Joy

Heaven still meant something. Didn’t it? It had to, to believe anything else was to acknowledge that the day to day drudgery of mundane sameness was all there was, and that was too unpleasant a thought to entertain. Yes, there were moments of joy, elation, ecstasy and genuine happiness, but they were fleeting and vastly outnumbered by stress, fatigue, apathy, depression, anger, hatred, jealousy… the list went on and on and the scales felt unevenly tipped.

The idea of heaven gave people something to strive for, an idea that calmed the fear of death and incented most souls to be kind to one another. Of course there were those who didn’t give a flying rat’s ass about kindness and instead derived their joy from of the misery of others, but wasn’t joy still joy no matter the cause?

I had been the source of Mark’s joy for a decade. Every day he shared his joy with me: fists, cigarette burns and belittling comments magically transforming his joy into my pain when transferred from him to me. The very last time he shared his joy with me I damn near died, and as the surge of electricity delivered from the defibrillators surged through my body to pull be back from death I heard someone whisper in my mind: Don’t go. I’m waiting.

That was three years ago. That was a year of physical therapy ago. That was a lifetime ago.

The longest lasting of my scars was my thickly grown reserve. I kept my heart sheltered and my trust locked away, unwilling to share either for fear of reliving the same kind of joy all over again. I had worked hard physically, emotionally and spiritually to ensure I would never again be a victim, but that kind of impenetrable armor made it impossible for anyone to get close to me. It was both lonely and comforting.

Sitting in the corner of my favorite coffee shop I quietly sipped my honey latte as I read the latest Christopher Moore novel, chuckling to myself from time to time at his wry humor. Glancing at the clock on the wall I gathered my things and rose from the worn leather chair I’d occupied, finishing off my coffee before heading toward the door, waving at the familiar staff.

“Hey!” I heard the voice behind me but paid it no mind, it was undoubtedly one of the staff but the next time it spoke a familiar bell went off in my head and made me stop. “Don’t go.”

Pausing by the door I turned and let my brown eyes scan the various seating areas, coming to a stop on the tall man who had gotten to his feet and was walking toward me. I glanced behind me, certain he was calling out to someone else but then he stopped directly in front of me and smiled as he extended his hand.

He seemed strangely familiar as I stared from his hand to his eyes and I could feel the frown on my face, “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I said simply.

He smiled wider, hand still extended, “I’m waiting.”

The bell in my head went off again and I struggled to understand why he seemed so familiar to me. Slowly, reluctantly I reached out and grasped his hand in a firm handshake. The touch of his skin flooded my mind with the voice that had called to me the moment I’d died, his voice, and the comfortable sound turned my armor to insubstantial smoke that disappeared in a puff of tentative trust.