God's Heart

Valentine’s Day, he thought with a cynical snicker. It had been six weeks since Claire was killed by that backstabbing doppelganger, and every day for Eric was a mental fight between hatred of that woman and utter despair over the loss of his wife. Claire… his Claire had been a gentle soul, driven to greatness and convicted like no other person he had ever known. Why would she sacrifice herself to this other Claire? As far as Eric was concerned, she was an impostor… she wasn’t real. This whole business of alternate realities sat about as well as his sixth lunchtime beer.

He had been able to hold on to sanity for a little while, maybe a couple of weeks, but when his sons disappeared, so did the sanity. He quit his job at the power plant and chose to live off of his Navy retirement, it was only him now, after all. And that’s when the mental breakdown began, that’s when the heavy drinking started, and every day had been a blur since. Even as this new pandemic worsened, Eric simply didn’t care. Headbangers was ravaging the world, and many in the Valley had already succumbed to it. There didn’t appear to be any hope… and Eric just hoped he would catch it. Putting his head through a glass coffee table as a result of a disease seemed appropriate and just. He wouldn’t have to kill himself, and it was just brutal enough to rank as penance for allowing that impostor into his home.

Considering the number of people patronizing the Pizza Place Bar & Grill, it appeared that Eric was far from being in the minority in taking protection from this virus. He drained his pint and set the glass down with authority.

“Set me up again, Chuck!” Eric called to the bartender.

Chuck, a giant of Slavic descent, smiled cautiously at Eric as he approached. “You better take it easy, Eric. I can’t have you making a scene or being belligerent in my bar.”

Eric cocked his head down in derision, “My lunch is double chocolate oatmeal, Chuck,” his words were slightly slurred, “The fact that it’s in stout form is all the better for me! Set me up, brother.”

He clenched his jaw and looked at the televisions mounted above the bar as Chuck took his glass. Basketball, winter sports championships, and golf was all the sports they had to offer. In the middle of all of them was the local news. The volume was too low to hear, and Eric was too drunk to read the close-captioning, but he could make out the chyron as the woman on the screen was making her report, “Headbangers Infection Appears Linked to DNA Mutation”. It wasn’t long until Chuck had returned Eric’s glass, now full of the dark brown liquid he couldn’t seem to live without anymore, then turned up the volume.

“…appears that the most severe cases and all deaths associated with this strain of viral meningitis, known as ‘the headbangers virus’, is linked to a genetic mutation which affects approximately 1 in 1,000 humans. The Centers for Disease Control, the National Institutes of Health, and the World Health Organization are scrambling to get short time DNA testing out to the masses, but the sentiment has been put forth that there simply may not be anything that can be done. At current estimates, the one-tenth of one percent of people on the planet that are at risk of severe infection and death will die by mid-April. That’s nearly 8 million people, George. As for the rest of humanity, this will be nothing more than a new strain of meningitis treatable with current medicine. This is Tanya Calibrisi for Channel 69 News. George, back to you.”

Eric rolled his eyes and snickered again. So, it appeared that the world was simply giving up and letting millions of people die… letting nature just run its course. In his mind, Eric agreed with that sentiment, and the thought of alcohol poisoning to end his pain seemed more and more plausible to him. Having to face this life alone, without his wife and kids, settled about as well with his mind as his lunch of oatmeal stout settled with his stomach. With no appetite, he pulled the basket of potato chips towards him and began to snack. And just like everything else since Claire’s death, it was ashes in his mouth. He half-listened as George, the news anchor, continued his reporting about a student in Pottstown, the daughter of a Chinese ambassador, was struck by a car and killed in a freak accident involving one of the local teachers. Nothing really held any interest for him anymore, there was only his sorrow.

The lump in his throat made the potato chips he was eating hard to swallow. He didn’t want to live anymore… he had no purpose. Eric remembered Claire telling him that “people seem to want to control everything, except what happens when they die.” Everybody needed a purpose, but that purpose ended with death. Once you were dead, apparently, your soul was somebody else’s problem. At this point, he hoped that was true. Eric no longer wanted to be in control because being in control had left him alone.

Suddenly, the music kicked on from the jukebox behind him. Eric knew the song well and couldn’t help singing along to it in his head.

“Keep holding on when my brain’s tickin’ like a bomb,

Guess the black thoughts have come again to get me.

Sweet bitter words, unlike nothing I have heard.

Sing along, mockingbird, ya don’t affect me.”

I am coming undone… The thought made him laugh quietly, but hysterically. Is this what he had been reduced to, a pathetic shell of a human being dining solely on beer and weeping for a lonely future?

“Wait! I’m coming undone.

Irate! I’m coming undone.

Too late! I’m coming undone.

What looks so strong, so delicate.”

Eric began to feel himself vibrating. Perhaps, it was his growing fury? The music continued, it was beginning to drive him mad. The world became a jumble of confusion, his head aching and his pulse throbbing. He heard himself scream over the music, and he stood up and threw his beer at the jukebox, the glass and liquid exploding in a wet, sticky mess. Stomping towards the exit, Eric could feel the bile and beer sitting at the top of his throat as the vibrations induced a nausea he hadn’t felt in years.

Chuck, of course, was furious, and Eric could hear him screaming over the music. “Eric, you asshole, who’s gonna clean tula naza torqueda!”

He stopped in his tracks and looked strangely back at Chuck. Chuck, for his part, had an expression no less strange. Chuck held his arms out to Eric and spoke again, “Brista cortante kala duses!” Chuck then dropped his arms to the side, he had no idea what was happening, and neither did Eric. Even the music couldn’t be understood.

Since I was young, I tasted sorrow on my tongue. That was supposed to be the lyrics at this point in the song, Eric was certain of it. But that’s not what he heard. It was more gibberish like he heard from Chuck. Eric hurried outside and away from the music. It was no better. The few people that he could see had all stopped in their tracks and were either looking at each other askance or were contemplating alone what they were hearing. Eric decided to run a quick experiment, his nausea all but forgotten. Shit, he thought, but “flasa” came the spoken word. The nausea slammed him like a ton of bricks, and it was all he could do to hold himself from puking all over the sidewalk. The vibrations slammed him just as hard, and he found himself quickly on his knees.

Is this what death feels like, he thought, then closed his eyes and waited for vomiting and death. Then it was all gone, the nausea, the noise, the vibrations, it was all gone. Eric was afraid to open his eyes, for while he had never been afraid of death, he had always worried that nobody would remember him.

“Eric,” said a voice all to familiar to him.

He opened his eyes and stood up as quickly as the alcohol would allow him to. It was her! It was Claire, and the tears rolled down his face in a torrent. Merciful death! he thought.

“Claire? Is it really you?” he asked through the sobs.

“Yes, my love,” she answered softly.

She was seated on a throne of white and black, but it registered in his mind like a double-exposure photograph. Claire stood with a smile and walked towards him slowly. As she stopped in front of him, she placed her hands to either side of his head. Her eyes flashed a beautiful purple, and his drunken haze was gone. But now that he could see clearly, he realized that the woman before him was not his wife.

“You!” Eric said, his anger coming swiftly. “Where is my wife?!”

“Father,” said Nathaniel, and he stepped forward into the light. “This is mother and the woman that took her life.”

“What the hell is going on here?!” Eric took a step back in fear in confusion.

“You are a part of something much bigger now, father,” came Gabriel’s voice from his left. He, too, stepped into the light. “We are at the heart of the universe, and mother is God’s steward. You have been brought here to serve her.”

Eric pointed, his words heavy with disdain, “That is not your mother!”

“Eric,” she said, “look closer. I am all of the Claires of the world that once was, including your Claire. If not for her, I would not be here. Look into my eyes, I beg you.”

His expression hardened. Taking a step towards her, Eric looked into her eyes. He saw there exactly what she had said. He saw many of the others she had killed on her journey, including his wife. She was there at the forefront of the woman before him. It was as disorienting as looking at the throne she was seated upon. Eric saw it all, and it drove him to his knees.

“My God…”

As Eric looked up at her, the truth of what was happening illuminating him like a summer sunrise, Claire held out a book to him. He took it and read its title, Sweet Emotion.

“Page forty-three,” she beckoned to him.

Still on his knees, he turned to page forty-three and read the poem. The tears began again on the second verse:

I love to taste your sweet kisses

My lips meet yours and we’re in love

Holding you close, pull me closer

And I love you so

“It is you,” he said, and he stood quickly and kissed her as passionately as he had ever done. She returned the kiss with a fervor and laughed in delight when the kiss ended.

“Oh, how I have missed you, my love! But come and see. I have a need for you.”

Claire held his hand and led him towards the throne. She stopped short of it and turned again to face him. With an expression both solemn and joyous, she said, “You have been chosen to serve the Steward of God as an angel. You are tasked with maintaining the chaos of Mankind and ensuring a balance of freedom throughout the timelines of the universe. To this end, you are forever more in my service.”

Eric nodded, his mind finally seeing reality for what it was and the crucial purpose he had been given. “I accept, Lord. On one condition…”

The change in Claire’s expression told him that she was not prepared for his words. She smiled devilishly at Eric, “You are in no position, sir, to make any demands.”

“I only ask that I be allowed to profess my love for you, as your husband, for all of eternity, despite my being your humble servant.” Then he returned her smile and added a wink.

Claire laughed delicately, then looked deeply into his eyes. “From this moment on, you shall be known as Ahaniel, God’s Heart, for that is what are and will always be.”

They kissed each other just as they had on their wedding day…