by Marshal Latham
“Your spirit is bleeding! You must visit the Eyes of Redemption.”
These words echoed through Morgan’s mind as he looked down the abandoned street at the old stone church where his uncle had told him he would find the Eyes.
The central column of the church, which surely once rose to a steeple, was jaggedly cut off about mid-climb as if knocked down by some giant. Hardly an encouraging symbol.
Cold wind whipped around him. Morgan pulled up his overcoat and walked briskly down the narrow lane. He suddenly missed Heather. She had always loved quaint, cloistered neighborhoods.
One of the great double doors to the church lay hanging off all but its lowest hinge, giving Morgan access. The walls offered shelter from the wind, but the failing door and patchwork of holes in the stained-glass permitted the pervading cold. Dirt and leaves cluttered the grand room, and many of the pews were overturned. Morgan spied the balcony. His uncle, Brady, had said he must go to the second floor, but had given no specifics.
This is crazy, Morgan thought. Why was he listening to this broken man anyway? Brady had been shunned by Morgan’s father since being excommunicated from the church ten years ago. Morgan never did know all of the details surrounding Brady’s disgrace, but he knew enough. His uncle had held a fairly high position in the church; and Morgan had learned from his parents’ hushed conversations, and brief comments from Aunt Jeane, that it involved infidelity with a considerably younger woman.
Morgan hardly knew Brady, but soon after Morgan’s separation from Heather, his uncle showed up at his doorstep. “The Eyes of Redemption will heal you,” Brady had said. “You’re on the road to disaster. I know the look. I was also once a man lost within myself. Don’t end up like me.”
“Redemption” seemed like such a sanctimonious word. Morgan was looking for a way forward, not back. Who was Brady to give him advice? Besides, he wasn’t the one who had left. Heather just didn’t understand him. Still, her absence left him empty. He needed her more than he had imagined. Morgan sighed. Am I just doing this because I know my old man wouldn’t approve of me listening to his fallen brother?
Upon discovering a stairway in an alcove near the entrance, Morgan climbed the spiraling narrow steps. He exited into a round antechamber. The decapitated spire unveiled the overcast sky. A slight drizzle fell. A statue of a winged angel faced him across the room. An arch to his left led out onto the balcony. As he crossed to the arch, he thought he heard something, maybe metal scrapping against stone, but turned to see only darkness.
The balcony exhibited the same disrepair as the main hall. Morgan gazed over the chapel, careful not to lean too heavily upon the railing. He looked for anything that would offer a clue as to the location of these eyes. There were no patterns in the floor. The ceiling was painted with angels standing on clouds blowing trumpets. The pitted stained glass depicted Jesus praying alone near an olive tree, with three sleeping figures near the bottom edges.
The Garden of Gethsemane, Morgan recalled. Long ago, in Sunday school, he had learned that this is where Jesus took upon himself the sins of all mankind, suffering in both body and spirit. His teacher had emphasized the Bible passage that said Jesus sweat great drops of blood. That image had stuck with him. Since that lesson, Morgan had viewed Jesus’ betrayal, scourging, and crucifixion more as formalities when compared to the suffering in the garden.
Nothing else significant in the room stood out. Was he supposed to wait for a certain time of day when a shaft of light would shine through the window and highlight a secret hiding place? Morgan began to feel like a fool. His despair had made him gullible, grasping at straws. Brady was a delusional old man. Nobody understood what he needed – not Brady, not Heather. He kicked a broken piece of wood and sent it hurdling loudly into the pews below. He didn’t need redemption; and he didn’t need an idiotic quest. He needed…he wasn’t sure, release maybe.
Turning his back on the religious symbols, Morgan reentered the antechamber. However, he found his path to the stairs blocked by several small objects. In the dim light, he made out what looked like small mirrors set on round bases. There must have been a couple dozen or so. Morgan jumped when the mirror-bearing devices began slowly shuffling toward him.
What were they? Robotic devices? He didn’t see any cords. He’d never seen anything like them. They stopped about three feet in front of him. Now what was he supposed to do? Morgan started to walk around the strange little bots. All of the mirrors pivoted to face him as he moved. He stopped and walked the other way. The mirrors followed him again. He jumped quickly back and forth. The devices tracked his every movement.
Morgan laughed nervously. He got closer and leaned his head over the pack of machines as far as he could. A myriad of reflections tilted back to look at him. Maybe he should jump over them, give them whiplash.
Then something caught his eye. One of the mirrors wasn’t showing his reflection anymore. Morgan focused on an image of a baby. Hold on, it was him as a baby. He noticed another mirror flash to a scene of him in a highchair, spitting out orange mush. Many of the mirrors altered to images of Morgan at different stages of life. He tried to keep up with the changing scenes. He was crying over a scraped arm, dressed up as a hobo for Halloween with coffee grounds on his face, reciting lines from a school play, posing with friends at his high school graduation. Each time, he saw himself in the reflections as if in the eyes of someone else.
One mirror showed his tear-streaked face as it looked down amid hospital curtains and IV’s. He could almost hear his mother’s frail voice. “Don’t cry, Morgan. This is part of God’s plan for us. Don’t lose hope. You and your father have made me so happy.” He had not been there when she died.
A new scene showed him arguing with his father, most likely about church. Morgan angrily got in his car and drove away.
Now, Morgan saw the back of his own head as it sat two levels down in a lecture hall. A younger Morgan turned and noticed he was being watched. He smiled and waved shyly, then turned forward again. The day I met Heather, thought Morgan. A sudden pang of loss struck him.
Another image showed him on one knee in the snow, laughing, with a ring in his hand. Yet another portrayed him in white coattails saying the words “I do.” Next, Morgan was running into the ocean, and then laughing at some forgotten joke.
“She’s a nice girl, son,” his father had said when they’d started talking marriage. “Does she go to church?”
“Not really.”
“I was hoping you’d find someone that might give you some motivation. Marry above yourself like I did.”
Morgan had sighed. “Dad, can we not make this about church? Heather is unbelievable. I love her; and I’m a lucky man to have someone like her love me. Isn’t that enough?”
“Morgan,” his dad had said, “if you listen to anything I say, let it be this. You need love in a marriage, but it is not enough alone. You have to feed that love with kindness, respect, and sacrifice.”
Those words struck him now with unexpected force. Despite the pouring rain, Morgan stood in the antechamber, transfixed before the chorus of flickering reminisces.
Many tender memories of Heather flashed before him. They were signing the paperwork to buy their house. He was holding her as they cried over her miscarriage. They were snuggling next to the fire with Christmas decorations hung about.
Then a different set of images began to unfold. He saw himself in low lit bar rooms. He saw himself shaking his head in disinterest and rolling over in bed while Heather looked on for several minutes. He saw himself sheepishly holding up a suggestive magazine, mouthing the words, “It’s no big deal.” He saw himself sitting warily at his laptop while Heather watched their favorite movie alone. He saw himself arguing with Heather. He saw himself pleading, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Morgan wasn’t sure when this change in their relationship occurred. He remembered getting very busy with his new job. He remembered Heather becoming obsessed with becoming pregnant. She also started to attend church regularly and wanted him to join her. None of these things in particular was a problem, but Morgan began feeling trapped and became more and more angry.
Back on the mirrors, his face was less often tender or caring, but was replaced by more frequent expressions of resentment and demand. The screens filled with his image bearing down with disdain. Morgan saw himself storming out of their bedroom. Wrathful words spat out of his mouth; seething eyes flashed with outrage; and accusing fingers stabbed furiously in the air. He was fuming, foaming, ugly.
Morgan wanted to close his eyes, but he continued to stare at the images. He continued to feel the guilt and torment. He didn’t want to see anymore. He knew how it played out. He was fired from his job due to images found on his computer. They fought a lot more after that.
Then the scene he’d been dreading most began to unfold. Heather was crying and said she couldn’t take his demands anymore and that he had become a monster. Morgan didn’t need to hear the words or even read his own lips. He knew what he had said: “Then leave; I’d be better off without you. I’m not even attracted to you anymore.” Morgan knew then the hurt and pain he had seen in Heather’s eyes, and the instant regret he had felt but had been too proud to admit. The scene froze on a close-up of his vehement scowl.
Morgan fell to his knees and wept. “Oh, Heather,” he groaned.
The spiteful image lingered before him despite finally being able to close his eyes to the mirrors. His head began to throb. How had he allowed this vile persona to overtake him? Lurid fantasies could not replace the love he once had with Heather. How could he have thrown away so much? Morgan could barely breathe. The ache in his heart seemed to fill his whole body. The scenes from the mirrors played a recursive loop through his mind. He felt heat on his face and in his hands.
Morgan had not only lost Heather, he had hurt her, belittled her, mocked her. He could have gone after her when she left, apologized, worked things out, but he hadn’t even tried. That said more about him than his actual words. Heather had given her love freely, and he had ungratefully taken. Why? What was worth the pain he had caused her, the pain he had seen in her eyes?
Morgan realized he felt pain as well and his body was drenched. Then he felt something different – warmer, thicker. He opened his eyes to see blood pouring from his hands. He realized that it was also dripping from his face and chest. He tried to wipe it, but without success.
The loop continued. The wedding, the hospital, the fights, his dad, the hurt in Heather’s eyes. Morgan curled up to surrender to his fate.
“Kindness, respect, sacrifice,” said his dad.
“Don’t end up like me,” said Brady
“Don’t lose hope,” said his mother.
At these last words, he recalled the stained-glass image of the man in the garden. An intense sensation of warmth suddenly swept over him, and then vanished. His bodily pain gradually subsided. Morgan’s grief and guilt, however, lingered.
Morgan opened his eyes again. His bleeding had stopped, yet residual pools of blood spilled down the stairs with the rainwater. The mirrors were idle, limply reflecting the gray stone floor.
He rose and shuffled around the mirrors. Morgan descended the stairs and retreated slowly down the lane while the rain washed over him. He had no idea where to go or what to do. It didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Redemption. It seemed he needed little else. His uncle had been right, he had been a man lost within himself. Morgan knew he could never make things right with Heather, but he had to give her something – at least tell her how much she meant to him, tell her he knew who had failed their marriage.
A tiny break in the clouds released a small shaft of sunlight. Was this supposed to be a symbol of hope? Morgan wasn’t sure, but he had nothing else to cling to.
I’ll take what I can get, he thought.
© 2010 Marshal Latham
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.
Tags: Marshal Latham, short story, speculative, spiritual thriller