Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

“What? That’s it? You pawn off the boxes on me and you’re out of here?” I asked, astounded. I wondered if I had just made yet another bad choice.

“There’s nothing left to say. I’ve lived my life—both in reality and in the afterlife. What would you have me say or do that would make a difference?”

“Well, for purely selfish reasons, can you give me any tips? Do I eat, and if so how often? How about sleep? And when does happy hour start?”

Wilson laughed. “Sorry, there’s no happy hour, Mr. Duffy. The only tip I will give you will be the same advice that my predecessor gave me.” He paused as he placed his hat atop his head. He sat straight up, looking at me eye to eye.

“Forgiveness is a virtue that needs to be nourished. Resentment only leads to disappointment.”

“That’s it? That’s your sage advice? I was hoping—”

Wilson continued, “And listen to Hauser. He is wise well beyond his years.”

I nodded silently, not because I had no words, but because I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t choking or gasping for breath, but there was no air in my lungs to speak.

“Now, if you please. Open the box and I’ll be on my way,” Wilson said with his own last breath.

I did as Wilson requested. I opened the box and looked inside before turning it toward him. The inside of the box was just as plain as the outside but without any signs of wear. I turned the box around and held it open toward Wilson. “What now?” I asked, suddenly able to speak.

Wilson closed his eyes and began to sing a song. The words sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. As he sang, I began to notice a wisp of smoke or fog leaving his mouth. It lifted out and away from his lips. Once the trail of smoke was completely out of him, his voice ceased, and the paleness of his skin dulled as he slumped back against the bench. The cloud began to move through the air in the direction of the wooden box. Once it completely entered the box, the lid closed on its own and instantly vanished. In its place, another box appeared. The new box looked just like my box, but the name was different.

The name on the box was Cyndi Duffy.

The silence of the approaching dawn was upon me, and the impact from my foolish choices was deafening. Lost and disoriented, I could almost hear the voice screaming out instructions for what to do next. The only problem: Wilson was dead and he could no longer speak. He sat next to me, slightly slumped to the side, but not enough to tumble off the park bench.I looked into his hollow, lifeless eyes and wondered what I had gotten myself into.

While Wilson’s fixed gaze continued to stare into the ether, I took in my immediate surroundings. The sun was on the rise, and a faint mist hung low to the ground. It seemed like only moments earlier that I was awakened from my suicidal sleep, before heading out into the deserted streets of the city. Now here I was, sitting next to a soulless body, and for all intents and purposes, I was no longer a living, breathing man, either.

Do I have to breathe now? I wondered. Now that I am a soul collector? Breathing is such an absentminded act that you normally don’t pay much attention to—unless you can’t do it, that is. I straightened my back and focused on the rhythmic action of air moving in and out of my lungs. After a particularly deep breath, I stopped breathing. I wasn’t exactly holding my last breath, I just ceased to take another. As I sat listening to the early morning sounds of the city, I began to feel my lungs burn. They were being starved for air. Beads of sweat quickly formed at my temples, and I felt the womp-womp of my heartbeat in my ears. Finally, when I didn’t think I could take any more, I felt a hard slap on my back and I inhaled sharply. I spun around, but there was no one there. I looked at Wilson, certain that he wasn’t capable of raising his lifeless arm to smack air into my lings.

Concluding that my mind must still be coming off the drugs I took earlier, I took several more breaths of fresh air and focused my attention on the box in my hand. It was made of wood and was about the size of an old Rubik’s Cube. An intricate pattern covered the box, and appeared to be hand carved. The box wasn’t worn or scratched. It looked brand-new. I opened it and looked at the interior, which was void of the ornate whittling present on the outside. Closing the box again, I read the name engraved on the top.

Cyndi Duffy.

Reading her name sent chills up and down my spine, and I wondered where she was. If my new job, as Wilson explained, was to collect souls, then I needed to find Cyndi, my wife, and collect hers. I closed my eyes and tried to envision her face in my mind. Strangely, I could not pull her likeness into focus.

“Wilson, a little help here would be nice,” I said aloud, but Wilson’s frozen gaze didn’t falter. I followed his line of sight and noticed that he was staring directly at a billboard: The Dodson Apartment Center—40 stories of high-end living is closer than you think. Just 12 blocks south, in midtown.

“Well, then. Thanks, Wilson. Had I been paying attention during our little talk earlier, I could’ve figured things out all on my own.” I stood and looked around to get my bearings. The sun was on the rise and recognition began to set in. I really was just a few blocks from home. I smiled wryly at myself. The pills from yesterday must have caused some serious disorientation, severely impairing my senses. Now confident about my location and where I needed to go, I headed for home.

I walked in silence for several blocks, wondering what I would say to Cyndi when I walked into our apartment. “Hi, honey. I need you to spit your soul into this box, you cheating whore.” No, I didn’t think that’d quite do the trick. Perhaps a more subdued approach would be more appropriate. “Excuse me, but would you mind not saying a word while I perform a soulectomy on your sorry ass?” Again, no.

As various scenarios of the inevitable confrontation ran through my mind, I absentmindedly crossed 49 thagainst the light. A taxi sped by me, nearly hitting me. I stopped in my tracks mere seconds before getting blasted by the hustling driver. I quickly jumped back onto the curb and waited for the light to change. After a few moments, the white walker light shone brightly, and I once again moved into the street.

Stepping onto the curb at the other side of the street, my mind reeled at the sudden realization. If I was going to collect Cyndi’s soul, she had to be close to death. After my brief discussion earlier with Wilson about how soul collection worked, I knew it was too late for Cyndi. But despite her cheating ways, I was still apprehensive about her impending death. My mind bounced from one tragic thought to another about what could have happened to her. Maybe it was just an accident, and she was hit by a speeding taxi, just like the one that almost hit me. Or maybe she’d felt bad about her actions and decided to take her own life, similar to my own actions yesterday.

As I crossed 43rd, halfway back to the apartment, I slowed my pace. Various dreadful thoughts of what could have happened to Cyndi continued to course through my mind. I realized that if she was on death’s bed, she might not even be at home. She was probably laid up in some hospital bed. Or worse, she could be lying face down in some dark and dingy alley, unable to move. Panic seeped into my soul, but I didn’t know what to do or where to go. My mind cycled through all the options in front of me, and I flashed back to when she had fallen in the park a few weeks ago. She had elected to go to County General for help. Just as the thought of the hospital pulled up in my mind, my vision suddenly faded to black and I felt as if I was being hoisted above a crowd and carried through the air by the random hands of strangers. I tried to open my eyes and look around, but it was useless. Darkness prevailed. The rush stopped as quickly as it had begun, and my vision swiftly returned. Once I was able to focus again, I doubled over and involuntary puked. When nothing came out, I gather that there was most likely nothing was left to vacate from my stomach. It was just dry heaves, most likely caused from whatever that … feeling was. I looked around and discovered that I had mysteriously transported onto the seventh floor of the hospital.