Hora Mortis Nostrae (pt 5)

Aw shucks, you guys. It's been way longer than I intended between posts..

Update first:
Wsb and I have, I don't know... plateaued. It's like we grew more and more intense, and now, we're just sort of fixtures in each others' lives. It's like we've had an entire relationship in fast-motion over the course of two weeks. Like, a few days ago, we had a really romantic night full of movies and hookah, but he actually got mad at me for the first time yesterday, and the make up sex was.. well... disappointing.

We're not even officially together and I already feel like we're one of those static couples who should just call it quits. It's barely been two weeks!! What is this?? I've never been good at the committed, long term thing, and after practically no time at all, I feel like I'm in the thick of it.

I'm starting to feel insecure again, wondering if it's me, or if he likes other chicks, or if we'll ever be able to get back to how we were at the beginning. I don't want a commitment from him, fuck, I don't need it. But I feel like he feels that he's obligated to give one. I don't want a boyfriend! I want the fling I thought I was having!

If only i could put us back over the line and into casual-land again...
Few and foreign followers, after getting in too deep, how do I pull us back to the surface?


okokok sorry, this must be very odd, charting out the progression of a relationship in blog form. We'll get back to the story now.
And be warned, this chunk of the story is a tad long, I had to cram three tasks in before the final (and most dangerous) two. I hope you like them :)

Recap: Felix and Jesus have just made it through Ian's library, and Felix is beginning to lose motivation. None the less, they continue.

Part Five

Calmly, we proceeded up the stairs in the next stairwell. “Two down, only five more possibly deadly mindfucks to go.” I thought to myself. I sighed wistfully at the thought that we’d only been through two of the seven floors and that I was already beginning to tire of the constant fear and anger.

Jesus grinned up at me as we approached the third door. I stuck my tongue out at him, a low level of disdain simmering in my gut.
He raised an eyebrow at me.
“These aren’t meant to be easy, “ he mused. I offered a small smile in return and turned towards the third door looming before us.

It was a stark, black door with a push bar on it, just like all the others. So simple, and yet I knew that whatever lay behind it would be indescribably complicated and puzzling. I gritted my teeth and pushed it open.

We walked into a darkly lit, living-room-esuqe space with, oh dear God, shag carpet. There were pillows strewn about the floor and blankets piled high in a corner, though the air in the room was warm and heavy, so I don’t think anyone in here would need a blanket. There were couches and bare mattresses arranged in rows across the room and the exit was clearly visible on the opposite side of the comfy-looking expanse.

There was a groaning sound, and a skinny woman lazing on a nearby couch rolled over and glared at us.

“Ugh. I’m Rozaline. Call me Roz, because Rozaline is just way too many syllables. Anyway, the exit’s over there, “ she raised a droopy finger towards the wall. “Just get out so I can sleep.” She smirked and rolled back over.

I shrugged at Jesus and began to walk briskly towards the exit. About ten steps in, I began to slow, and kept slowing until I was literally dragging my feet. I suddenly realized just how exhausted I was, and I glanced at one of the mattresses. I looked very inviting. I noticed Jesus bending slightly at the knees, as though he was sagging from lack of sleep.

We could just take a little power-nap and get back to the mission later. That would be ok, right? Just a lil’ snooze and then we could move on. Or maybe we didn’t have to move on. We could just sleep for a while. We could sleep forever. I wouldn’t mind.

I noticed Jesus inching towards a couch. He had the right idea. He was just about to sit on it when it hit me—Sloth. Laziness. Sleeping when you know you should be doing something. It was a sin. I pulled myself over to him and held him off the couch.

“We can’t stop. Not now. If we do, we’ll be here forever. She might wake up and eat us or something.” We both glanced over at the snoring lump that was Roz, and laughed.

“You’re probably right, “ he remarked, obvious drowsiness in his voice.
I pulled him along the rest of the row, staring longingly at the couches and mattresses, and inch by inch, we made it to the door. I pushed it open and dragged Him and myself out onto the landing.

When the door slammed shut behind us, it was like someone had put an IV of espresso into my forearm. My eyes widened as I blinked away sleepiness and regained focus. Newly motivated by my own personal victory by being the first one to figure out the trick that time, I pulled Jesus up the stairs.

We came upon door number four. I was just about to push it open when I saw the frilly pink bow on push bar. I looked at Jesus, he was obviously thinking the same thing that I was: Really?

I opened the door, and a new kind of Hell spilled out.

The smell hit me first. Acetone and fancy shampoo and strong perfume all at once, it hit me like a whirlwind. Once my sinuses regained consciousness, I was able to process the sight of what lay before us. It was a beauty parlor.

Directly in front of us, there was a little reception desk with a bouquet sitting on the corner. Along one wall were about five haircutting stations, a few sinks, and shelves upon shelves of hairstyling tools and products. Along the other wall were manicure tables, shelves of nail lacquer, and massive mirrors. Waltzing up the center of the room was the most fabulously-dressed man I have ever seen.

Upon his shoulders was a feather boa, playfully tossed over a pastel prep Lacoste outfit and Armani shoes.

He laughed gaily, chucked the feather boa away theatrically, and struck a pose. Jesus gawked and I snorted. The man’s head snapped towards us and he released himself from his pose, addressing us.

“Um, hello, that my big entrance!” He smarmed with a very effeminate, whiny voice. This guy appeared to be the basis of every gay stereotype imaginable. Except lisping; he didn’t lisp.

Jesus continued gawking in stunned silence, so the man continued.
“I’m Fillipé, and I am going to make you two look fabulous! Ahaha, welcome to my salon!” He smiled, revealing unnaturally white rows of perfect teeth. He ran over and grabbed Jesus by the wrist, plunking him down in a chair by the barbers’ sinks. He turned on the water and began to rinse Jesus’s hair, grinning maniacally.

“Oh my, you have some of the longest, scraggliest hippy hair I have ever seen! We’re definitely going to have to fix that, honey.” He then looked up at me, giving me a disapproving up-and-down. “You’re next sweetie, you’re in desperate need of lowlights.”

“Uh, ok.. well, we’re kind of in a hurry, so if you could just—“ I stammered. I wasn’t used to anyone caring about my appearance, let alone me. Fillipé cut me off mid-sentence by turning to Jesus and saying “So, tell me about yourself.”
“I uh, I do peace work. I preached in ancient Rome for a while, then got martyred, Had a minor debacle with resurrection, and well.. Had a religion based on my life. But now, mostly, I just work for Fiona.” Jesus answered awkwardly.

Fillipé looked fascinated. “Sounds veeeeery interesting! Well, sounds like you’re very important. Why are you going on coffee runs for someone like Fiona when you could be parading around, being waited on by people who’d gladly do so for nothing in return?”
Jesus looked thoughtful for a bit, as though he’d never considered the idea.

“ I mean, you’ve done plenty, even got martyred, and Fiona’s got you running errands like a little intern. You’ve moved entire nations with your work, you should be proud of your accomplishments.” Fillipé continued. “And to think that you’re working for Fiona, who’s so into her whole ‘God’ thing that she doesn’t appreciate the work done by anyone else, honestly, sweetie, you’re just too good for this sort of thing.”

Jesus nodded vaguely. “You know, “ he said. “You’re right. Fiona doesn’t appreciate anything I do. I mean, she talks more to Gabrielle than she does to me, and I’ve done sooo much more! I’m the one with my own religious following, not Gabrielle! I’m the one who died on a cross. I’m the better messenger!”

Jesus was beginning to sound very pompous.
“I shouldn’t be doing this sort of thing. I should be getting waited on like this.” He continued, embarking on the ego trip of the century. “ I’m way too talented and way too famous for these divine missions. I should just walk back down and tell Fiona to go find herself a new messenger, because I deserve better!” He said.

“Wait!!” I piped up. “Fiona knew this was a really important mission, that’s why she sent us!” Suddenly I realized that Jesus might desert me because of his own sick pride. “And Gabrielle’s not that cool.” I added for good measure.

Jesus rolled his eyes. “Uh huh, and that’s why Gabrielle is probably sitting on Fiona’s lap right now, relaxing and talking about relevant things, and I’m stuck in Hell.”

“No, Fiona knew Gabrielle wouldn’t be able to handle something like this, that’s why she chose you to accompany me! You’re the one she trusts, Jesus.” I retorted, trying to make some sort of breakthrough. “We have to finish this. Maybe if we finish this, Fiona will realize more about you, but she won’t get the chance if you… If you betray her.” I finished with a slightly frightened tone to my words.

Jesus sat up and looked at me. “You know, “ he said to Fillipé. “Felix is right. We’ve got to get going. I don’t have time for a haircut right now.”

“But I was just getting started!” Fillipé exclaimed. “If you look gorgeous, Fiona will be sure to appreciate you more!” Fillipé tried to convince Jesus to stay, but it was too late, Jesus was already standing up and trying to get back over to where I was standing.

Fillipé grabbed at him. “No! Stay! Be pretty with me!” He snarled. Jesus ignored him and walked to me. He was about to say something when a nail file whizzed past his ear. We both turned and saw Fillipé standing by a manicure table, ready to fling a bottle of purple lacquer. “Stay, damn it!” He screamed and threw the bottle.

Jesus and I shared a momentary glance, then ran for the door, avoiding the hail of flying manicure tools that was being sprayed by Fillipé. We rammed the door open and made it out of the salon just before a bottle of yellow lacquer smashed above our heads, golden contents dribbling down the door and onto the push bar. We hastily stepped out and the door swung shut behind us. We looked at each other, then booked it up the stairs and away from the angry queen.

We slowed to a stroll as we came upon the fifth door. I realized that now we were over half way up the building. The end was actually plausible, though not in sight yet, and Jesus and I might actually survive this. Suddenly, an odd thought struck me:

“Jesus, are we getting paid? Like, well... maybe not paid, but do we get anything out of this? Is Fiona going to reciprocate us for any of this in the least?”
He stopped and his brow furrowed. He thought about my questions for a second, then turn to me and looked earnestly into to my eyes.

“Yes and no. Fiona isn’t going to shell out megabucks, and she isn’t going to rewrite your destiny. But she’ll do you favors when you least expect it, and when you really need it. Technically, she doesn’t have to do anything or give anything to us. She’s God. But, most likely, someday, we’ll get something in return, even if we don’t realize it.” He shrugged.

I shook the nasty thoughts out of my head and turned to Jesus.
“Shall we?” I gestured grandly towards the door.
“We shall!” He laughed as he pushed it open, and I followed him inside.

What lay before us looked very plush and professional. It appeared to be a bank, or at least, part of one. Everything was deep red and deep green and mahogany. There were several nooks with tiny, fancy tables in them, and the nooks could be curtained off for privacy. I turned slightly and noticed the rows and rows of secure metal boxes on the wall. It appeared that we were in the same room as every safety deposit box on Earth.

A clean-cut man with shiny black hair in a business suit stepped out from inside one of the curtained nooks. He began to stroll towards us, his icy blue glare affixed to my eyes.

“Hello there, welcome, my name is Tusk and I’m in charge of your life’s savings, finances, and most prized possessions. Mr. Christ, we’ve already been through this process, so I’d appreciate if you’d just wait over there,” the man motioned to a dark green leather chair in the corner. “And if you’d stay silent.” Tusk’s voice sharpened at the word ‘silent’ and the icy glare left my face and stuck on Jesus’s for a few seconds.

Jesus looked apologetically at me, and slunk over to the leather armchair. Tusk motioned briskly to a curtained nook, and I followed him in and sat down at the table. He turned on his heel and swiftly marched across the room to the wall of safety deposit boxes. After a few moments, he returned, carrying a stark, grey, metal box, which he gently set on the table before me.

I was very confused. At our bank, I didn’t have my own safety deposit box, it was registered to my parents. And to make matters weirder, I’d seen the family deposit box, and it was army green, not grey. I looked up at Tusk in confusion.

“Mr. Donovan… Felix right? May I call you Felix?“ He didn’t wait for me to reply, but continued. “Felix, every single, scrawny, disgusting human on Earth accumulates possessions, even starving children in third-world countries, and I catalogue and collect these possessions after they die. Now, I usually keep these items, but since you’re on your way up to see my father, you get a chance to reclaim one of them.” He grinned, baring his white, razor-like teeth at me in a sign of intimidation, not encouragement, like his words suggested.

“I have condensed every single one of your most significant possessions into liquid form. The way this works is that you drink the one possession you simply can’t bare to part with, and I get to keep the rest, pets included. Take all the time you need, and drink only one thing. I’ll be just outside.” He stepped back, and stood patiently outside the curtain.

I looked at the box, and noticed a simple latch on the end. When I opened the lid, a plethora of tiny bottles in neat rows stood inside. I picked one up and held it up to the light. There was a small label with tight black lettering on the side. I squinted and read: Letterman’s Jacket, Dowry High School, Varsity Track and Field, 2008. My favorite jacket, the jacket I wore every day of freshman and sophomore years because I had been one of three freshman track runners to letter, was inside this tiny bottle. I set the bottle down out side of the box and reached in for another.

Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album, on vinyl. The record that I lost my virginity to, and had later had sex to both sides of, was in this bottle. God, I loved that record. I set the bottle next to the one with my letter jacket inside.

After a few more bottles (Cat: Kashmir, Author-signed Copy of ‘Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows’, Childhood Blanket, iPod Touch, First Pair of Doc Martens Combat Boots, and Original Bootleg Recording of Janis Joplin’s ‘Summertime’) I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to choose. I closed my eyes, and reached for a bottle.

It was Harry Potter. I uncorked the tiny stopper and brought the miniscule vessel to my lips, and was just about to throw it back like a shot of tequila when Tusk stepped back into the nook. I stopped and looked at him, his grinning face overcome with glee. His gaze urged me on, and that’s when I realized something and set the bottle down.

“You know, I don’t need any of this stuff. I really don’t, in fact, just take them.” I shoved the box of bottles across the table. “I’m not taking anything.”

His grin evaporated. I stood up and calmly walked out of the nook. Jesus was snoozing in the armchair. I said “Hey! Let’s go.” And he jerked awake, and drearily sidled up beside me. We both turned and headed for the exit when Tusk piped up.

“You sure? You’re making a huge mistake you know! At least this way you won’t have to leave here empty handed!!” He began to cackle as we reached the door. I turned and looked over my shoulder as I walked out.

“I’d rather be empty handed than dead.” In all honesty, it wasn’t the wittiest, most scathing remark, but the door slammed behind me, so it would have to do.