Dwelling Place For Demons

He cannot understand what he’s seeing. Stretching along as far as the eye can see is a dirt path. There is nothing else, just this path leading to God alone knows where. Well, that’s not entirely true, there are some small scraggly bushes lining the road, and they rustle silently as he wanders along. He doesn’t know how he got there; all he knows is that it feels like he’s been walking this way for a very long time.

Glancing upwards, he frowns, as dark spots dance in front of his vision. They could be birds, or they could be just those random wiggly lines everyone gets in their eyes. One thing that seems most noticeable is the lack of any sound. There’s just nothing, not even the noise of his feet on the ground. He casts a curious look downward and realises that he’s leaving no footprints, either.

He looks back behind him. It looks exactly the same back as it does forward. Is this what being dead is? Just some endless pathway of nothingness? He can’t fathom it. Shaking his head, he keeps trudging along the path, wondering if he is the only being here.

Not quite.

He freezes at the voice, and turns his head, attempting to pinpoint it.

You cannot see me...and you won’t be able to until you come back to us.

He swallows hard, lifting a hand to ward off the unseen intrusion. “Who...are you?” His own voice has no sound, but he can hear it inside his head. Highly unsettling.

That is not important. Just keep walking, until I tell you to stop.

He shivers, eyes darting from side to side. “How long?”

One hundred steps. Count them.

He thinks he must be going mad, hearing voices in his head. The voice sounds amused and responds, thusly.

You are dead, not crazy.

He trembles, wrapping his arms tight around his upper torso. He can’t remember dying, can’t remember anything. Can’t even remember who he is. Shivering, he forces his mind to focus on the directions the voice is giving him. As he trails toward a hundred, he wonders if this is just some crazy nightmare, which he will wake from any moment now.

No. This is no dream. You are truly dead, I am afraid. However, I hope to rectify that.

“Why?” Speaking aloud helps, even if he can’t really hear himself.

The voice doesn’t respond for what must be forever.

He grumbles, still counting. “One hundred,” he speaks out.

The voice responds, a gruff edge to it. Step off the path. To your right.

“You never answered my question.” He breathes deeply, clenching his fists, feeling tightness in his chest that he didn’t feel earlier. There’s a heavy pause, and then the voice answers in an almost weary tone.

I must make amends for my sins. For the sake of my soul, and that of my son’s.

He frowns, repeating his earlier query, “Who are you?”

There is deep, silent laughter. I think more pressing, is who are you?

Scratching at his jaw, he ponders that question. Then shakes his head hard. He still hasn’t moved from the path.

The voice becomes cajoling. Come on, you don’t want to stay here, do you?

He squeezes his eyes shut, tight, shaking his head more. “No. Wherever here is...”

Here is nowhere really. An in-between place. You could keep going until you reached the light, but it may take forever, because you died before your time.

Shivering, he wraps his arms around his own torso. Chills run down his spine, and he wonders if he will ever figure out what this is all about. He steps off the path, to his right, eyes darting around as if, by magic, the person to whom the voice belongs, will appear close by. No such luck, though. Nothing changes at all, and he begins to feel even emptier.

But, then he feels a tug at something inside his chest. At his heart. Or maybe it’s his stomach. He’s not sure, and then thinks it probably makes no difference where it is, it’s uncomfortable and he doesn’t know what it means. Which isn’t new.

“What?”

What? What?

He groans, rubbing his fingers over his face. “I don’t get any of this...”

Not much to get. The voice takes on an edge, becoming almost recognisable to him.

He tilts his head and then feels the tug, again, harder, more insistent. Almost as if he’s been sucked toward something. Then the voice, taking on a commanding note, speaks out, reverberating in his skull, and through his bones, overwhelming everything else.

You do not belong here. You must come home. People here need you. Come back to us...

He brings his hands up to his face, covering it, shaking his head hard. He doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“Home...? But...I don’t even know...”

The voice finally attempts an explanation. You are Jay Bouvier and your family need you...it is not your time...come back...open your eyes...

Jay blinks hearing the name setting off sparks in his mind, and then the rest of the statement. “Open my eyes?”

Open your eyes... The voice takes on an urgent tone, entreating him. Open them...open your eyes...come back to us...in God’s name...come back to us...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tuesday May 27th 2008
Simple Plan Bus
Early morning

Pierre sat in front of Chuck’s laptop, acoustic guitar resting across his lap. He was attempting to record a small video for the fans, trying to do something normal to keep his mind occupied. So much had happened in less than a month, and their tour had barely started, but he seriously wasn’t feeling it. It didn’t seem terribly important anymore. Not after what he’d done, and what he’d been through.

He glanced upwards at the ceiling, picturing Lachelle laying in one of the spare bunks. Images of her face, and the pain she was still evidently experiencing flashed across his thoughts. Then he thought about his family back in Montreal. The things they were going through, the loss... Jay...

He closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed looking back at the laptop monitor. The soft glow of the screen threw some illumination across his face, highlighting how pale he was, the dark circles from lack of sleep evident beneath his eyes. They stood out giving his eyes a hollowed, sunken in look.

He viewed the screen through bleary eyes, heavy from keeping them open for so long. Not sleeping was probably the worst single decision he’d made in a long time, but part of him didn’t give a shit. He was too emotionally drained to even think of letting his body shut down. Admitting this fact to himself wasn’t easy, but that was partly due to the fact that everything had really only hit him in the past day and night.

Considering, he’d been living in the moment, as each moment was going on, he hadn’t just sat back and let it all settle on him, and now...

“Fuck...” Pierre sat back, moving his hand away from mouse, the cursor that was hovering over the record button, blinking impatiently at him.

“What?” Pat, who was rummaging in the small bar fridge, gave the vampire a questioning look.

Pierre shook his head. “I can’t pretend everything’s alright...I...can’t do this.” He waved a hand at the laptop. Then at the space he was sitting in.

There was a heavy pause and then Pat groaned, shutting the fridge door and joining his friend on the couch. “What else is there to do?”

“Huh?” Pierre ran a thumb along the strings of the guitar.

“You guys still have one gig left in town...then...the rest of the tour,” Pat pointed out.

“Yeah, don’t remind me.” Pierre tapped his fingers against the wood of the guitar. A frown creased his brow as he leaned over the keyboard, squinting at the monitor. “I should do this.”

“For the fans,” Pat murmured, as he began to fiddle with the beads sticking out of his pocket.

“Yeah. For the fans.” Pierre took several deep breaths, steeling himself. Rubbing his palms together, he shifted his guitar into position then leaned forward to hit record.

As he began to speak at the webcam, Pat stood and headed back up to the second level. The Were had too many things going on his mind to be able to focus. It had taken him a lot of effort to act normal around his friend, but considering what he knew he couldn’t force it any longer. Taking the steps two at a time, he made his way to his bunk. Before he reached it though he felt a small hand reach out and grab at his arm.

“Pat?”

He turned his head to meet Lachelle’s bleary gaze. “Hey? How you doing?”

She blinked at him through a curtain of blonde hair; it fell across her face, hiding her features. Pat leaned up against the edge of the bunk, waiting patiently for a response. Lachelle sighed, laying her head back against the pillow, but keeping her gaze fixed on the male.

“I’m alright.” She cleared her throat, before adding, “You look worried.”

Pat’s expression had darkened. He tried to smooth his brow out by rubbing his palm over it. But, it didn’t quite work. Lachelle was right about how he was feeling; he was extremely anxious. However, that came with the territory and there wasn’t much he could do.

He forced a smile, shaking his head at her. “Nothing that you need to worry about.”

Lachelle sighed. “How’s...?”

“Pierre’s getting there.” Pat knew exactly who she was asking after. Pierre was on everyone’s mind at any rate so it wasn’t too hard to discern. He fingered his Rosaries while looking down at the floor. Hunching up his shoulders he murmured, “It’d be better if Jay...” He allowed his voice to trail off, looking up at Lachelle again.

She nodded in understanding; words were pointless and they both knew that. Yet, Pat also knew that it wasn’t all hopeless, especially if Shadows succeeded... He shook his head abruptly.

“I’ll let you rest more... need a lie down myself.”

Lachelle nodded, whispering, “Thank you for watching out for me...I didn’t think...”

Pat placed a hand on her arm, his touch gentle. “You’re my friend, Chelle. Of course, I’d take care of you.”

He smiled, softly then turned and went to his own bunk. As he jumped up into it he felt a twinge in his stomach. Lifting his head, and flaring his nostrils, he drew in a deep breath. Something had changed. The atmosphere felt charged; he didn’t quite know what it meant, but something had definitely altered.

Pat propped his elbows against the edge of his bunk, debating whether he should go and investigate, or just continue to wait. Tugging his beads from his pocket, he pulled them through his fingers, frowning. The Rev’s words came to his mind then.

Pray for us all...

Clenching his jaw, he heaved his body up into his bunk, and flopping back he stared up at the ceiling.

Myriad thoughts spun maddeningly through his mind. What-ifs and anxious treaties bombarded his senses. Doubts and negative thoughts roamed the canvas of his pained heart. However, he pushed them aside, giving space for quiet to fill him to overflowing. Then, lips moving, fingers stroking his beads, he began to silently pray.

Confessing the pain and anxiety in his heart and soul, he felt the load he was carrying on his shoulders begin to ease.

A fleeting thought passed across his mind as he prayed. The last time he had truly conversed with the higher power had been decades ago during the slaughter years. When the days had gotten darker than even he could handle he had quit in a fit of disgust and disappointment. But this time, he felt that just perhaps his prayers would be answered.

The barely audible murmur of his own voice eventually lulled him into a light doze. As his eyes slid shut and his hand went limp across his chest, the beads fell down next to his body. Hidden, they lay beside him, a symbol of the burgeoning hope that, even in slumber, he truly felt.

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