The Beginning: The Solitary Room
“What is this place?” I whimpered as I looked around the dark, cold, worn cave. I boasted of a wondrous vision; yet, I could hardly see anything. The room was pitch dark, and I quivered against the chill of the rails I had just grabbed. My hand touched a portion of iron, and its coldness jolted me back as I fell. My heart raced as I searched for something to hold onto in the dark room. Suddenly, bright lights flooded the room. Reflexively, I squinted and looked around to get my bearings.
The place was small, and I felt trapped. Letters jumbled together all over the walls of the room as if someone had scribbled the words repeatedly until they muddled together in an artistic mess. I whimpered again against the cold and held my hand over my shirt; the cold bristled my hair.
I moved my body faster and raised my voice a little louder, “Where am I?” But my words muddled off the walls, resonating throughout the cramped space. As I glanced at two words on the wall: the fall, sadness overwhelmed me as my last memory flooded my mind.
I had just finished running on the treadmill when the fall occurred. One minute I was running with my gaze set on the timer in front of me with five more minutes to complete my workout; the next minute I was on the ground.
The gym instructor had smiled at me from afar, a proud smile. I was finally losing the flab in my stomach. Gary, my pot-bellied friend was with me. He was beside me on the red treadmill, going at a slower pace as his stomach danced in an up-and-down motion that intrigued me. He nudged me to go slower because I was dehydrated and tired, and I laughed. Now, I had two more minutes to go; my heart was beating wildly; my legs became heavy, and the air in the room was still. I inhaled deeply, but nothing entered because of the obstruction. The air was preventing me from breathing, and I eventually lost focus on the timer. My eyes drooped and everything went black.
I could feel the air still swirling around me as I heard my name called from all directions, simultaneously rendering the air silent. My body refused to move, and I tried again. I screamed that I couldn't breathe, but my throat was rough and parched. There was no sound. My voice suddenly cleared, and fresh oxygen rushed in. For the first time, I could breathe. I breathed quickly in and out of my chest with every breath. I opened my eyes again to see my baby whose memory always made my heart race when I saw children on the street.
My baby, Anita, was wearing a long, pink dress that flowed around her. Her blonde hair was tied up with flowers. She looked happy, but I knew something was wrong. It couldn't be my Anita; her skin was purer and milkier than it had been during those final days when leukemia consumed her body and stole away her youth just before she turned seven.
It was a Sunday in March. I had just ordered her birthday cake, which featured a large seven-pointed star balloon. My steps were springy as I entered her hospital room. Anita's grin never faltered, no matter how much she hurt. However, on this day, she couldn’t smile. She was pale and motionless in Winifred's arms. As she took her last breath surrounded by motherly love, I was sure God was punishing me for something. Losing my daughter Anita so young to the disease that ravaged her body until she gave up everything, even her smile, was a punishment to me.
I lay on the floor with people surrounding my limp form as Gary called out my name. As I stretched out my hands to accept and feel Anita, I blacked out once more. And that was the second time God afflicted me with punishment. The first time, He took Anita away; the second time, He prevented me from holding her, even in my unconscious state.
I woke up to a loud noise and a burning sensation on my forehead. I screamed, and the sound bounced off the walls of the strange room. I put my hand over the brand on my forehead, but it didn't help. The tattoo was still hot, even though it hurt so much that I couldn't stand it. As before, I tried to focus on getting out of the room, but my thoughts wouldn't let me concentrate. The gate was huge and black, and my mark burned brightly. I was so overwhelmed by everything that happened the day I got the mark that I couldn't focus on anything else. I tried to clear my mind and think about how to get out, but thoughts about my wretched life and the choices I made just kept swirling around in my head.
I thought about that Monday in spring, the year after Anita died, and the day Winifred and I finally spoke. She had started attending church again, but I refused to serve a God who took my daughter's life. When she walked into the dining area wearing her black boat-necked dress, she stopped by our table, and said, “John, you can't keep this up.”
I walked past her into the guest room that I now occupied. She followed me in, her mouth set into a hard stare, and continued, arms now akimbo. “You can't keep living like this. We are a couple, and we both lost a child.” At this, I sharply turned and set my gaze on her, my lips quivering with the intensity of the emotions that ran through me. She moved a step back as I moved one forward.
“We are a couple?” I inquired loudly, repeating myself.
“You call us a couple; yet, you abandoned me for your faith when we lost her. Do you think I didn't love her as much? Do you feel God loves her so much that He took her away? You're insane! In our darkest hours, you chose God over me. Has He returned our daughter to us? You've always served God, but He still took your child. Why give her to us in old age only to take her back? Are we simply tools in God’s hands?”
“You can always talk to God, John. He listens, and He will give you peace. You need peace, John, and I can’t give you that. I don’t hate you; I just want you to come to Jesus. He isn’t going to leave you as your father did.”
The room grew silent as I mulled over her words. Winifred's eyes bulged and her pupils dilated as she watched me in shock, and I instantly regretted my words. We had gone separate ways from the day Anita died. She clung to her faith like a rare treasure, while I lived in willful abandon. The room fell silent as I pondered her warning. “God always listens, John,” she said softly.
I grew up feeling unloved. My parents divorced when I was eight years old. The recollection of my parents' divorce has always left me devastated, and I have felt rejected and unwanted ever since. Even now, the memory of my father's cheery expression as he departed is painful. He had appeared in his big, faded blue shirt with a grin on his face, the same one he exhibited each time he exorcised bad spirits out of me with his cane. He would begin by reading from the Bible while flexing his biceps.
Sometimes, he would open the book of Proverbs and read a chapter. With each verse, his hands would strike me into oblivion. At the end of each beating, we would recite the grace together. He was a religious fanatic, and it was evident God punished sinners for even the little things.
My mother was different from other mothers. My father's hatred for me made her very angry, and she began to hate me too. Hence, I grew up feeling scared, and I told Winifred everything. So she knew about it.
It was my thirteenth birthday, and my mother was putting on her favorite dress—the green one with the protruding belly that matched her eyes.
“John!” she screamed, her veins bulging. I walked out of the corner I had been hiding in for an hour and knew I was in trouble. She glared at me and then started pacing the room.
“I am sorry,” I whispered. “I didn't know.” I didn't need to hear her say it before knowing I was wrong. She eventually stopped staring at me, and I could finally breathe again. Just as suddenly, she spoke.
“What did you do to my mug?” she fumed.
“Mom, it wasn't me,” I said. “It was Jasper.” I pointed at my dog.
“It was Jasper. We played, and he jumped on the table and knocked over the mug.”
“You shameless liar!” She grabbed me and removed the belt hanging from her waist. She muttered prayers with each lash that landed on my back. The minute she was done beating me, she dragged me into the kitchen and placed my hand on the hot burner.
“Mom, please!” I yelled.
“Now, how does it feel?” she said with a grin.
“Mom, it hurts so badly,” I cried.
Mom laughed vengefully. “This will teach you a lesson,” she retorted. “Don't touch my belongings.”
The next morning, my mother walked into the house with a woman in a light grey suit and a black briefcase. Mother had accused me of attempting to start a fire. To demonstrate, she showed the woman my hands. I said, “I got this burn yesterday, and it was due to my mom putting my hands over a hot burner.”
My mother snorted, declaring, “It's true that my son has a mental illness.”
I was taken to a facility where I spent the next few weeks learning how to handle mental illnesses. When I returned, my mother was wailing in the doorway. She hugged me lankily and nastily, grinning deviously through her tears.
“I'm sorry,” she murmured as she held me tight. Her gaze spoke volumes about her plans for future mischief-making.
Everyone was affected by my parents' divorce, especially me since it happened when I was young and powerless.
Winifred was aware of all this, so she knew what she was talking about. God had abandoned me just like my father and made sure I received the same punishment. She came closer to me, running her fingertips across my forehead and said, “John, you must stop blaming God for all that has happened. Return to this faith and allow God to be your Father.”
I uncurled my fingers from her touch, flinging her aside in the process. “You don't know what you're talking about, Winifred. I don't need a father; and if I did, it wouldn't be God. I will not return to a religion that has made me who I am today!”
“I have no choice,” I responded before exiting the room.
That was our final conversation; the rapture occurred the next day, and I lost Winifred to God forever. Again, as usual, God took everything away from me.
I was brought back to the present by a slithering movement to my left. I found myself in the dismal chamber again with words scrambled over. This took me back to my most traumatic memories. My heart pounded against my chest in fear as I closed my eyes and attempted to make sense of everything that was happening without revisiting my worst memories. Something crawled by my left side, and I shrank from the motion while turning my head to look away, only to see a red, long, slithering locust. It was big and had eight very deep eyes, as well as a really shiny body. I couldn't keep up with it because it had twelve legs! As I walked, I felt as if my body was getting heavier and heavier because of all the memories of the beast that were weighing me down. The locust reminded me of the ones from when the beast ruled. They would bite you, but you wouldn't die.
Everyone had rushed to the locust for comfort from death, but it merely brought misery and pain to everyone else; as a result, the agony became more severe each day. The memory of the impact sent me screaming once again, and the pain of the locusts returned. It forced me back into my previous position as a captive in the beast's reign alongside them and their awful suffering while still rushing toward the single chamber's exit, albeit at a slower pace.
Immediately after some Christians were taken from the earth in the rapture, everything was in danger and turmoil. The people who remained were afflicted by epidemics, and each viral outbreak caused them to fight to survive. But death was out of reach. Swarms of locusts came from the west, making life unbearable. There was nowhere to hide. Borders were closed, and the fear of catching new illnesses kept everyone indoors in constant hunger, sickness, and discomfort. Living in such a chaotic world was unbearable. But out of the blue, a superhero appeared and seemed to erase everyone’s problems. His name was “The Beast,” and he started a movement that changed the entire world.
A new alliance government was formed that controlled the tax, education, and health care system, as well as every other institution known to humans. No one could question this government’s decisions. Economic growth occurred and with central coordination in place, life became promising again.
In the process, this autocratic government implemented a program that required everyone to have their mark on their forehead or right hand. It was advertised by the media as a progressive way to ensure control and accountability. It made absolute sense! But my prior knowledge of the Bible made me suspicious. Nevertheless, I took the mark anyway. After the hell-on-earth I’d experienced, I wasn’t going to discard the opportunity to live a good life.
While this was happening, some people in the Christian community started yelling, “Lucifer!” No one understood what they were talking about. Hundreds of people had gone missing or been taken away. Winifred was one of them. I didn't think there was anything wrong with getting the mark. It was like getting a tattoo. But not everyone felt that way; some Christians who had stayed behind refused to get the mark. They were severely punished and given a code name: Remnants.
They were caught and thrown into torture chambers. Some died without denying their faith, thus, buying their salvation with their blood. Some denied their faith and were still killed, thus, suffering in this life and the beyond.
The authorities left the bodies of people who did not have the beast's mark to decompose on the streets as a deterrent for those who would dare not take the mark. Some people even laughed at the Christians as they passed by. If they wanted to live, they had to take the mark. Those who gave in because of fear and pain were taken to the government’s office to get the mark before being transported to the hospital. But many of them died before they could get there. It was like double punishment for these people, who had suffered during the war but did not make it to paradise. Before the end of the second three-and-a-half year term, this government had succeeded in killing all of Christ's followers.
With the elimination of Christians, the world became “extremely peaceful.” Men were now free to do anything they pleased, as long as it was sanctioned by the beast. Bestiality, which had been a common occurrence since every man had a depraved mind, increased dramatically. It wasn't precisely what I had in mind when I accepted the mark. However, I preferred that than dying on the streets. My heart soon hardened and learned to live by this new world's customs.
I gasped when I felt the electric shock from the door of my solitary confinement cell. I was relieved when I wasn't chained to my memories anymore. This room must have been for revisiting bad memories. Looking back, I couldn't remember seeing the locust-like beast as before. Once again, I asked if it was just my imagination or if the room was making me go crazy. Alone in the room, I felt like someone was watching over me. Was this hell?
“What is this place?” I softly gasped for the umpteenth time, wide-eyed as I looked ahead.
Something else felt odd about the room. It meshed my soul with uncontrollable gloom. It was almost as if it had a life of its own and wanted me to suffer. “Hello...is anyone here?” I called out, hoping someone would answer”
I introduced myself and explained I had never done anything wrong before. “The candy thing was my way of showing my resentment. My mom never...” I said, and then my voice trailed off. “…never liked me.”
I was so upset that I started crying. “Someone please talk to me,” I begged. But there was silence in the room. My painful memories were still too loud to ignore. I didn't deserve this, so I got up and stood firm. If they caught me, I wouldn't sit still. In a desperate effort to find a way out, I looked for a window, a ladder, or even a door—but there was nothing. Suddenly, the echo of my thoughts broke through the rumbling silence. I recognized what sounded like another male's voice.
“Hello, John,” the voice said. It was booming and deep, and came from inside me. I wasn't sure how deep it was, but it was very deep.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“You don't want to know,” the voice said. I shivered against the cold wall. Someone was speaking from inside me; yet, the person wasn't me. Was I possessed?
“Who are you?” I mumbled.
“Pride, John,” the voice softly replied. “Pride has always been your downfall. It has caused you to make the wrong decisions throughout your life.”
“I'm dead, right?” My hands shook in anticipation. “What is this place? Is this heaven or hell?”
“Neither,” the voice said. “This is a holding prison while you await the great white throne judgment. You're here to remember and reflect. It is called the solitary room.”
“Remember what?” I snapped. “I don't want to remember.”
“You need to,” the voice said. “It is a necessary part of your judgment.”
“What should I remember?”
“Your sins, past decisions, and rejection of the life of Christ,” the voice said. “You claim that you've suffered more than anyone. Others have suffered more, and you will soon learn how much more.”
“I didn't commit those sins intentionally; the world pushed me too far,” I said.
“There was nothing I could do,” I said. “You murdered my Anita, raptured my beloved Winifred, and abandoned me to sorrow. What alternative did I have?” I pleaded.
There was no response. Instead, something else occurred. A severe pain forced me to the ground and filled me with agony from the inside out. My muscles bunched together across each other, drawing tightly until my joints were strained and I was short of breath. It was awful but incomparable to what I'd been through before. With each labored intake of air, the agony increased dramatically. Seconds ran into minutes, minutes into hours, and hours into days. Every day was just as painful as the first; the intensity remained the same, as flaring as when it began.
From the standpoint of reason, pain is a good thing. It works as an alarm that goes off in your brain, telling you when something is happening that could hurt your body. For example, if you get too close to a fire, your brain will tell your body to stop because it’s dangerous.
Pain also begins the healing process. The dead can't feel pain. If you hit a dead dog, it won't bark. Pain signals there is still life in something, no matter how bad it seems sometimes. Pain gives hope that your body will go through the path of restoration and be healed again. Even during painful experiences, sometimes the body finds relief when the healing process starts.
After thinking about it, I realized people who have not accepted Christ can't relate to pain in the same way. The pain I felt never stopped. There was no promise of healing or assurance that my body would get better.
This kind of pain was uncomfortable. It made me feel heavy and left me breathless. It went through my bones and into my soul, and I hated myself for rejecting the Healer, Jesus Christ.
Then, I considered sleeping, but I couldn't sleep in the single room and certainly couldn't relax my body. I was plagued by chronic disarray, constantly reminded of my poor judgments, including accepting the beast’s mark. The past haunted me. Since I was neither fed nor given a drink, I became aware of awful hunger and thirst. How come I didn't die from starvation? Hadn't I already suffered enough?
“No! No! No!” I screamed at the voice in me. “I’ve suffered enough. As you’ve said, I’ve been horrible and have made grave decisions. But, that shouldn’t be something worth remembering, should it?” I fell silent. “Please take me away from here.”
“No,” the voice finally replied, softly as before, “but I will show you a place.”
My body floated in the room. The ceiling above me burst into fire in which I was engulfed. Then the floor beneath me started to burn too. It melted away like an ice sculpture in a kiln. In my mind's eye, I could see flames of hellish intensity engulfing half of the world and consuming everything. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and then I gazed upon the inferno and its overpowering blackness.
At times, the fire bellowed down, and at the same time it rose up. People crammed themselves into each burning structure; screams rent the air, and my ears bled with pain. The cries were the most heart-rending noises I'd ever heard, and they haunted me for days after. When they brought me back to prison, I asked only one thing: “Oh, my God! What was that?” My suspicion was confirmed.
“That was hell,” the voice said.
“I don’t want to go there, ever!” I pleaded, “Please, let me be with my family. My daughter, Anita, I want to see her.”
“You can’t be with her,” the voice replied. “You have taken the mark of the beast, and you are awaiting judgment."
The last statement hit me like a punch in the gut. I felt weakened. Yes, I had taken the mark of the beast. But wasn’t it harmless?
“It also forced all people, great and small, rich and poor, free and enslaved, to receive a mark on their right hands or foreheads. So that they could not buy or sell unless they had the mark, which is the name of the beast or the number of its name.” (Revelation 13:16-17).
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“It wasn’t?” The voice taunted.
Anger filled me again.
“God could have kept me with my wife and daughter, but He took them away. It was always about His anger. My mother didn't want me. I stole because my father beat me, trying to get the devil out of me. My wife was taken away during the displacement of the chosen ones. Did I ever have a choice? Was I chosen? I chose to be branded because that was the only way to save myself,”
The voice whispered softly as if to comfort me as I leaned against the harsh walls.
“Do you want to see Winifred?”
A window appeared before I could nod yes, and there stood Winifred, glittering and smiling in her angelic robes. I watched her in silence. In that gaze, more was said; yet her smile remained.
“You loved your faith more than me,” I accused her, finally breaking the silence.
“You had your chance,” Winifred said. “But you didn't take it. You could have come with me to heaven.”
I scoffed at this. “How is it?” I asked with interest, bracing myself for her response. But in an instant, Winifred vanished
I was startled when I saw her. I wanted to look at her one last time before she left, but the window was gone. I looked where the window was and started to cry because of all the memories I had lost and the times that I could have spent with her if things were different.
"No, no, no," I said to myself as I remembered these events. “I don't want to remember these things again. I have suffered enough.”
Or have I?
