Keeper of Crows (Keeper of Crows #1)(66)

“You believe,” she flipped to another page, another scribbled note, “that he only used a body to travel around on Earth—the same body of the man you call a stranger now.”

“Yes. That’s one possibility. The other is that he found a way to come back and he’s biding his time. He’ll kill me if that’s the case.”

“Both scenarios sound far-fetched. You know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me, Doctor Stein.”

“I think you know that all this was a dream. You were in a coma, Carmen. A drug-induced coma. For weeks, you lay in a hospital bed. This was nothing more than a dream, a hallucination. If you can admit that to yourself, you’ll be better off.”

“Sometimes it feels like it was a dream,” I told her. “Sometimes, this room feels like I’m trapped in a dream. The line between what’s real and what’s imaginary is very blurry for me.” She took the bait I offered. I was going to get the hell out of here, but my recovery had to be gradual or it would seem contrived.

She nodded, a slight smile on her face. “Your admission of that alone is progress, Carmen. We’re done for the day, but I want you to do me a favor. Write it all down. Everything you remember about your dream, about Purgatory. Bring it with you tomorrow.”

It would take a year to detail it all, but I could write something by then.



*

My room was white. The walls bled purity onto the floor. Even the bed clothes were sterile, devoid of everything. The white made me appreciate the tumultuous gray of Purgatory. At least the gray was alive, whereas the white was empty and dead. As long a time as I spent in the gray realm alone, I was far lonelier on Earth. Because he wasn’t here, and I wasn’t allowed to see him. It was part of the bargain struck. I survived two thousand years of servitude in Purgatory, but only days on Earth had passed during that time. Days where my shattered body healed. Days where Gabriel gave my biological father a new memory and by extension, a new future for me. At least I thought he did. The jury was still out on that one. Every time I saw my father’s face, my skin crawled to get away from him. Fight or flight reflexes kicked in, and I wanted to run away or stab him in the throat. Either would have sufficed.

But if it was just the man whose skin my father wore, how could I kill him? He was innocent. I had to figure out a way to tell…

The orderly peeked into my room through the small window. I had been given a pencil and paper, so they would watch me closely. Sharp objects weren’t given without supervision, and believe me, I would yield it as a weapon—a weapon in the battle for my own emancipation.

In my scrawling handwriting, I wrote what I knew:



My father was the antichrist.

I was dragged to Purgatory from the hospital after someone beat me almost to death.

The Keeper of Crows saved me.

And then we saved each other.

I slew my father and then the devil himself.

Purgatory’s balance has been restored, but my faith has been shattered.

I’m forbidden to see him until death claims me.

I long for death, but suicide forfeits the agreement. I have to wait for it, and they will make me wait for a very long time.

I love him.

He loves me.

Even through the distance between us, I feel him.

One day, we’ll be together. I will feel his fingers on my skin, his breath on my neck, his lips on mine, and it will all have been worth it.

When I woke, everyone thought I was crazy. They still do.

But I know something they don’t.

I’m not crazy at all.



When I was finished and satisfied, I waved the orderly into my room and surrendered the pencil to him. “Thank you, Ms. Kennedy.” He smiled. I knew my fractured reality had actually happened, because if it hadn’t, I’d be trying to lure him into bed. I’d flash a smile and ask him to help me. But the thought of any man touching me—any man but Michael—made me sick. My stomach churned at the thought.

The next day, I gave Doctor Stein the paper. She read each sentence slowly and then re-read them, glancing up at me. “Near-death experiences are common. Across every culture in this world, even ones the modern world hasn’t touched. Did you know that?”

“I did.”

“I have a patient now who tells a very similar account of her brush with death.”

“A man or woman?” I asked.

“The patient is a woman. You see, Carmen, the mind is very complex. Even when a person’s body shuts down, their mind still functions on all cylinders. Unless there is trauma to the brain itself, it works. Your neurons fire. Your imagination can run wild. Through every culture, in every walk of life, there are stories of people emerging from light or from a place like you’ve described. It’s one universal thread that ties us together, but it isn’t a real one. It’s a testament to the power of our minds to escape from trauma.”

“Or else it actually occurs,” I countered. “That would be the alternative, right?”

She cleared her throat. “I suppose, but remember Occam ’s razor. The simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

Was it simpler to think that my brain created a world that other people had also dreamed about? Or was it simpler to believe that world actually existed? I thought the latter made more sense.