Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

“Has not been a surprise to me,” Wilson said, finishing my sentence.

“How are you doing that?” I asked, slightly annoyed that he seemed to be reading my thoughts.

“I am reading your thoughts, Mr. Duffy. It sort of comes with the territory of what I do. I can’t read all your thoughts, and not everyone has thoughts that are understandable to me.” He quickly straightened his face and smiled. “It’s nothing to worry about just yet, Mr. Duffy. I think a bit more recitation and everything will become clear. Please continue.”

Without having a better alternative, I flipped the coin.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into my parking garage. I was happy with myself for making great time despite the heavy traffic. I grabbed my briefcase and jacket and made for the elevator. The ride up was uneventful. I slipped my key into the lock and opened the door.

When I walked in, the first thing I noticed was that the living room lights were on. Cyndi was usually meticulous about conserving energy and almost always walked around the apartment in the dark. Despite my frequent reminders of her own clumsiness, she still did it nightly.

Thinking nothing more of it, I headed to the kitchen for something to drink. That’s when I noted the second oddity. Cyndi had left her shoes lying in the middle of the floor, and I spotted a few used plates left on the kitchen counter. My lovely wife must have come home early. Her back pain must have been more severe than she had let on that morning.

Not wanting to wake her, I tiptoed down the hall and slowly opened the bedroom door. Within seconds I heard the noises.

Curious, I pushed the door fully ajar. The shades were drawn; the room dark. Despite the dimness, I could see Cyndi in bed, but she certainly wasn’t sleeping. In the shadowy glare from the hallway behind me, I could make out an additional body. I stepped to the side, allowing more of the light to spill across the bed. I could see the shape of not one but two people entwined, covered by the thin bed sheet. The actions I witnessed fully aligned with the sounds emanating from the bed. They were fucking.

My knees began to weaken beneath me. Frozen and unable to move, all I could do was watch in horror. There I was, standing in the doorway of my bedroom, watching my wife having sex with another man. My chest began to tighten. My breathing quickened. I was horrified, but I couldn’t move.

I finally forced my legs to move. I slowly backed out into the hallway, pulling the door to its original position. I retraced my steps through the apartment and back out into the corridor. I left the front door open, not caring whether Cyndi knew I had been home or not.

I had no words to describe what I was feeling. The old man cleared his throat, but I paid him no attention. All I could think about was what I had just witnessed—for the second time. Sadness turned to anger. I could feel my soul moving inside me, and I had to do something or else I felt like I would explode. I stood and walked to the edge of the dirt path near the park. From where I stood, I could see the sky grow a shade lighter. Dawn was approaching, and here I was, standing in an unknown park, speaking to a strange man about the most fucked up day I’ve ever had. Cyndi and I used to love sunrises. How ironic, I thought.

“Did you know?” I asked the old man, who was now sitting straight up. It was as if he had prepared himself for an onslaught of questions.

“I cannot say what I knew exactly. The answer to you would prove confusing at best,” he replied, making zero sense to me.

“Was that the event that caused my memory block?” I asked, taking a seat next to him.

“That might have something to do with it, but according to my calculations,” he paused to look at his watch again, “you are still missing an hour or so before getting on that fateful bus ride.”

I nodded. I had assumed as much. Coin in hand, I continued my trip down memory lane.

Delirious, I made my way back to the elevator and gently pressed the call button. I stood there, waiting, my mind in a fog. As the elevator dinged, there was a cry coming from the direction of my apartment. It was Cyndi, now dressed in a robe, standing just outside our apartment door. The doors parted, and I casually stepped in to the elevator. I pressed the button for the lobby, and as I turned around I could hear running footsteps. Cyndi came into view at the precise moment the elevator doors closed her face off from me - forever.

The elevator made its descent to the first floor in less than a minute. I walked out into the penetrating heat and turned right down the sidewalk. I was numb, and had no particular destination in mind. I just needed to walk away.

The sidewalks were beginning to fill with the daily workforce leaving for the evening. The farther I walked, the more crowded the sidewalks became. Having no real plan, I decided I would step off the concrete path of civilization and have a seat.

A block later, I came upon a little bistro with a small outdoor courtyard. I moved through the entry and out onto the terrace. I sat along the outside railing, and a waiter brought me a menu and a glass of water.

Despite the cover on the patio, the heat was nearly unbearable. Moving to a table inside never crossed my mind. I just sat in the silence, wondering why this day was destined to be so disastrous. There was nothing left for fate to deface.

I sipped from the glass of water, feeling its cool tingle as it passed my lips. I looked around the patio and realized I was alone. My soul was just as alone. I wondered what I should be feeling. Hate? Fear? Anger? I felt them all but none at the same time. I felt like crying but couldn’t find the energy. I thought about calling my therapist but dismissed the thought. I knew what he would tell me: it was all going to be OK. How on earth was it going to be OK? My wife, the center of my world, had just cheated on me. My job was horrendous. My entire life seemed to be in a tailspin heading for a fiery crash.

I suddenly realized that throughout the last thirty minutes, I had been carrying my briefcase. Why hadn’t I set it down in the apartment when I walked in? I sat it on the ground next to my chair and saw Cyndi’s prescription. I pulled it from the side pocket and laid it on the table in front of me. I took another sip of water and began to read the label.

I scanned through the generic warnings and precautions. Toward the end of the label, it mentioned that the side effects could be numbness and drowsiness. That sounded about right. I tore open the sealed envelope and popped the lid off the bottle. I emptied a handful of pills onto the table in front of me and contemplated my future.

What exactly did my future hold? I no longer had a wife that loved me. Hell, did she ever love me? I had a boss that would be happy to see me thrown out onto the street. I had no kids, thankfully. Both my parents had passed away years ago. I had nothing left at all. I knew right then that nobody would ever miss me. I took another drink.

Having dealt with depression for many years, I was no stranger to the thought of suicide. Hell, I think everyone thinks about the what-ifs of suicide at least once in their life. I just happened to have thought about it many times over the years. Through countless sessions with my therapist, we concluded that the depression stemmed from mass bullying throughout primary school. The feeling of hatred was still strong toward the people that caused me so much pain. At that moment, random neurons in my brain connected two events in my live, separated by nearly 20 years. Pearlman was the coalescence of all the bullies of my youth.