Penance
Dana sits in a pale room. To his sides, to his back, and to his front, are four white
walls. Above is a white acoustical tile ceiling, just like his agent’s office.
Fluorescent lights hum a soft white tone, tinted somewhere between blue and green.
His ears and skin take in the mundane environment while his eyes gaze lazily at the
figure ahead.
The figure, face obscured by the hood pulled over it, sits behind an impressive ebony desk. No doubt, its throne is more comfortable than the plain office chair Dana is given. Alabaster wings stretch up from either side, their joints rising to frame the halo above the figure’s head before folding back down. A black-gloved hand pokes out from its left sleeve, silently tapping a pen against the papers on its desk. With its hooded robe covering every inch of skin, Dana can’t tell if the figure is focused on him or its files. Nevertheless, it sets its pen down and pushes the desktop contents to the side.
“Dana,” a man’s voice floats from the cloth.
It’s not an unpleasant voice, nor one that Dana would be eager to hear. But for the time being, its calmness is enough to put him at ease.
“I thought…” Dana pauses. His body is static, save for his lips, “I thought I killed myself.”
“You did,” says the figure.
The light above hums the same white note as before.
“It was just a dream,” says Dana, with no hint of relief or disappointment.
“No. No, it wasn’t,” the figure coos.
By now, Dana knows his peer’s name.
“This can be a lot to process,” Death draws a pack of cigarettes from his sleeve, “Would you like a cigarette? Some water?”
After a pause, Dana answers, “Just the cigarette.”
Death pulls two sticks from the pack, holding them butt-first at Dana. Dana takes the one on the left – not that it matters – and sticks it in his mouth. Death snaps his free hand, setting the thumb alight with flame to start Dana’s cigarette.
“Let’s review,” Death says, holding his own stick beneath his hood, “Stop at any point if you feel uncomfortable. What was going on in your life around the time that you died?”
“Ehm— Why…” Dana drawls, his cigarette hanging from his lips, “Why do you ask?
“I know what the answer is,” Death responds with a puff of smoke, “But that doesn’t matter as much as how you say it.”
Dana finally places two fingers around his cigarette, sucking in and holding the smoke for longer than usual. He sighs, letting his shoulders fall as he pulls the cigarette away. His eyes start to waver along with some self-soothing hums.
“Take your time,” says Death.
“Mm,” Dana hums, “You’re… Death, aren’t you?”
“Archangel of Death: Samael,” the Angel nods. He takes a patient drag while Dana gathers his thoughts.
“Let’s start with your parents,” Death suggests, “What were they like?”
“Horrible,” Dana’s body cringes, “I wasn’t their kid.”
“What were you?”
“I… I don’t know. A money printer.”
“Why?” Death’s voice is gentle.
Dana pauses for a good while. His eyes glaze over and float down to the cigarette between his fingers.
“Mom would put these out on my arm sometimes,” Dana remarks idly, “Punishment, you know? If I was home when I should be working, or if I was just doing something I shouldn’t…”
Dana shakes his head. His free hand creeps up to his other forearm to console it.
“She, ehm,” Dana continues, “She did it when I wasted time making music on our computer. When I didn’t pass an audition, too, she’d burn me. I kept thinking she’d stop if I made it into a play or film or whatever. And she would, for a while, but then she and Dad would say I still wasn’t doing good enough and went back to doing it. Every wrong move… Every missed line or fuck-up in choreography… When I was doing well, it still wasn’t enough. And if I wanted to quit…”
Dana squirms in his chair, biting his lip, then his cigarette, before continuing, “Those were the real beatings. Sometimes Dad tried to stop them, but he’d still yell.”
“Was yelling all he did?” Death asks.
“It was yelling or nothing,” Dana shrugs, “Never knew which was worse. You could kind of tell he was thinking something through when he wasn’t talking. And then when he yelled, that’s what he was thinking through. Always so much at once, and always so put-together. If he hadn’t been yelling, the words would still be impossible to argue with.”
“Mm,” Death pulls his cigarette from beneath his hood for a moment, “I know the type.”
“I just…” Dana sighs, “I just wanted to make good things.”
Another pause emerges now; one long enough for the two to chew on the smoke between them. Eventually, Samael perks up and leans forward a bit.
“Good things,” he nods, “Good for who?”
One side of Dana’s mouth curls up sheepishly. He pulls away from his cigarette and purses his lips. He hums once, then says, “Good for whoever heard it.”
“Ah. You mean your music,” Death nods.
“Yeah,” Dana nods, “The acting stuff… that’s what they wanted. But the music was something else. That was for other kids I knew, and… well, some people online, too. They liked it; it made them happy. And when I saw that that was possible– that I could really make people happy…”
A light enters Dana’s eyes. His smile widens, “...it just felt right. It felt like good things were coming into the world. So I kept doing it. What mattered most was that I could give people a reason to keep living. Even– Especially when I’d lost it for myself.”
Death nods in approval. “You haven’t lied so far,” he says, “That’s good.”
“Well,” Dana shrugs,“Why would I?”
Death responds first by finishing his cigarette, snuffing it on his ashtray, and drawing a new one. His second response comes as he lights it, “Your parents got in the way. Would you agree?”
Dana’s smile evaporates. “I don’t–” he stammers, “They did, but that’s not– I-I don’t want to say it like–”
“Dana, you can try to mask it,” Samael says bluntly, “But your empathy for those two hasn’t existed in years.”
“I–” Dana starts, but Death cuts him off.
“They were your tormentors,” the Archangel says, “Tapeworms that swallowed your success and joy before any of it could sink in.”
Dana’s jaw clenches. So, too, does his grip on his wrist. Death awaits his reply.
“They tried to take it away,” Dana mutters, taking a hasty drag from his cigarette. He coughs suddenly as the smoke attacks his lungs, but wheezes through his monologue, “They wanted – Khem! – they wanted it for themselves. Koff! When they found that people enjoyed what I had to give – Ahem – they wanted money out of it. They took me to publishers– so many publishers. Fucking… beating me between songs, saying ‘do better than your best’ until a label finally said yes. And then… then it was acting. All over again. They get in the building, I sing something, and they say it’s shit. It’s all shit, so then I sing something better and they call it barely passable.
“I had to get away from them, but how old was I? Twelve? Like I could do it back then! I just slept at the studio after a while, saying that I was doing it for them. Doing it for the family’s money. That’s what it was all about to them, you know? ‘The family, Dana, the family!’”
Dana lets out something between a laugh and a sigh as he tries to catch his breath. Death leans to one side, eager to hear Dana’s version of the rest.
“What…” Dana pauses for another chance to re-gather his thoughts, “What do you do when your lifeline starts to wrap itself around your neck? When your one fulfilling purpose is twisted to make you bleed?”
Death nods. If the question wasn’t rhetorical before, it is now.
“Evelyn. My manager at the time. She saved my life,” Dana nods, although his face betrays any joy, “Always stood in front of me when my parents came in. Always beside me when I absolutely had to talk to them. They fired her, of course, but I never stopped talking to her. She helped me become what I needed to. Helped me take the steps I needed to get away from my parents once I was old enough. Right when I was eighteen, I signed on to work for her. Away from my parents and their… bullshit. It’s been like that for over a year now.”
Dana sucks on his cigarette, finally content with the story told. Yet in spite of that, his chest feels just as tight as when the conversation began. His muscles are just as tense, and his wrist still finds itself gripped while it’s sitting still. His eyes dart left and right across the table, then rise to meet Death’s hood. The Archangel hasn’t moved; his body is still listed to one side with an elbow on the table. His forearm sticks straight up, tobacco between his fingers. Slowly, gently, Death straightens himself and peers through his hood at Dana.
“The night of your death, Dana,” Samael hums, “I think it’s time we get on to that part.”
Dana looks off to his left, his eyes tracing a short path up and down the corner where two walls meet. He nods.
“It was some kind of special occasion,” Dana starts, “Someone’s birthday or their anniversary… I don’t know, at the time I was thinking it was just an excuse for them to get drunk and call me over. I shouldn’t have picked up the phone. I never want to, but I always do it. Too afraid of the consequences, I guess– whatever. The thing about that meeting was that they started bringing up the money.
“‘Dana, you’ve still got a family,’ ‘Dana, you don’t have jack shit figured out,’ ‘Dana, you can’t just leave us behind like this…’ Shit like that. Pulling me back in. Telling me how much they need me, then saying that I need them even more. And something about it just irked me in a way that nothing else did. Actually – heh – it’s a little funny in retrospect. They could put cigarettes out on me or tie me to a post when I made the slightest fuck-up, and I didn’t care. But when they asked for money? That’s when I had problems.”
“Hold on, let’s slow down here,” says Death, “What happened when you got there?”
“When I got there,” Dana sighs, “I think they’d just finished their first bottle of wine. Maybe they were still working on the last drink– whatever, doesn’t matter. They had these spreadsheets laid out on the dining room table. Dad didn’t even waste time, he said, ‘Dana… Dana, you’re really fucking us over with this stunt you’re pulling.’ He pointed to the papers and threw some bullshit numbers around. I didn’t listen to what he was saying, I knew it was just an excuse to wrangle me. He talked about how I started working on my own and how they were missing out on all the profits. How they were family, how they deserved it more. How I was leaving them behind to starve and die because of how selfish I was being.
“And it got to me. It really got to me. That time I spent on my own made me realize how much of an impact I could make on people, and seeing them try to wrestle that away from me… Well, it pissed me off in a way I’d never been before. I blew up, telling them that I’d made up my mind and I was happier without them. I told them the whole ‘starving and dying’ thing was bullshit; I knew they were just playing victims to manipulate me. I would have kept going, but all of a sudden Dad slammed on the table and left. He was in his room before I could say anything else, and as soon as I started to question it, he came back with his glock in his hand.”
Dana stops here, realizing that his hand had idly made a finger pistol. He folds his fingers to a fist, then changes his mind and lays his hand down flat on the desk. Samael slides the cigarette pack a bit closer to Dana, although neither of the two are quite done with their current sticks.
“Mom lost her mind,” Dana croaks, “She stood up, said something like ‘No, Carl, put it away,’ then he slammed the thing full-force on the table. He pointed to me and told me to call my agent.”
Dana pauses again. He huffs and pulls another cigarette from the pack, laying it down in front of him while he smokes the other. After a puff and a tch, he keeps going.
“You know, that was a real fucking insult there. I knew he wouldn’t kill me, Mom knew he wouldn’t kill me, and Dad knew he wouldn’t kill me. But he still threatened my life. He was so fucking sure that he had me around his finger that he knew he could make the most obvious bluff and I’d still go along with it. And I did!
“I dialed Evelyn, and the moment I pressed ‘call,’ Dad swiped the phone. He put it up to his ear, and then… all I could think about was that gun. That bold-faced lie it brought into the room, the fucking audacity of such a thing to come into play. You know– Fuck,” Dana takes the second cigarette, realizing his first has gone dry. He continues as Samael lights it, “You know, it made me think about what they’d already taken from me over all those years. My safety. My freedom. My health. Every wish I had, they denied. Every success I made, they punished. Every moment of joy, they tainted. They took so much from me! They shaped my life to be the way it was– I mean at any point where I wanted to do something for myself, they shat on me for it and sent me back to the mines. I was never doing it for myself or to make a difference in the world! I was doing it as a cash cow, a money printer for their well-being, for their wishes. I wasn’t their son! I was a tool! They took my humanity! They took my life! What they did to me was akin to murder!”
Dana catches himself acting up again, this time leaning on the table with his ass off the seat. If Samael minds, it doesn’t show. But regardless, Dana sits back down and examines his trembling hands. A shiver rings across his body, ending with his vibrating head. He smiles, then frowns, then smiles, then frowns. He half-sobs, half-laughs.
“Fuck, man!” he shrugs, “Look at me! You know, it was the heat of the moment, I gotta tell you. I wasn’t even thinking, I just reached out! One for Mom, then one for Dad once he started running… I- I want to say I feel remorse right now, but… Hah… Mmf…”
Dana’s head falls to the table, ringing a solemn thud! through the room. Dana wishes his head would crack open from the impact, leaking bone, brains, and blood across the table. But all that falls onto the desk are tears and muffled sobs. Samael leans forward, placing a hand on Dana’s head. He runs his fingers through the young man’s hair, trying to bring together the bits and pieces that broke from the impact.
“I fucked up,” Dana chokes, “I fucked up. I thought it’d make things better if I let myself go next… I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect any of this, I’m– I’m going to Hell. I’m going to Hell, I’m done. That’s it.”
“No,” Samael coos, “No, you’re not going to Hell.”
Dana doesn’t say anything– in fact, what Death just told him doesn’t register at all. Samael repeats himself, still stroking Dana’s hair, and only after the third utterance does Dana lose tension.
“Stop that,” Dana says. Samael pulls his hand away.
“You might remember stories of Purgatory,” Samael says softly. Dana nods, so the Archangel continues, “You could go there. You qualify for atonement, I’m sure Cato would say so. But personally, well… Dana, the first thing you’d lose is your identity. I don’t just mean your name, I mean your persona. Your age. Your… preferences.”
“Aw,” Dana rolls his head to the side, speaking halfheartedly, “No fags in Heaven?”
“Well, they’re allowed,” Samael coughs, “Just not with whatever attraction they have. And your persona, well… You know better than I that the part of you wishing to bring joy to others has been nailed down by the world around you. Even after a century of atonement, what you’d become would be a sliver of who you are now.”
“Why?” asks Dana.
“Eternal happiness requires compromise,” Samael answers, “It’s why we’re so selective. In theory, we could invite everyone to Heaven and none of them would cause issues with the others. But doing so means stripping away the parts of people who sin. The more sin someone has, the more you strip away. Thus heavier sinners become less happy and more… lobotomites.”
“Eugh,” Dana shivers.
“The bar for entry has changed,” Samael admits, “Not higher or lower, just… a few paces to the left and angled slightly. But the parts we take out are still the same, and nobody comes in the same person they were before. Your case would be more of an extreme one after Purgatory.”
“Ah.” Dana sighs. But then – and he has no idea how – he senses a smirk from beneath Samael’s hood. He sits up and looks at the Archangel across the table.
“I can keep you just the way you are,” Samael puts a finger to his temple, “Although you’ll have to get used to the cavity up here. Your dying wound still sticks.”
“And put me where?” Dana asks, knowing that can’t be the only catch.
“That’s the contentious part for you,” Samael finishes his cigarette, not bothering to pick up another one, “I’m running a program of sorts; got the idea from vikings. I keep people who lived violent lives, but still qualify for Heaven or Purgatory, and send them down on missions to purge the wicked.”
“You mean killing bad people?”
“If you don’t like euphemisms,” Samael nods, “And, well, if you’re okay with doing it.”
“Why… why a whole program?”
“To make Earth a better place.”
There’s a silence between them as Dana expects more.
“All right,” says Samael, “I don’t have autonomy. I have a list of people who need to die at certain times on certain days. Some Heaven-bound, others Hell-bound, and still others slated for atonement in Purgatory. If I do any of this wicked-purging myself, I’m not only losing time where I need to keep up with deaths – and there are a lot of deaths – but I’m also raising suspicion. The Dominions and the other Archangels can ask, ‘Samael, why have you been killing all these people who aren’t on the list, and why haven’t you gone to the ones who are?’ From there, well, who can say? I could be cast down, imprisoned in Gehenna, or… be given a different kind of death sentence.
“But the program I’m running – the Valkyrie Program – is done entirely in the other Angels’ peripheral. Because I’m not the one reaping the souls, nobody else has a clue. Not even Peter himself; nobody tells him who’s to come, just to process those who already have. And because the souls killed by valkyries are all bound for Hell, they meet no-one in Heaven who can say ‘Wait, none of these guys should be here.’ It’s a system I’m pretty proud of, I have to admit.”
Dana nods, pretending to understand – and to care about the details. As Samael knows, he’s more concerned about losing his identity for happiness, or losing happiness for his identity. For some, it’s an easy tradeoff. For others, not so much.
But, as Samael also knows, Dana doesn’t have trouble choosing. He’s the helplessly proud type; the sort of person who tries desperately to cling to his sense of self when nature does all it can to rip it away from him. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have gone out the way he did. The Archangel of Death only has to wait a half-minute before Dana gives his answer.
“I’ll do it.”
