Victor Black - And the Garden of the Gods

Chapter 7: The Method

Staring down into the expanse of darkness and shimmering lights below, Victor felt hungry. "Pie would taste awesome right about now." He frantically tried his hand at the kind of slip knot his father had taught him. "This has to be good, but easy, my ass." He rarely cursed, but now was no time to judge himself. "No pie. No. No treats for Vic." His last meal had been some greasy, overcooked bacon and eggs for breakfast, long before Willow's birthday party. He didn't even get a piece of cake, such was his state of mind.

He remembered Willow had been just as down as him earlier in the day, but Victor's mind played with images of her lovely straight, black hair, and the silver locket she kept around her neck. He fashioned the completed—and to his delight—perfectly sized noose and knot.

"This should squeeze the memories right out of me," he said, grunting. He pulled a little harder on the knotted line to ensure snugness.

He repeated the same routine with the other end of the rope, creating a hole through which to thread the other end and tie around the stump jutting up next to him. He made sure—taking extra care—the distance between the log, and where his head would be, allowed for maximum leaning and tension. It would make his task simple and, most of all, quick.

Victor stared at the rudimentary life-ender in front of him and yelled out into the valley below, "LAST CALL!" His voice echoed around the opening in the forest briefly and was snuffed out by the dense, silent darkness surrounding him.

In that darkness, a host of creatures would be his witnesses. A bat fidgeting around in the sky had the best view, while something small and unknown darted around in the crispy leaves and pine needles nearby. "If no one finds me, these guys might be enjoying me for breakfast." He laughed to himself. The idea of field mice, beetles, and bats making a home of his lifeless body intrigued him. "But I'll never know it," he muttered.

Turning back to the stump and noose before him, Victor kneeled and positioned himself facing the city, his knees in blue Diesel jeans firmly kissing the dusty earth. He gently placed the rope over his head of sandy brown hair, down around his muscular, sinewy neck, and under the collar of his black leather coat, testing its toughness by ever so carefully bending forward toward the edge. His legs felt unstable. His feet moved a bit. He straightened, moved his feet back against the stump, and spread his legs a little.

Yes, he thought, this will work quite well.

Victor closed his eyes, clasped his hands behind his belt, and rocked his body forward without hesitation. His neck strained against the rope, and his face and ears flushed. The blood trying to make it up through his veins, to his brain, created a thumping noise in his ears as it struggled to move. Victor focused on taking small breaths with difficulty.

Focus Vic, his mind shouted. Just a minute and you'll lose consciousness, your body will relax and slump, and the pull will take care of the rest.

He tried to rationalize and think through the process, typical for his analytical mind. His brow tingled. His scalp numbed. A warm sensation enveloped his entire head as a wave of euphoria hit him and spread down his spine.

He knew full well the choice he had made. The mental anguish from trying to relate to all the people and circumstance around him would be over. No need to care. No need to think. No need to respond to it all ever again.

Dying wasn't that simple, however.

With his eyes clamped shut, he broke with the plan. He tried to straighten his body, but his muscles had already weakened too much.

He gurgled some words: "The ... letter ... in my pocket —"

Before losing consciousness altogether, he parted his right eyelid at the corner. A mass glowed, again, out beyond the trees. Blue, white, pulsating light.

It brightened—everything suddenly faded.

Flashes of a different light invaded his sight as the rope tensed further. Black dots danced around the edges of his view, focusing the light to the center until it became an overpowering pinpoint in a field of darkness. He'd seen this before.

The brightness burned at first, like a knife piercing the center of his eyeballs. It sparkled in tones of blue, white, and red. Victor felt drawn forward toward it. He thought he had a choice, as the three colors competed, dividing into more distinct, separate points of light. He felt drawn toward the white. It overpowered the others, and he felt pulled toward it as all sensation in his body faded.

A deep warmth filled Victor—his last sensation. It sank from his head, down through his skeleton. His heart pounded in his chest, pulsating through each vein running the length of his body.

The light exploded, overtaking Victor. A rush of energy pushed through him and he slumped where he kneeled. The rope tensed as his torso sank between his knees. The noose tightened further, ensuring a total restriction of blood to his brain and air to his lungs.

Before his mind faded, and the sensations running throughout his body drifted away, Victor witnessed what he had expected. A slideshow of faces and places raced by him as in a dream. For a few seconds, he focused on the scenes, and they flashed by in beautifully, ornate frames.

Family faces flickered in deep, dark lacquered shadow boxes. His parents appeared in black and white—they flipped by like pages in a book.

His friends appeared in deep, posturized color. Their faces remained flat—no smiles—, and their eyes were fixed on Victor, expressing neither happiness nor sadness. They merely stared back at him from floating frames, simple pieces of acrylic with no distinct edges.

Kai's photo from the Great Church appeared, only this time, to Victor's surprise, was in an opulent, gilded frame, chiseled in deep relief and painted gold, like those he had seen hanging in the Hermitage Museum in Russia while they were on the exchange. His forever young, tan face brought not only sadness to Victor, but a feeling of never-ending finality.

Kai's voice issued a warning: "Welcome Vic, but you probably should have listened to that witch, Fiona. It's not all it's cracked up to be, you'll see. Maybe we can finish what we started."

His photo spun out of Victor's view, the scene faded, and the light flowed over him.

The last to cross Victor's vision was Willow, unframed, and dressed in a bright white nightgown. She walked by him. She didn't look at Victor. She stared straight ahead, and passed from one side of Victor's view to the center of his vision, turned her back to him, and disappeared into the light as though competing with him, racing to some unknown finish line.

Victor screamed in his head, and without legs, he flew after Willow. The brilliance of the light and a tall figure welcomed him.