Purgatory: Relife Chapter 1 by Aurum Copyright © 2016 Aurum All Rights Reserved.

I would like to give a shout-out to Gwen Brown and CHERYLB for taking the time to review this chapter. Their feedback allowed me to edit this chapter for formatting and quality. Much thanks!

“Where am I?” I asked, my panic showing. My fear came not from my confusion, the drugs in college made me used to ‘coming to’ in random places. No it was how strange this place was, in particular how bright the light was, and no matter where I looked it was blinding. That is, except for right in front of me where a short man sat. Surrounding him was a bright halo, which caused him to appear as little more than a silhouette.

He only sat there, studying me as I shifted in my seat while I waited for my vision to clear. “Why’s it so bright?” I asked, trying to convince him to speak with me. Instead of answering me he was flipping through some pages and taking notes. “Who are you?” I was beginning to worry about this silent person. I asked, “am I in a hospital, where’s the doctor?” Like he’d done thrice before, he ignored me completely.

I gave up on speaking with him until he was ready since he obviously wouldn’t answer any of my questions. Instead I decided to try wandering around to escape the overwhelming brightness that wasn’t clearing up. “Why can’t I move!?” I screamed at him, it didn’t feel like I was bound. No, it felt like I had no body at all, I couldn’t remember even the most exotic of drugs causing this. “Am I…” my voice trailed off as I thought about living as a quadriplegic. My distress was overwhelming, but instead of my heartrate rising or my blood pressure increasing, I felt nothing. This further fueled my fear as I continued to not feel the physical responses I expected, which resulted in a vicious cycle that got so bad I’m sure I’d be gasping for air in a panic attack if my body would react.

“Soon, I need to review your file. Do not worry you’re not paralyzed.” I thought about protesting for answers, but decided that I didn’t need to anger this mysterious man. As I waited I tried to remember how I ended up here, but I was unable to recount anything before this room. ‘It’s a shitty nightmare!’ I thought to myself, realizing that the setting was ridiculous and instead of having weird hands I had none at all. Furthermore, the lack of a physical response to my extreme panic could only be explained by a dream.

I tried taking control of the dream by closing my eyes and imagining a new setting. I thought about being on a creek in the woods, although not perfect I figured it’d be darker and serene. When I reopened my eyes I was still in the blinding room, which agitated me. “Give me clarity!” I demanded, startling the man.

“Are you that disrespectful and impatient?” he replied calmly.

“What… no, I just… why can’t I control this dream.” I paused before continuing. “I’m tired of being blinded in this shitty room.”

“Really?” was all he said before quickly scribbling a few more notes. “First, let me assure you that this is not a dream. Second, you are not paralyzed. Third, this ‘shitty room’ is not a sketchy hospital, but the gates of heaven.”

I could only laugh silently, “Then where’s the pearly gates and all that.”

“There are no pearly gates, that’s just a mistranslation, but I am St. Peter.”

This was absurd, I didn’t believe in any of that, I mean it was so illogical. How were Jesus’ miracles less documented than even the obscure emperors of Rome. Why would a perfect God be so incapable of forgiveness or controlling his anger? Unfortunately, when I heard the man claim himself to be St. Peter all these thoughts and more rushed through my mind in a split-second. I realized this was a mistake when he took a few more notes and sighed.

“Well that’s unfortunate, some people can’t believe it even when it’s right in front of them. You weren’t even close to making it into Heaven, but”

“I’m going to Hell? You’re going to torture me forever because I didn’t believe a stupid set of dogmas. I was a good person, I treated everyone with respect. Sure I wasn’t perfect, but I don’t deserve to be tortured.” I said interrupting him.

“No, but please do not interrupt me again, it’s very annoying.” He said staring me in the eyes until I looked away. It was rare I broke eye contact during power plays, but his gaze was so forceful. It was like he could see everything by looking me in the eyes. Satisfied, he continued, “Do you know what the possible outcomes of me judging you are?”

“Heaven, Hell, and I guess purgatory.”

“Exactly, but did you know there’s actually three forms of purgatory?” I shook my head without saying anything so he continued, “You can think of purgatory as similar to the Buddhist reincarnation, which means that you can be reborn into a better life or a worse life.”

“You said there were three?” I asked when he didn’t continue.

“The third is to relive your own life.”

“But that’s stupid, wouldn’t I remake all the same mistakes and just end up here with the same evaluation.”

“If life were deterministic, then you’d be right. However, your life is guided by four basic forces: your thoughts, your emotions, your intuition, and finally chance.”

“So what’ll be different, will I have better luck or something.” I said sarcastically.

“Tell me where you think each force stems from.”

“You’re probably going to tell me that God affects chance, but the other three are based on my experiences. If I’m reborn in the same life then I’ll have the same experiences, so unless God is going to change my luck it’ll be the exact same.”

“You’re close, chance is determined by God and the other three are determined by your experiences. However, in this life God will change the outcome of chance and you’ll change the outcome of your intuition. Have you never felt that little voice in the back of your mind telling you to do something, did you not notice how it is almost right?”

“Yea, so what?”

“That voice, your intuition, is the experiences of your soul. In your purgatory, your soul will be wiser from this. So even if you were reborn into the same life, you would have different experiences, and not just through a change in chance.”

We talked for some time about the nuances of these forces. He told me that although initially I would have the same thoughts and emotions, my change in intuition and chance would cause me to have different experiences. These different experiences would change my thoughts and emotions, how much depended on me. He explained this cycle at length, but it felt like no time had passed. Rather it was his sharp wisdom or his ability to seemingly read thoughts, our conversation continued with the ease of talking to an old friend. At least until he brought it up, something I wouldn’t be prepared to talk about with people I trusted, at least not honestly, and he expected me to share with him.

“You have 37,521 regrets, of which, four are class A and 12 are class B.” He said in an impartial tone.

“No, I don’t have that many.” I said, really wanting to be done with this.

“You may not realize it since these can be as small as what color toothbrush you bought to oversleeping on the weekend.”

“Well how do you expect me to remember those?”

“I don’t, since they’re not the kind of regrets you bring here with you. But class B’s are the ones you carry through life. Although not debilitating whenever you think about them you wish you’d done something different.”

“And class A’s?” I asked, but I already knew the answer. I was trying to keep from thinking about them since I knew he’d know. Actually, he probably already did, but I couldn’t give him confirmation. I’d had a lifetime of keeping them bottled up so that’d I’d have plausible deniability.

“They’re the ones that are too painful to think about. The ones that always gave you a brief suicidal thought whenever you reflected on them.” He sounded very sympathetic now, like I’d always wished my friends and family had been. Actually, he seemed more concerned for me than even my therapists were. “You need to share them, I won’t reject you.”

“Well I’ve always regretted what major I picked in college. I couldn’t find a job for years, and with it being a business degree I never expected that.” I knew that wasn’t the regrets he was wanting to talk about, but that did always bother me. I felt like a leech on my parents as they supported me, which made me even more depressed, so I spent even less time looking for jobs. It was a vicious cycle that didn’t end until a childhood friend gave me an offer.

St. Peter gave me advice on how to deal with this regret, and how I should have accepted my perceived failure. Although, it wasn’t anything you couldn’t read in a self-help book, it was nice hearing it from such a credible source.

I named off many of my other regrets, from not learning an instrument or foreign language to other regrets I had from my college days. We even discussed the ex I regretted breaking up with. Each time he would support me with good advice on what I could have done differently prior and after the mistake. After we’d discussed 10 of my 12 class B’s, and I was unable to think of the other two, he attempted to bring the conversation to the main topic.

“So don’t you think it’s time we discussed what you really hate. The mistakes that destroyed your happiness.”

“I don’t get why it’s so important to talk about. I’ve already reflected on these more than you can imagine.”

“But I can.” He paused before continuing, “Do you really want to know why it’s imperative we address these?” I nodded my head as he asked. “Because you can’t get into Heaven if you have even one class A regret. Those are like demons that make it impossible for you to enter. They’re the reason you are still blinded before me.”

I sighed, staring off into the bright void to his left. I’d always counted on death bringing me respite from this pain. Rather it was reincarnation, Hell, or even just turning into dust, they were all preferable to the suffering they had caused me.

“Because I let my dad talk me out of becoming a girl when I was four.” I felt defeated at having admitted it. I felt like I was acknowledging that not only was I a failure as a son, but I didn’t even have the courage to be a daughter. My breaths became shallow as my thoughts raced, I was on edge, wired by the remorse and the fear my admission caused. I was ready for even St. Peter to be repulsed and ship me to Hell.

“That wasn’t your fault, your respect for you dad was beyond compare.” He tried consoling me.

“You think I don’t know that. Like I haven’t thought that nearly every time I think about this shit!” I was growing hysterical. He tried backtracking, discussing what sort of standard I placed on a four year old. That disobeying ones parents, especially when they felt so loved was an impossible demand.

Surprisingly his way of looking at it helped. It’s not like the regret went away, but the rage subsided. After I calmed down, he spent a lot of time telling me what I could have done differently to not carry that burden with me. Yet, he offered little in the way of solutions to not repeat the mistake.

“For not taking drastic action when I was 12 to make my parents realize.” This one was easier to share after the last one. This time he walked me through the strategies to avoid the mistake, but didn’t give me much advice to cope if I didn’t

The next two only took a few moments to cover, since really all four of these regrets were the same. “For not having the courage to be myself when I was 19 and for not going to a college that would support the real me.” Like the first two he gave more feedback, focusing on my lack of motivation when applying to colleges. Really, that complacent attitude stemmed from my despondence formed during my teen years as puberty conspired to make my body betray me.

“With that we’re done. As you can probably guess you just barely scored below what is allowed for an easier life. Therefore, you will have to relive your life. All of your memories will be erased and the only thing you will carry with you is a keen intuition from this experience.”

Before I could ask for more information or protest his decision the room went from blinding light to complete darkness.

Purgatory: Relife Chapter 2 by Aurum Copyright © 2016 Aurum All Rights Reserved.

“With that we’re done. As you can probably guess you just barely scored below what is allowed for an easier life. Therefore, you will have to relive your life. All of your memories will be erased and the only thing you will carry with you is a keen intuition from this experience.”

Before I could ask for more information or protest his decision the room went from blinding light to complete darkness.

Through the darkness I could only tell two things, I was trapped and it was wet. I was confined here until time lost meaning. Not only was I cut off from night and day, I never seemed to get hungry or have any bodily urges to help me gauge time. As a result, I did the one thing you can when trapped in such a prison; I slept… a lot.

During my countless weeks of sleep, I noticed another phenomena that I was powerless to resist. There was a sharp decline in awareness, of conscious thought, and rapid memory loss. To combat this I tried playing mental games while I was awake, but it only delayed the inevitable.

‘2 – 4 – 8 – 16 – 32 – 64 – 128 – 256 – 512 – 1024 – 2048 – 4096’ and beyond that was too difficult. ‘Ok, I’ll just remember the important things. I was talking with saint… shit who was it, saint. Regardless, I need to ignore my dad when I’m four because... why?’

This was how it was when I first started playing the mental games. The knowledge was there, but the details were lost. After playing a round or two I would become extremely tired and need to sleep.

Later, maybe a week or more, it had become almost impossible to even play the mental games. Not only because I had grown increasingly terrible at it, but because I was beginning to lose control of my thoughts. It was such a chore to even force myself to think about doing it, that my ability had declined to the point where it was just frustrating.

‘2 – 4 – 8 – 16 – 24, wait not 24, what was it’ or when I tried to remember the past it had become, ‘I spoke with someone and something happens when I’m three or was it four?’

At this point I started stomping with frustration. How could I have become so incapable of the most basic mental challenges? I knew that I should know 215 power, but now I was down to just four. Not only that, I couldn’t even remember what the numbers represented, I didn’t know why they increased like that. This is the same for my memory of everything. All I really knew was the walls were slowly shrinking on me. Coming closer and closer to crushing me alive.

Weeks of this past until my number game had gotten down to just 2 and 4, and I only remembered that I needed to remember something I had forgotten. To make matters worse, I was convinced that I would be crushed to death any day now.

This fear is what drove me to act, no longer would I sleep in this cave until I was killed; I decided to climb out with all my might. Through the darkness I didn’t know which way was out so I decided to climb forward. Rather it led to my inevitable death or not, at least I’d be taking action.

For hours I struggled, and when all hope seemed lost I saw a small sliver of light at the end of the tunnel, which drove me to push harder. The closer I got the brighter it became until I was peeking out. From there, the rest was easy.

However, as soon as I got out of the cave I was snatched by something. While I was trying to get my bearings I heard my attacker shout, “It’s a boy!”

‘Fuck!’ With his declaration I was able to realize what had happened and where I was at, but that was my last thought.

“Look at me, I’m a princess.” James shouted while wearing a pink skirt. He was having fun swinging a toy light saber at the other kids while playing dress up. To him it was a joke, the four year old was merely having a good laugh from the irony.

Joining in on the fun Chris picked up a toy sword, the kind a medieval knight would have used. He was quick to join the banter after swinging the sword at each other a few times Chris said, “but a knight can’t fight a lady.” Both of the boys, along with most of the other kids in the class were enjoying the stupidity of what was happening.

Normally the kids weren’t allowed to have sword fights, they were props for plays, but since the teacher had stepped out of the room the chaos had ensued. Wanting to keep the fun going, Chris went and put on blue dress before he announced, “but a girl knight can fight you.”

At this point nearly all the kids were laughing, not at the boys in skirts and dresses, but with them. The amusement had gone from civilly loud to a riot. Never had the young boys done something so absurd, which was saying a lot. Still, the noise had become so unreasonable that the teacher from the neighboring room came to check on the students.

“You all need to sit on the rug until Mrs. Harrison gets back.” At this point she noticed Chris and James pointing their toy swords at each other, so she continued “Boys, you know you aren’t supposed to fight each other, even if it is pretend.”

The students scrambled to their spot on the rug while Chris and James handed Mrs. Olson the swords before sitting with the others. Neither took the time to undress out of fear of making the teacher even madder. It took two minutes before Mrs. Harrison returned to the class. It was obvious she had heard about the boys’ antics since she was quick to scold them before allowing the class to resume recess.

Up to this point everything had been fun and games, but here is where Chris and James showed their difference. Once their lecture was over, James kicked off the skirt before returning to other rowdy games. However, Chris didn’t, for whatever reason he realized that he liked wearing the dress.

That’s why even after James had taken his off, Chris continued to wear the dress. He actually went so far as to play house with the girls during that break. When he went to play with the girls they tried to get him to be the dad since they usually couldn’t get a boy to join in on their games.

“No! I’m going to play the mom or the big sister today.” It wasn’t the first time he’d played house with them, but it was the first time he’d done it in girl’s clothes, and he refused to let the fun end.

“But you’re the only boy.” One of the girls said in a whiny voice.

“I’ll do it next time, but I’m already wearing a dress.” Chris laughed as he said this because of a combination of embarrassment and excitement.

“No I’m going to be the big sis and Taylor is going to be the mom.”

“Fine then, I’ll be the baby girl.”

The debate continued for a little while until the girls gave in, deciding it was better to have him skip out on being the dad than not play with them anymore like he’d threatened. It was a blast for Chris as he really got into the role, sure it was just play, but he was enjoying himself more than any other time he’d played with the girls.

Around a half hour passed before the teacher called time. The rest of the day passed quickly for Chris due to his high from play earlier. Even better was that since it all began as a ridiculous joke, none of the kids teased him for wearing a dress. Sure it wouldn’t happen again, but it was ok since it was so fun.

“How was your day sweetie?” Chris’ mom said when he got in the car with her.

“It was fun, we worked on our vowels today.”

“That’s wonderful, did you have fun?”

“Yes, I played house with the girls.” He decided to leave out the part about a dress so his mom wouldn’t ask him why. He knew that if she found out he’d been sword fighting he’d be grounded or worse.

The rest of the day was uneventful, at least until his dad called after dinner. This was Chris’ favorite part of the day, the nightly call. The relationship he had with his dad was that of pure love. Sure his dad was a truck driver, so he was rarely home except for weekends, but he made a point to find a pay phone nearly every day, which was impressive back in 1994.

“How are you son?” Chris’ dad asked happily.

“I’m doing great. I miss you.”

“I miss you too son, so how was your day.”

“Promise you won’t get mad or tell mom.”

“You know I won’t promise that.”

“Well at least try not to.” His fear wasn’t that his dad would find out his boy was in a dress, but that he was breaking the school rules. Although his parents spoiled him, they had little tolerance for misbehaving.

“I’ll try not to.”

“Today James was wearing a skirt and playing with a sword.”

“That’s funny.”

“It looked fun so I put on a dress and played with him.” Chris paused a moment trying to figure out the best way to say it before continuing, “Afterward I played house with the girls.”

“Did they make you play the dad again?” His dad asked, thinking he already knew the answer.

“They tried to, but I wanted to play the sister since I was already wearing a dress.”

“Oh wow.” He said somewhat surprised, but not particularly concerned.

There was a long silence, not enough to be awkward, but almost. “Dad… I want to be a girl.”

“No you don’t you just think you do because you had fun at play.” He had started speaking quickly, which was rare for him.

“But I really liked it and it made me feel good.”

“You realize that being a girl isn’t like play. Trust me, it’s better to be a guy.”

“But” Chris started to protest before his dad cut him off.

“Let me ask you son…” he said emphasizing the word son, “don’t you like girls?” It was a leading question, even if Chris didn’t realize it.

“Yea”

“Which is why you don’t want to be a girl, you want to be with a girl.”

Purgatory: Relife Chapter 3 by Aurum Copyright © 2016 Aurum All Rights Reserved.

Author’s Note: I had some people ask why I switched to 3rd person. This is to show a difference in characters. Chris and the protagonist share a body, but are not the same – think of Chris as the 4 year old and the protagonist as the ReLife'r.

“You realize that being a girl isn’t like play. Trust me, it’s better to be a guy.”

“Which is why you don’t want to be a girl, you want to be with a girl.”

The brilliance of my dad’s line rivaled Johnnie Cochran’s, “If the glove does not fit, you must acquit.” It was such a logical position that I couldn’t argue the first time I’d heard it. After all, how is a four year old supposed to know gender identity and sexual orientation are different?

I’d spent years in therapy trying to cope with not pressing the issue, but still couldn’t. Anytime I thought about it for more than a moment I’d have suicidal thoughts, which could only be chased away by drugs and alcohol. Of course that wasn’t a healthy long-term solution, but I didn’t care, if I were lucky they’d kill me.

Four was the last chance I had to experience the childhood my birth stole from me. Afterwards, I put a mental block on the idea and began to act like a proper boy should. That meant feeling only one emotion – anger, which led to fighting and hate. Sure there were moments of happiness, but they were drowned out by the constant need to prove I was a good son.

“Hello. Son are you there?”

My thoughts were bashing to escape. ‘No they’re not the same. I am a girl!’ I was screaming with all my might, but couldn’t force the words. It was obvious my opinion was being considered, but I realized that I couldn’t control his thoughts.

“Are you ok son?” He asked obviously concerned. Although I couldn’t say if it was because of the silence or because of the nature of the conversation.

“Yeah I’m fine I was just thinking about it.” Chris paused before he added, “I really feel like I want to be a girl, why can’t I do both?”

It wasn’t what I hoped to say, but this was different. I remembered submitting to his twisted reasoning; acknowledging that I liked girls so I “must” be a boy, but now he was arguing back, even if it wasn’t as forceful as I wanted.

“Listen son, this isn’t a decision you should be worrying about now.”

“Then would should I?” He was getting into the argument; he was starting to take a stand, even if he lacked resolve.

“When you’re older, for now you just need to focus on school and enjoy your friends.”

“How old?”

I could hear him breathing, as he thought about what to say. It was obvious he was coming up with an argument to end this, instead of thinking up some arbitrary age. There was a long silence before he said, “Look son, I would rather wait until you’re older to have this conversation, but I can tell it’s important to you. Why don’t we wait until I get home to discuss it?”

I begged for him to push the issue, to not give my dad time to think of a list of arguments. He was a brilliant man with a lot of free time, so if he was given another three days to plan his speech and counterarguments, I knew he would convince the four year old. ‘Say no, it’s important and we need to discuss it now’ I pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears.

“Sure dad, good night and love you.”

“I love you son, good night son.” He said putting more emphasis on the word son than he had any other time.

After the call ended I was furious, he’d made a point to call me “son” seven times after I told him how I felt. Sure you can attribute it to believing it’s a phase or a little confusion, but he didn’t have to emphasize I was his male child like that. My thoughts raged on, but it wasn’t the four year old who was thinking them. He was just worried about getting ready for bed.

The next few days I tried to figure out the details of the phone call. Why did I suddenly have the thoughts and memories of my past self? Had this knowledge always been there or did it come from somewhere? And why could I not make the child say what I so desperately wanted?

Although I only had the one experience, I assumed that it was because of how important this event was. After all, this was a more traumatic experience than the accident that put me in the hospital for two-weeks.

By Friday, I noticed that my thoughts had become murky and difficult to control again. Although, that doesn’t accurately describe it, it was more like our thoughts were melding, where I no longer had my memories of the past or the independence of an adult mind. Instead, I was becoming one with the ignorant, innocent child.

“Son, are you finished with dinner?” Chris’ dad said.

“Yes sir, what do you need?”

“Good, then let’s talk outside.”

Chris’ tried to guess what it could be about as he made the short walk from the table. He knew he’d been well behaved and done well at school the past week, so he shouldn’t be in trouble. “What is it?” Chris asked, practically anticipating a reward.

“Do you still want to talk about it?” His dad said uncomfortably.

“About what?”

“What we talked about on the phone.”

“When I told you I want to be a girl.”

“Exactly son, so how did you even decide this?” His dad asked, likely another leading question.

Chris went into vivid detail; he talked about what caused him to try on the dress, what he did while he wore it, and what emotions he felt during all this. By the end Chris was grinning from thinking about how fun it’d been, and more importantly how it just felt right.

“Have you worn girls’ clothes since?”

“No.” Chris answered without explaining why not. Even if I weren’t able to control his thoughts and actions, I was a part of them. That’s why I knew he wanted to, even if he hadn’t.

“And have you played house with the girls since then?”

“No.”

“Don’t you see son, you just want to play around, which is normal for your age.” Chris’ dad was beginning to act excited. I don’t believe it was genuine excitement, but a trick to help manipulate the child into agreeing. By using a positive energy after he got the desired responses it felt like he was trying to get Chris to feed off of the energy instead of thinking critically.

“But only James wore a skirt and he took his off right away.” Chris said confused.

“And you haven’t worn one since either. Trust me son, if you were meant to be a girl, God would have made you one.”

The mention of God’s perfection riled me from our merged thoughts. I had grown to despise God throughout my previous life. I remembered when I prayed every day to wake up as a girl the way I was supposed to have always been. During this time my prayers started something like, “Dear God, please make me a girl when I wake up, and I will spend the rest of my life sharing your love and happiness.” Yet, every sunrise surprise, surprise, I was still a guy. By my last prayer it had devolved into, “God, I know you’re not real, or you are the biggest asshole in the world, but still I pray you can fix your mistake. If you fix your mistake I’ll repent for my sins and spread your word for the rest of my life.” That was the 365th day I prayed in a row; that was the last day I prayed.

‘God doesn’t know shit! He’s either imaginary or an asshole, either way he won’t help you.’

“Then why did God make me want to be a girl?”

“Son, God gives us free will so he didn’t make you do or want anything. Besides, you don’t want to be a girl, you’re just a bit confused is all.”

The dismissiveness of that was infuriating, how was I stuck with such a shitty birth and conservative parents not once, but twice. ‘No. Just fucking

“Nooooo!” The small voice yelled out. Not only was my dad surprised for being screamed at, but I was surprised. Had I made the child yell or was Chris just feeding off of my anger?

“Next time you yell at me like that I’m going to spank you.” He didn’t say it angrily, but the seriousness of his tone was obvious. “So, no what? No you don’t believe God gives us free will or no you don’t want to be a girl.”

I thought it was funny that both of the choices were leading statements. If I said the latter then I lost, but if I said the former then he would twist it somehow. Although he wasn’t a manipulative man, he was very persuasive, especially to me. Therefore, I decided to go with the safe answer, if I said ‘neither’ then he’d have to make a new argument instead of continuing from there.

“Sorry for yelling I don’t know why that happened, but I guess I just don’t understand why God would let me feel this way.” Chris said.

Just like I expected he turned Chris’ comment into a very convincing argument. He claimed God works in mysterious ways to help us grow as people and my confusion was just a lesson to help me relate to women better. They discussed it a little more, but with his powerful one-liners and my knowledge stuck in the background, there was nothing to be done.

Within just a few minutes, our talk was over. Within just a few minutes, my happy childhood was over.