A ticket out of hell

There are only two things worth knowing about hell: you wouldn’t be there if you didn’t deserve it, and you can’t get out unless someone offers you a ticket. 

You’re probably imagining all sorts of other things worth knowing, such as what the demons look like, and how you’ll be punished, and what exactly the thermostat is set to. There’s no point speculating though, because all the unpleasant sights and feelings you’re imagining are the sensations of a living body that you’ve left far behind. There’s no torture worse than the knowledge you’re right where you belong, and if you don’t believe me, I politely suggest you go to hell and see for yourself. 

When I was alive, I would have done anything in the name of love. The lengths I would go through just to see her, to hold her, to lose myself in her until I didn’t know myself when I was alone. Until inevitably came the day when I became a stranger to myself, and she became a stranger to me, the two of us turned to poison in the other’s veins. Then I would leave her to pursue a fresh intoxication to make me feel whole again, happy so long as I didn’t remember those I left behind. 

I had a child. More than one, perhaps many more. I know there was a little girl who suffered for me, shuffled from home to home until she was swallowed by the streets. I know there was a boy who wished his father would come back again, although perhaps he wouldn’t have if he knew his father was someone like me. I would tell you their names if I could. I would have recited them to myself every moment I was in hell, wishing the best for them though I know they didn’t get the best from me. 

But I was dead, and they were lost, and that’s how it would always be if I hadn’t received a ticket. It wasn’t something I earned, or found, or stole, though the devil knows what I would have done to get it. I don’t know how long I was mired in misery, but I do know there was no shortage of others who have languished far longer. All that matters is that it was into my hands she pressed the folded paper, and my ears that were blessed with her sweet words.  

“You’re free to leave. No one will try to stop you anymore. And don’t worry if you ever change your mind. It’s a two-way ticket, and you can come back whenever you want.” 

I wish I could describe her, my savior, but what word does justice to those who dwell beyond living senses? I could call her grace, but you would only see slender feet dancing through the grass without capturing the light of her soul. I could call her hope, but you would only feel the flush of excitement beneath your skin and miss the infinite in her cloudless eyes. No, I shall not sully her with any of our impoverished words. It is enough that you know she had a ticket, and that she was giving it to me. 

“Why would anyone ever come back?” I asked. 

“You might as well ask why anyone would ever come at all,” is all she would reply. 

And so I passed beneath the shadows that were cast without light. And each time the horrors of the shade loomed over me, I would close my eyes and present the paper in my hand only to feel the pressure of their presence melt back into the dark. I did not slow to listen to the anguish of those left behind, nor was I hindered as I rose into the endless light. All I could think of was getting out—starting over—not sparing a thought for what lay waiting on the other side. 

The light I entered was more than something to be seen. It was something to be felt, to be heard, to be smelled, all rushing back to me in a crushing wave. I’d persisted in the emptiness beyond life for so long that I’d forgotten what it was like to be again. It was all too loud, too hot, too bright, all intermingled so I couldn’t tell which was which, nor up from down nor good from bad. Too much, too fast, too hard—I did the only thing I could. I began to cry, and then sob, and then wail, and that was exactly what I was supposed to do. 

I had been born again, but it was different this time. Staring up at my mother’s face as she cradled me in her arms, I remembered everything that I had endured thus far. I even remembered that this woman was my mother, and that the man with his arm around her was my father, and that they were going to take me home to the same blue-carpeted room I remembered growing up in. 

I hadn’t just been born. I had been born into my own body, but if that were true, then why couldn’t I stop crying once I realized what was going on? Why would my arm move without command—why would I grab hold of the end of the fork even though I knew it would be sharp? Why did I think these thoughts, yet be locked inside a child that couldn’t speak aloud? 

I hadn’t just been born into my body. I had been born into my old life, and I was trapped inside without being able to change a thing. A prisoner to my every mistake, a helpless victim to rise and fall with the iron whims of fate. I could see and hear and feel everything that the body experienced, but my thoughts were cut off from those of the boy that would grow up to be me. I couldn’t warn him of what was to come, or change my inevitable actions, or so much as whisper to let him know that I was there. 

The newborn body spent most of its time sleeping, and that gave me lots of time to really think about what was to come. I was going to relive every embarrassing moment, every sickness, every defeat, all the way until my own death. Every long night, every heartbreak, every regret, even worse this time around for knowing they were coming despite my body fooling itself into a moment of happiness. 

Somewhere in the back of the child’s mind sat I, with a piece of folded paper still resting in my hand. It was a two-way ticket and I could go back. But right now the child was only sleeping, and how could I say that I would prefer hell to this? I would wait, I told myself, until I couldn’t take it anymore. One day I’d know my life had been ruined and I’d use the ticket then, but not today. 

Or tomorrow, or tomorrow, or tomorrow. Because I had spent a long, long time in the darkness, and I had forgotten how beautiful the world could be. Even if I couldn’t control this new body, I still experienced its thrill of pleasure as it made each new discovery. The first strawberry—the first dog—the first time seeing the ocean from the window of a car. I had seen infinity after I had died, and I saw it again now through a child’s eyes. 

And before I knew it the years were starting to pass me by. I knew I was reliving my exact life, but it was amazing how many things I had forgotten over time. Even the childhood memories that I did possess, vague and faded as they may be, did nothing to ruin these visceral experiences. It was almost as good as living for the first time. 

By now I had spent so long as a silent passenger that it didn’t even feel strange not to choose how the story would play out. I’d wince when I knew I was about to slide down that splintery post, but I’d also remember that it barely even hurt when I woke up the next day. I felt the hot rage of not getting a toy I wanted at the store, and then remember that I’d gotten that toy on Christmas that year, and that it had broken within the first twenty minutes. Every hurt and injustice that I had been dreading so much had seemed like the end of the world at the time, but now that I was living through them again I knew that none of it would matter before long. 

So I let the years slip on, and watched as I grew into the same man I ever was. And then I met her again, and I felt the heart in my body stop as if it were my own. Looking at her as I did in the moment we first met, I couldn’t understand how I had ever stopped loving her. But I would understand, because I had no choice but to live through it all again. I’d relive how every little stress, and insecurity, and pettiness in me grew until it swallowed me up. I’d yell at her, and lie to her, and hurt her in ways deeper than flesh can heal. 

Yet here I was, trapped and helpless as I watched how she couldn’t stop smiling, how her eyes would dart away but always find their way back to mine. I knew what it felt like when all the love drained away from those eyes, only to be replaced by revulsion and remorse. My body didn’t understand any of that though. It only felt the flush of youth and the bubbling of love, so blind and lost that it would chase her again no matter the end. 

But I knew better, sitting alone at the back of the mind with a folded piece of paper in my hand. There was no point in going back to hell, if I was only trying to avoid grief and pain. Hell would be no kinder to me. Here there would still be moments of happiness to come, but going back to hell would banish even these. 

If I was only living for myself, then staying must be the right choice to make. And yet if I stayed, I knew I would not be the only one who suffered. Whatever I endured in hell, at least I would be sparing my love and her future child a life with me in it. Better that I should go back where I belonged than force fate to play this hand again. 

“I’m ready to go back now,” I said to no one in particular. “I’ve still got my ticket, and I want to go back.” 

I closed myself away from the light and the noise and the smells of the world, and I was in the darkness once more. And out from that darkness I felt a touch upon my wrist, and I thought it was my savior, my grace, come to take me back to the other side. Yet when I opened my eyes I saw myself still in the living world with my future love smiling back at me, and I knew that I was the one opening my own eyes this time. And when I folded my hand over hers, I knew that was a choice I was making now, one that had never happened the first time round. 

“Whether you’re ready remains to be seen,” said no one in particular in reply. 

“Are you feeling okay? Do you want to get out of here?” my love asked me, just the way she had on the day we’d first met.  

“No. I don’t want to leave. I’m right where I’m supposed to be,” I told her. From the way she smiled, she must have known I was talking about her. 

My ticket has gotten me out of hell, but has it taken me back again? I suppose that’s up to me to decide.