Voices from the Edge of Heaven
Voices from the Edge of Heaven
The “what”
When time stops, and there is no longer a need for purpose, it becomes difficult to answer even the simplest o questions. Heaven is free from birthdays and funerals, and void of any meeting spots. It is an endless cycle, and a place beyond reason, where those who once existed are turned into the single aspect of humanity that escapes time. Their voices.
If you could ask an expert on the subject, they would tell you that “turned” is not the right word. “Reduced” falls closer to the technical definition, with “reduction” being the standard punishment for a mediocre life. Newcomers learn this simple truth outside the gates, where guardian blocks call it “the ultimate price to pay for moral ambiguity.”
The “who”
A father and daughter had been living in the corner of St. Joseph and 406th for the last two centuries. Not exactly paradise, but quieter than the capsules South of 430th. That’s two hundred years of fighting like animals, and of yelling, crying, and bitching all day long… If only there were days, or centuries to keep track of time.
Reduction wasn’t entirely terrible, at least not for them. After all, there is no need for thoughts and no point in thinking without a mind. Lacking a body also worked in their favor, since the absence of one took away any fears of killing each other yet again. To nobody’s surprise, including themselves, their deaths had been an avoidable accident.
The “where”
Anyway, that’s where they lingered. Six blocks from the edge. A father and daughter locked in an endless struggle. The only way to escape it would have been if the father ever stopped being a father, or the daughter, a daughter. Not a chance in heaven, hence the elegance of their punishment; to repeat and suffer a mediocre life for eternity.
Had there been space in heaven, 406th would be on the upper south side. It was open to anyone who had lived just well enough, but not as righteously as those above 400th. Think of it as purgatory with a PO box address in heaven. Or meh-aven, where residents had access to most of the events, and former family members were always welcome to send word.
The “why”
For him, frustration. He had had it all and then lost it, feeling cheated of a life promised by a long defunct, once opulent, and famously generous father. His mother hadn’t talked to him in life and now resided too far below him in death for a visit. He had nothing but his daughter’s voice and residual love, or hate, to keep him company.
For her, disappointment. A whole life had been ahead of her, served on a silver platter, cold as a lifeless heart. Too bad she was a vegetarian. She hated the memory of his father’s face and the sound of his voice, blaming him for their deaths and endless fights. Unworthy of her presence, she thought, despite her presence being nothing at all.
The “how”
No time. No space. Nothing to live nor die for in life or death. What else is there to do for anyone in that position? Thus, unfulfilled lives birthed deaths of eternal unfulfillment when he missed exit 406 on St. Joseph and she pulled on his hair, yelling her last words on earth, and sealing their place in heaven.
Like everyone else before them, they had pleaded for mercy at the gates, but there is no help in heaven. No experts to ask for advice. No family to trade in favors. Even voices, free from the binds of time, are no match for the rigid barriers protecting those above 400th. With choice and rightfulness out of the question, what better time and place to continue their fight?