A screaming siren pierced the darkness stirring his mind from the black state it had fallen into. Struggling groggily to regain consciousness and equilibrium, he felt a constrictive something covering his nose and mouth. Even before he could force his eyes to open, his attempt to bring a hand up to bat it off was weak and his arm fell back to his side.
“Easy, tiger.” Came a reassuring, feminine voice.
“He seems to be breathing on his own.” A man said. “You can probably remove it.”
As his eyes fluttered open, everything around remained blurry. With the siren piercing his brain, it hurt to try thinking and he closed them again. He couldn’t make his mind focus.
Fresh air replaced the oxygen as the mask came off and the female voice spoke again. “Is that better?”
It helped and slowly his eyes blinked several times before remaining open. Around him, through the fog, he saw what appeared to be two EMTs and medical equipment he couldn’t name, and he became aware that he lay on a gurney in close quarters. Must be an ambulance, he realized. What? What happened? How did he get here?
Before he could speak, he felt the momentum cease and realized the vehicle had come to a stop.
A hand touched his shoulder, and the woman said, “Here we go.”
The back doors of the ambulance opened and there followed a flurry of motion as the EMTs jumped out and pulled the gurney through the doors, settling it on the ground. Seemingly from nowhere, two men, stern of countenance with close-cropped blond hair, fierce blue eyes and chiseled features, their burly, muscular forms dressed in white replaced the EMTs who seemed to just disappear, one on each side of him.
He knew they must be orderlies but the thought flickered across his mind that they looked more like Eastern European soldiers than hospital staff.
Each of the men grabbed one of his arms and propelled him forward, onto his feet.
It shocked him that his strength seemed to return so that he stood firmly and looked ahead to what appeared to be the glass doors of a hospital emergency room. He didn’t resist, though it struck him as odd, when they moved him forward, still holding his arms, his feet barely touching the ground.
Once through the doors, the surroundings were even stranger. Instead of an emergency room setting, there appeared a long hallway, its walls a dull beige color and leading to a pair of immense, intricately carved doors which swung open when they approached.
The men forcefully thrust him through the doors, which closed behind him.
Fully aware now, he took in his surroundings.
A courtroom, much like every movie he’d ever seen, stood before him. The gallery full of unoccupied seats on either side of the aisle in front of him, leading to the wooden columned partition beyond which were the tables where legal counsel would sit.
Oddly, he noticed there was no witness stand, no jury box; only an immense wooden judge’s bench, taller than him and with an aura where the presiding judge would sit, so blinding in its brilliance, he couldn’t keep his eyes on it.
“Step forward!” The voice boomed.
Unable to control his own movement, he floated forward through the partition and came to a stop between and just in front of the legal tables. Visibly shaking, he stood numb and speechless. What was this?
“Tristan Leeland.” The booming voice rang out. It wasn’t a question.
Nervously, he glanced around the room, eyes coming to rest on a figure that emerged from out of nowhere and took a place at the table reserved for prosecuting attorneys.
Carrying a thick manila folder, the man set it on the table in front of him. Dressed in an expensive, solid black suit with silk tie and glittering tie pin, his hair was combed back in that slick style once popular among powerful men.
Tristan stared but began to tremble even more uncontrollably as the man lifted his head and his face became visible.
A sleek, manicured goatee, the same shade of ebony as his hair, framed think, severe lips in a pale face but this wasn’t what induced Tristan’s reaction. His eyes, otherwise average in size and shape, were deep red, changing intensity as if alive with fire.
“State your case.” The booming voice demanded.
Intimidated and more afraid than he’d ever been, Tristan simply stared.
From somewhere above, a large video screen descended, coming to rest in the place one might expect the witness stand to be. The screen came to life as the fiery-eyed figure flipped the file open.
Tristan saw himself on it; he couldn’t have been more than about seven years old. In the aisle of a small, local store in the town he’d lived as a young man, he furtively watched as his friends paid for the snacks they’d picked up at the counter. Carefully, he tucked a comic book into his jacket and hurried out behind them.
He hadn’t thought of that day in years but remembered it as the first time he’d ever consciously done something he knew was wrong. Eaten up with guilt, he had taken it back, relieved when the kindly, old proprietor had scolded him, obtained a promise that he wouldn’t do it again, and forgiven him. The video didn’t show that part.
The screen went dark.
The red-eyed prosecutor spoke. “You see, he violated his own conscience.”
Dumbfounded, Tristan watched as the screen came to life again. He saw a montage of every time he’d faked being sick to get out of going to school and other lies he’d told, like where he was going if he knew his mother wouldn’t approve, every time he’d screamed at her disrespectfully and insulted her for not being what he wanted, when he’d purposely smashed his cell phone, knowing his grandmother would get him an upgrade if his mother wouldn’t; all things he’d thought were no big deal and quickly forgotten. It gave him pause to realize how quickly he’d become hardened to those things.
It seemed to go on and on with only a few standout incidents: the time he’d let his friend take all the blame for a neighbor’s broken window. He also saw the punishment the boy had received and the hours he’d had to work doing chores in the neighborhood to pay for it — something his friend had never shared but their friendship had cooled. He hadn’t known why.
He saw the night he’d hooked up with a girl for the first time and how he bragged to his friends about his experience. What he hadn’t known was how she’d cried herself to sleep every night for a week when he hadn’t pursued a relationship and her fear when she took a pregnancy test, followed by her relief when it was negative. He hadn’t cared about any of that; only how his friends reacted and the resulting esteem they gave him as part of the crowd.
“And,” came the sneering voice of the prosecutor. “Here is the final felony.”
As if he didn’t feel guilty enough, he saw himself at a party. His friend Nathan had challenged him to a game of shots. Time after time, he’d flipped the quarter into the shot glass and Nathan had downed the liquor. The more drunk he became, the worse his aim was. Tristan drank enough to get sloppy but nothing like his friend had.
The alcohol had given him enough courage to talk to Maddie, the most popular girl in school. She seemed to like him and while nothing important had happened, there seemed to be a connection made.
“Bro,” Nathan had approached, swaying, slurring and nearly stumbling. “I gotta go.”
Tristan had come to the party with him, and Nathan was his only ride home.
“Do you think he should be driving?” Maddie asked.
He laughed. “You think I could get his keys? Not likely.”
She didn’t seem to be the worse for any drinking and her tone became sober as she watched him teeter. “Maybe you should try. Or get someone to take him home.”
Shaking his head, he replied. “It’ll be all right.”
Maddie just watched as they left the house.
Nathan’s impairment caused him to drive carelessly, swerving and slow to respond to traffic lights. He sped up, declaring. “I think I’m gonna be sick. I need to get home.”
“Hey…” Tristan started, then. “Bro!”
Failing to stop for the red light, Nathan ran straight into the intersection.
T-boned from both sides, the car spun, flipped onto the shoulder and landed on its roof, caving in.
Dazed, his chest pounding with pain where he’d hit the dashboard while his head felt about to explode and blood ran down his face, Tristan looked over at the driver’s side as the sound of sirens pierced the air.
Nathan wasn’t moving, a gash in his forehead bleeding profusely.as he slumped unmoving against the steering wheel.
Everything went black as did the screen.
“This selfish, hard-hearted sinner deserves no mercy.” The prosecutor declared decisively.
The booming voice came out of the light. “How do you plead to the charges against you?”
Horrified, Tristan simply stared, mouth agape. What could he say in response to all the evidence presented?
“The Book.” The booming voice said.
A large book, its pages like old parchment, the binding of worn leather appeared on the bench. With no human hand to turn them, the pages flew and fluttered, first one way and then the other.
“Your name is not in the Book.” The voice declared. “Son, what say you?”
Hemming and stuttering, Tristan realized when he saw movement in his peripheral vision that the voice hadn’t been addressing him.
A man stepped forward. Dressed in an immaculate white suit, blue tie with gold tie pin, his eyes were full of what could only be described as liquid love, but with a distinct sadness. Lifting his arms, with palms facing upward, the gaping holes in them were unmistakable.
Even with no religious background, Tristan knew instinctively, it had to be Jesus. He wanted to speak but words wouldn’t come.
Jesus dropped his head solemnly, shaking it back and forth as he shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know him.”
“Thrust him into outer darkness.” The booming voice passed judgement. “Where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
Consumed with fear as two men, like the ones who’d brought him here, came on either side and grabbed him, Tristan begged. “Please! I… I…” But what could he say?
Much the same as when they’d brought him here, they half dragged, half carried him up the aisle to the double doors at the back of the courtroom. One pushed at the doors that flew open before them. Without a word and no ceremony, the cast him out but instead of a hallway, he began to fall.
When he tried to look up, the doors had disappeared. Surrounded by blackness and assaulted with bone-numbing cold, his descent rapid, it seemed like a bottomless cavern. From some place far below, he thought he could hear screaming but it seemed so distant, he wondered if it might be his imagination.
Suddenly, the momentum stopped as he hit something. His body jerked and his eyes, oddly closed, popped open.
“Welcome back.” A kindly voice said.
A quick scan of his surroundings revealed a hospital room, and he felt the soft surface of a bed beneath him. He looked up to see a nurse beside him. Welcome back? How could she know…?
She grinned as she patted his arm. “We thought we’d lost you there for a minute.”
He frowned. Hadn’t they?
Struggling to find his voice, he rasped. “My friend… what…?”
“He’s been in surgery for a while.” She assured. “Why don’t I go and see if he’s out yet?”
Tristan nodded.
“Be right back, honey.”
Once alone, his mind worked to make sense of it all. He believed in God, sure, and somewhere in there was a belief that a man named Jesus had died on a cross and risen from the dead but like most people he knew, that was as far as they got with it. Also, like them, he’d thought he was a good person and that good people went to heaven when they died.
If what he’d experienced was real, that couldn’t be true. Was it real? Somehow, he knew it had to be and if he had died, why was he sent back?
The friendly nurse’s face seemed sober but gentle when she returned. Laying a hand on his arm, she said. “Your friend is out of surgery but still in ICU.”
“Is he going to make it?” Tristan urged nervously.
“It’s still too early to tell.” She kept her face neutral. “He suffered a lot of internal damage and blood loss. He’s fighting for his life. The doctors are doing all they can but it’s just a waiting game right now.”
Tristan nodded grimly.
“Get some rest, honey.” She patted his arm and left the room.
It wasn’t over. He thought. Remembering what the booming voice had said; that his name wasn’t in whatever that book was and Jesus declaring He didn’t know him; all the “evidence” against him in that cosmic court. There had to be a way to fix it. He didn’t know how or what, but he would find out before he found himself there again.
He knew some church kids who’d tried to talk to him at school. Maybe he could start there. At least while he breathed and Nathan lived, there was hope.
Lisa Greco Filali 