One Stop Before (PT 4)

Imagine something so stark, so grim you can’t unsee it. It’s etched into the deepest part of your consciousness and subconscious that erasing it would take more than a subpar lobotomy from an under-qualified physician’s assistant. It’s something so profoundly splintering it causes you to question its legitimacy. Paul experienced that moment when he put the coat on. The bright orange color made his pale skin look paler and his jet-black hair look darker. The length, or lack of it, made him look taller than 6 feet and the width of the puffs engulfed his stick-like figure. The length stopped short just above his mid-thigh and the sleeves were just a half inch too short. The jacket looked bigger on someone shorter with a smaller frame and Paul wasn’t that person.

Read the first three parts before you continue

One Stop Before, One Stop Before (PT 2) & One Stop Before (PT 3)

It’s not that Paul was deathly afraid of attention. He strongly preferred the opposite.

Paul is not the type to search for attention. For someone who lives alone for twenty five years, it isn’t unusual to seek comfort in an invisible existence. He lacked spontaneity and curiosity – at least before he saw that woman on the train. 

As he walked down the street with the black and white backdrop of the winter city surrounding him, he fought the urge to explain what led him to the point of putting on the awful coat. He didn’t respond to the judgmental gazes with an elaborate story about how the woman he followed from the train was wearing a similar jacket. Nor did he spew truths about how the woman guided him to an old church with a room filled with people wearing the same jacket and how he gained a similar one and lost any recollection of how it physically came into his possession.

By the 15th person who looked sharply his way, the blistering cold was meaningless. He wanted to reach his destination as quickly as possible so his walking speed dialed up a bit faster. At his height, it looked like a light jog to the average person. 

There were a few blocks between him and the old church. A few blocks of blistering stares and unwanted judgement with no socially acceptable opportunity to explain his situation. He was stuck in it just like he was stuck with the jacket until he found an answer. 

By the time his panic-stricken stride got him to the street where the church was, he exhaled deeply and immediately tried to catch his breath. Speed walking in the cold with a heavy layer on while holding your breath to avoid spewing out all the apologies to every gaze met is not recommended.

It’s typically quiet in the middle of the morning on any street in the city. The morning rush of folks heading off to their 9-to-5s have already purchased their overpriced coffees, reluctantly shuffled to their offices where they’re greeted by copious amounts of questions about their weekend, icebreakers about the weather and unwelcome gossip about the manager who scheduled a standing meeting for 4 p.m. on Fridays. Then again, it was certainly the weekend, or Paul would be doing those exact things out of habit. 

Life gets boring for someone who’s been alone for 20-plus years. One toothbrush, enough dishes and utensils for one, and a fresh towel daily just because. Movies rented at home instead of buying two tickets to the theater, dinner for one – also at home – and all within the confinement of a quiet studio apartment that looked staged more than lived in. Paul was comfortable with his life. He kept to himself, even while at work, and had little interest in getting to know his neighbors who have lived there for as long as he had, and kept his head down at work just to get what he had to get done so he could clock out for the day. 

“All in a good day’s work,” he would often tell himself. It was his little motivational speech that helped him get out the door every day and off to his mediocre accounting job for one of the largest banks in Philadelphia. 

His family was long gone – both his parents died when he was in college. He never married, never dated casually nor did he ever have children. Paul was alone and he liked it that way. He was alone until this woman came along and tossed a wrench in his comfortable life. The only thing he wanted more than taking that coat off was finding out why he has it and to return it to its rightful place. He was content until this woman came along and ruined everything. 

The church was still there. Why wouldn’t it be? It was as disheveled as he remembered – the brown-faded metal door had gaping rust spots of all shapes and sizes, the barded windows were missing a few iron spindles and the glass panes looked like they were carefully removed a long time ago. There was a bright, orange condemned notice stuck to the faded brick facade. Paul went in anyway. He was going in for answers and to return the one thing he no longer wanted. 

The moment the door’s edge passed his face, his senses became overwhelmed with a sulfur-like smell. He didn’t recall if that’s what the church smelled like before. His footsteps clunked loudly against the red terracotta floors echoing around the empty pews. 

“Hello?” he said softly. “I have something that belongs to you, I think?”

When no one answered, he said it a little louder. Still, no response but something else caught his attention.

Dispose. Dispose. Dispose.

Paul walked in and looked around, hoping to see who the voice belonged to but the pews were still empty. 

Dispose. Dispose. Dispose.

He made his way toward the altar catching a glimpse of a faint light shining underneath a door to the left. He walked toward it and as he approached the voices, he heard were louder. He could clearly hear the voice of a woman and there were others with her.

And I will make your cities waste, and bring your sanctuaries unto desolation, and I will not smell the savour of your sweet odours!

It might be the woman from the train, he thought. She was joined by panicked mumbles that were drowned out by her speech

I will destroy your high places, and cut down your images, and cast your carcases upon the carcases of your idols, and my soul shall abhor you!

There was another voice. He couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere.  

Dispose. Dispose. Dispose.

He opened the door without knocking. The voices ceased in unison and they all turned their bodies in their chairs, staring at him. They all shared the same look of disdain, likely because Paul interrupted some sort of ceremony. 

Then he saw her. The woman from the train. A sense of uncomfortable relief overcame him, despite her scornful gaze overpowering the rest. Without hesitation, she took a breath, pointed her pale boney finger at him while her other hand firmly grasped the podium she was leaning on.

“We’ve waited diligently for you to bring us news, Brother Paul. When you followed me back, I shouted to Our Creator with glee, hoping this was the signal. Now you return empty handed and are in search of ANSWERS!”

False prophet. Dispose. Dispose. Dispose.

“How do you know my name? I’ve never met you in my life! I just want to return this jacket and be left alone,” he said. 

Paul pulled the sleeves in agony, stripping the coat from his body and flinging it onto the nearest chair. His blood pressure spiked, turning his pasty skin to a light shade of pink. 

The woman stared at Paul from the overtop of her hands clasped around her nose. 

“This is our last stop, Brother Paul,” she said with an oppressive calmness. “This is our last stop and our last chance to bring The Organization to its knees, begging for mercy.To crumble it just as it has crumbled us.”

False prophet. Dispose. Dispose. Dispose.

“Silence!” she shouted before bringing her composure back to a distressed serenity. 

Paul finally caught a glimpse of the mysterious voice. He was pacing between three linoleum squares. By the looks of the tiles’ condition, he was pacing for quite some time.

“What is he doing? And why are you calling me Brother Paul?” he asked the woman who was now resting one hand on his shoulder and the other on his chest.

“Brother Issac, please remind Brother Paul of our purpose, he seems to have lost his way,” she said.

The next face Paul saw was the Detective’s. He stood up amongst the congregation, walked toward Paul, grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered in his ear: False prophet. Dispose. Dispose. Dispose