place.
You shuffle in your chair and glance down at your manicured nails. They are medium-length and clean of any colourful polish; in appearance, they're not captivating enough to hold your gaze for a prolonged time, so it's not long till you flit your attention towards the ominous piles of your paper memories.
Truthfully, you would do anything for a chance to blaze through a few folders, partly because curiosity is simply ingrained in human nature and partly because you just want to fucking read something!
Maybe it’s the Purgatory's ambience, reminiscent of a doctor’s office’s cold and clinical waiting room but you crave to indulge in something. The Purgatory in itself is kind of like a waiting room – a juncture between two places where you wait for the tedious paperwork to be done so you can be directed towards one place or another.
However, at least in real waiting rooms, there are piles of outdated magazines or educational brochures on the coffee table to read and walls adorned with abstract art pieces painted by less-known local artists to gawk at. Time passes quicker when you entertain yourself by admiring the paintings with your hands clasped behind your back, pretending to be an art critic, even if you yourself can barely draw a circle without it looking like a cloud with all those wobbly lines. On the bright side, at least you can draw a cloud. And speaking of what you could do with a pen and paper, "Is there—"
"No."
"—anything I can help with?" You pay no mind to his interruption and finish speaking as if nothing happened.
"Listen, if you are looking for good deeds, hate to fucking break it to you, sweetie." This time, no derogatory nicknames are accompanying Adam's condescending voice, yet that doesn’t make his speech any less so. "But those won’t count towards your redemption."
Still a no, just spoken in a lot more words. Too bad that’s not what you are looking for; you need a yes.
"But even for an angel, this is a lot of enervating legalese to read through! Why not take advantage of a spare pair of eyes? I won't tell a soul."
Adam doesn’t even gratify you with a response.
A huff escapes your lips as you prop your elbow against the wooden surface and place your chin in your palm, defeated.
"Bureaucracy, responsibilities, order, rules, jobs. Doesn’t sound very heavenly."
The absence of pupils in Adam's glowing eyes makes it hard to tell if he is looking at you or not, but the slight forward tilt of his face quickly clears any doubts you may have – he IS looking at you when he says, "Watch your brazen little tongue when badmouthing Heaven, bitch."
"You said that anything I do here won’t go towards my redemption so it shouldn’t affect my damnation either, right? You can only judge me by what is written in ink." You point a manicured finger at huge stacks of paperwork, wiggling the pointer up and down in the air a few times for emphasis.
"Unfortunately."
"Then my tongue shouldn’t be of any concern to you." You close your eyes and stick out said fleshy organ, expecting him to call you a bitch again or roll his eyes and simply ignore you. What you don’t expect is Adam literally pushing the wet appendage back into your mouth – his pointy fingertips tickling your uvula, triggering your gag reflex. "Glak—!"
Panic sets in quickly as you grasp his outstretched wrist with your trembling hand and push yourself up to your feet with the help of the other. The ear-piercing screech of the chair scraping against the ground immediately gets swallowed up by the white abyss or perhaps no noise had been produced in the first place and your overworked brain simply added the sound that the said action is expected to make.
"I like it better when these are the kind of sounds coming out of that pretty little mouth, chatterbox. Your gag reflex is shit, though." To make his point, he pushes his fingers deeper, making you violently gag and gurgle out a pathetic plea. Spittle starts to run down the corners of your outstretched lips and your nostrils flare as you try to take in a breath deep enough to sate your aching lungs. "You might want to shut the fuck up before I find you something better and bigger to choke on. Understood?" He hisses, waiting for an answer, to which all you can do is nod and thank God he's content with that enough for him to take out his demonic claws, now glossy with spittle.
Just like that, as if nothing has happened, Adam plucks a fresh feather out of one of his wings, handily tucked underneath his arm, and resumes writing his signature on the page he had finished reading before this 'mishap'.
You look up, staring off into space or well at those flat peaks of paper piles, as though another documentation of a newly acquired mortifying memory is about to drop from nowhere, awaiting Adam's authorisation like he didn't take part in creating it. When you lower your gaze, you follow the serpentine patterns of a tree's annual rings visible on the polished wooden surface. Your attention is anywhere but on him. Although it's no use, just the mere knowledge that he is within arms reach evokes the uncomfortable phantom feeling from when your lips were forcefully stretched, reigniting your embarrassment of getting manhandled as you did and only solidifying your distaste for the male sex.
So, humiliated and overwhelmed, you surreptitiously slip away. Not to see anything per se, but to merely walk and clear your mind – well, it's not like it's very crowded in there in the first place. And Adam doesn't stop you either; you aren't even sure if he noticed but the need to know for sure is not enough to lure you into turning around. What if, the moment you look back, you turn into a pillar of salt like Lot's wife when she looked back at the burning Sodom? Maybe if the action turned Adam into one, you would be more open to the idea but for now, the absence of the man-angel in your immediate line of sight is welcome with open arms. He can choke himself with his feathers for all you care. Plus, what is the worst thing that could happen if you amble around the desolate in-between on your own for a while?
Famous last words.
Holding your right arm outstretched just a tiny bit in front of you, you tranquilly yet vigilantly manoeuvre around what resembles a very thick fog, making sure that on the off chance you collide with any walls, your palm would feel the impact rather than your face. Your eyes water a little bit from the blinding lucidity of your vast surroundings but the lingering sensation at the back of your throat as if Adam's fingerprints were permanently imprinted on your uvula encourages you to move forward.
There wouldn’t be much for you to think about while strolling around the afterlife if not for the fact that you succeeded in getting a glimpse of a single part of your life when the man-angel was absent.
It was an accident. The small gust from the closing portal flew a single sheet of paper onto the ground near your feet, the flutter sequentially pulling you out of your daze. You instinctively bent down to retrieve the misplaced document, taking a fleeting glance at its contents. And that's when you got sucked into the memory.
It was honestly a surreal experience, even more so than being in Purgatory or the whole being dead thing. One moment you were reading words on the page, and the next you were reliving the memory from an out-of-body perspective – standing beside your past self, feeling her emotions, understanding her actions but seeing everything through an outsider's gaze.
You couldn't have been much older than three or four years. The smaller version of you was kneeling on the fraying leather cushion of a beat-up plastic chair. Her weight was shifted backwards to rest on her calves and her front was facing the backrest. She had her chubby forearms placed on the windowsill above it, her hand positioned as if it were holding an imaginary vehicle, moving it forwards and backwards accordingly.
"Choo choo!" The younger you whispered underneath her button-nose, aware of her surroundings, which you recognised as the waiting room of a clinic. She played without a care in the world, voicing the invisible people riding an invisible train in different tones, all the while an older boy a few seats away from her watched intently, comically confused at what the little girl was doing.
"Sweetheart, let’s go."
The deep voice gets both of your attention. An older man smiles, extending his huge, calloused hand for the taking and while all you can do is watch, your little self jumps from her seat, full of life and joy. She gets ahold of his index finger and the man bends to place a kiss on top of her head.
"You were such a good girl today, honey. I'm so proud of you."
And just like that, you were back in Purgatory. You don't know for how long you stood frozen in place with the memory still in hand. You remember glancing at the paper a few more times in hopes of reliving the memory again, aching to feel loved and safe again. But the words on the page didn't come alive anymore; all that was left was the recollection in your head.
As you moved to bring the document back to the pile from which it escaped, you wondered if your father was still around to lay you to rest seeing as you passed away so young. You hoped not; no parent should bury their child.
With that thought, you snap back into the present. Surprisingly, you got so immersed in the recollection that you didn’t even realise that you stopped walking. You brush away the stray tear with the back of your hand and turn around, ready to face dreadful reality and Adam again, only to be met with white.
Oh no.
Obviously, there is fucking white everywhere but as you glance around, you can't see anything else in the endless corridor. How much did you walk and for how long?
You try to not give into the panic just yet and walk as you did while getting to this point but now that there is nothing to occupy your head, the action seems to drag on for too long and a feeling of dread presents itself in the pit of your stomach. Determining whether you are really going in the right direction or if you accidentally took any turns when there are no clear borders only adds to your distress and pushes you to take drastic measures.
"Adam?" Your voice is as hard and sturdy as wood but hearing yourself speak out loud helps you find some comfort, even if for a short while.
All you know is that you underestimated this place. It’s Purgatory, for fuck's sake! Cunningly unpredictable, merciless and indiscriminately vicious. Sure, maybe it isn’t something even remotely close to Dante’s scriptures and no eldritch monsters are lurking about but the place does its job subtly and as you begin to fully grasp the heaviness of your predicament, it does so effectively.
Your hurried steps soon evolve into a light jog, finally reaching a crescendo at a frantic run. Desperation is evident in your voice as well, wavering out of your throat like a trembling aspen fluttering in the slightest breeze. "Adam?!"
Silence.
It's so deafeningly quiet that you start hearing things. Not voices but sounds or, to be exact, one sound in particular – the droning hum-buzz sound that comes from the flickering fluorescent lights. At first, you are able to drown it out with your laboured breathing but the more time passes, the louder the pitch of the white noise becomes. Like an all-consuming living entity, the Purgatory slowly devours your very being; first, it robs you of your memories, then strips you of your autonomy, senses, and ultimately sanity. It's not long until you can't hear yourself think and when you open your mouth to voice your thoughts, you can't even hear yourself speak.
Then you feel it – something brushing against your shoulder, although, by this point, you don't have it in you to flinch away.
"...come with us..."
The words seem to be spoken by a thousand different voices combined into a single, harmonious sound. You notice the opaque silhouettes of human hands roaming your body and recognise the cold yet pleasant feather-like brushes against your skin as the same phantom touches you felt before. Only now do they bring you comfort instead of apprehension.
A tear runs down your cheek and it’s brushed off with such tenderness that it only makes you wail harder. You feel like a little girl again – helpless and scared but not alone. Instead of your father, there are a multitude of hollow-eyed human figures, more reminiscent of fog than flesh, ready to pacify you. Their siren call beckons you to follow and you have a hard time refusing.
You’re teetering on the edge between consciousness and unconsciousness, however your weary soul can only bear so much until the scales tip into the un- side.
"Woah, woah— Hey!" Adam’s hands get a hold of your pliant figure just in time, finding you perilously close to the point of no return. "What part of 'sit and look pretty' you didn’t understand, miss 'free will'? Fuck, those tiny legs of yours are quick."
He doesn’t get an answer. Yes, he is holding your body but you are not here – eyes big and unblinking as you stare off into space. Adam frantically presses you against him, squeezing you to the point where it most definitely would cause pain and thankfully, a tiny whimper escapes your lips, akin to a dog's whose tail has been pinched.
Your eyes snap open and you are so relieved to see him that you break into tears and offer an unprompted litany of apologies, "I’m sorry! I’m really sorry—"
"Okay, okay, jeez," Adam says nonchalantly but there is a concerned look on his hauntingly angelic face and instead of tearing you away from him, he pulls you in just a tiny bit closer, almost, dare you say, caringly. Now that your nose is buried deep into the surprisingly soft fabric of his clothing, you can smell his scent – earthy with subtle hints of not-too-overpowering heavenly sweetness. It's warm, comforting, and strangely familiar. His long fingers playfully tug on a strand of your hair as a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. "I have work to do, you know. I don’t have time to chase a little tyke around."
Your only reaction is to squirm in response to the pain and that's how Adam knows he messed up big time.
He was aware of your absence right from the start. Your leave wasn't all that sly. When you got up from your seat, you bumped your hipbone into the table, making it rattle, which caused Adam’s signature to smudge. In spite of that, he bit his tongue and didn’t verbally complain. Adam merely saw you off with his gaze, not so imperceptibly trained on your assets, to which you were none the wiser. With responsibilities brushed to the side, the first man intentionally waited for a few minutes before going to pick you up. He wanted this – a quiet, well-behaved soul.
Then why does the absence of that challenging look in your eyes and the return of fear and meekness bother him so much? Probably because Sera will serve his ass as a last super meal if a soul that he is in charge of turns out to be unsuitable.
Adam is not a natural at comforting but he knows how to push people’s buttons and, well, hatred is a strong emotion. He might manage to snap you out of it. Or get you farther away.
Unless he takes a chance, he won't know for sure.
"Mortals have been spinning tales about Purgatory since the beginning. Leave it for a woman to ignore all of the common sense and get herself into trouble."
It takes a second to register what Adam is saying and implying but when it clicks, you snap, "Well, who even put you in charge?! You are terrible at your job! A heads up would have been nice!"
Oh, there she is, Adam internally grins. Hysterical but here.
"What do you want? A big red sign? Don’t you have any self-preservation?! Can’t sense the danger?"
"What danger do you want me to sense?! I’m dead!"
The lack of any other background noise makes your voice so much louder and Adam doesn’t miss the chance to bitch about it. Putting more gasoline into the flame, so to speak.
"I think you should stay here indefinitely and be the Purgatory’s first monster. Maybe then other unfortunate souls will understand to what place they got themselves into for being impious."
"I was not impious." You retort and maybe it’s just the comicality of the whole verbal exchange but it's hard for you not to grin when being accused.
"Hmm, yeah, I don’t know about that. I was reading about your early years and you were quite an imp, biting other children like a rabid little bitch." Adam smiles teasingly and puts his pointer fingers on top of your head, pressing their pads in places of your skull where the theoretical horns would be if you had any. "Maybe you cut them off, you little she-devil."
"Quit it!" You can’t help but laugh at the tickling sensation and it makes Adam smile. He watches as your eyes return to their normal shine, big and framed by long, slightly wet lashes.
Crisis averted.
"Okay, Cerberus, let’s get moving. I really don’t want to be here longer than I need to be."
Just as Saint Peter is intimately familiar with every aspect of the gate to Heaven, Adam too knows Purgatory like the back of his hand because, with him by your side, you find the desk area in minutes. You both go to your respected places, although rather than beginning his work right away, Adam gives you his whole undivided attention. Lucky you.
"I thought you wanted to leave this place as soon as possible?" You raise an eyebrow after uncomfortably shifting in your seat.
"Oh, sorry, my bad! I was just making sure that you were doing okay after almost getting your soul sucked out of you but I see that it's as if you were never gone!" Adam exclaims with mock enthusiasm.
"Why are you even working here? It's obvious that you care very little, if at all, whether or not the souls get their second chance."
"Because there’s no one for this job! And that’s what happens when there is no one here."
At that, you sit up. "You mean those misty figures? Those are human souls?"
"The shades. Left to their own devices in the Purgatory, yes. And if you keep wandering about like that, that’s what will be left out of you. Nothing but a pale shadow of your former self cursed to roam the in-between for all eternity without ever knowing of your past life or what lies beyond."
Somehow, hearing directly that those gentle, cold hands once belonged to souls just like you fills you with immense guilt. Shades? Ha! You seethe silently this time, learning from your previous mistake. More like victims of Heaven's understaffed bureaucracy! "So they are just… stuck here?"
"Where do you want to put them, huh? They’re unfit for Heaven AND Hell, so they just float around here. The Purgatory is huge and they don’t show themselves frequently." Adam leans forward and you subconsciously lean backwards, the choking incident still fresh in your mind. "Not until a tasty and lucid new soul comes in."
"There is no need for those soul-draining shades, I will perish out of sheer boredom." With a deep sigh, you lean your head against your folded arms resting on the table.
"That’s not how that works, but you know, if you are this bored, you can always watch me work from right here." You raise your head enough to be able to see Adam, only to watch him point at his lap. "You would also make yourself very useful."
There is a short period of silence between the two of you. It takes you a bit to recover after that untoward remark and once you do, you again stand corrected – he is definitely THE man.
"So that’s where all the audacity originates from."