Reckoning

“I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.”-Banksy

            I woke up on a cold, marble tiled floor. The air around me is quite frigid, and yet no breath can be seen hovering around my mouth. Slowly, I stand up and check my surroundings. I seem to be in a museum of some sort, Or what once was a museum. It's slightly dilapidated now, but I feel as if this place was once of some importance. It feels more like a mausoleum now. There is a light peering from a door down the vacant corridor. I pass pillars covered in white sheets of cobwebs as I move along the vestibule, arrive at the door, and walk through.

            The scene on the other side is much more lively than the land of the dead I just left. People are hustling and bustling about, not paying any real attention to anything around them. I was right in thinking this place was a museum. I should know; I've spent the majority of the past few years wandering around them. The arts have always been my passion in life, but the same can't be said for architecture, so nearly every museum feels the same to me. But this particular museum I know rather well. Whitechapel Gallery. I've spent countless hours in this place. Sure,  the National and Victoria and Albert are great, but Whitechapel holds a special place in my heart.

            A lady slightly younger than me, perhaps in her twenties or young thirties, is standing in front of a painting that I have spent hours admiring. I have been painting ever since I could grasp a brush and it has become my life's passion. Nothing comes before my art. The occasional odd job finds me here and there, but I have never committed to a full time job, investing every cent into my work. A few weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to finally get my first break and had a painting of mine put on display here. And this young girl is admiring it.

            Walking up behind her, I stand silent, pretending to be in awe of the work myself, trying all the while to catch her eye. The gal didn't realize that I was situated behind her, and after a minute or so, I begin to slightly cough. No response. I up the volume in hopes that she may turn around and meet the artist himself. No response. Baffled, I clear my throat one last time and softly say, "It's quite the piece, isn't it?" Once again, I elicit no reply from her. Perhaps she didn't hear me. "That's really something, don't you think?" Nothing. I don't know if she's deaf or just plain rude, so I step in front of her and confront her face to face. "Do you like the painting?" She sighs and begins to walk away. "Hey lady! Where ya goin'?"

            "In case you haven't figured it out by now, she can't hear you, Quinn," says a voice coming from behind me. I turn around and inspect the man who spoke. He's a well trimmed man, wearing an all tweed suit with a fob to boot. His brown hair is slicked over and he is sucking on a churchwarden pipe, allowing the sweet scent of cherry tobacco smoke to escape through his nostrils . His sharp, green eyes peer at me with an understanding I have never seen before.

            "Do you know what's going on here?" I inquire of the stranger.

            He slowly rises from the bench from where he was perched and walks past me and begins to inspect my work. "For what it's worth, I think your work is very well done. I've never been too interested in art, but I can tell the chaff from the wheat."

            "You're familiar with my work?" How else would he know my name?

            "With this one piece, yes, I am very well acquainted. I have seen some of your other work, although I would have sifted it."

            I don't take too kindly to this slap at first, but I shake it off. "Your accent sounds a little different. You Welsh?"

            "Perhaps. I'm not entirely sure. I seem to sound different to everyone I come into contact with. If you hear me as a Welshman, then to you, my good sir, that is what I am." This stranger is starting to irk me a bit in the way he is not giving me any straightforward answers.

            "So what exactly is going on here?" I ask once more, this time with a bit more authority in my voice as to demand a reply this time around. "Why couldn't that woman hear me?"

            He averts his gaze from the painting for a brief second and looks at me. "Simple. It's because she's still living." With that, he turns his attention right back to the painting.

            "What exactly do you mean by that?" I answer, my voice trembling.

            He continues to stare straight forward, begins moving his lips slightly, and then starts laughing to himself. "You'll have to excuse me, Quinn. I often assume you people already know, but more often than not, I am the bearer of bad news. None of these people around you," he says as he gestures to the audience in the gallery, "can see or hear you because you are dead. Freshly dead by the look of it. Your features have grown a bit more solid than someone who's body is recently cold on the coroner's table, but you're still quite dim." At this comment I look at my hand and see he is right. Instead of solid flesh, my hand is somewhat transparent, mainly a floating wisp as it is. "Doesn't matter much, anyhow. Even if your features were completely solid, they still wouldn't be able to register your existence. Can't go back once you're gone. Rule number one."

            I stand there, baffled at the revelation. "So I can assume that you are the Angel of Death, yeah?"

            "Not entirely. An associate of sorts," my companion replies with a slight chuckle.

            "If I'm not allowed to go back, then what I am doing here right now?"

            "The dead are allowed one last go 'round, a farewell tour if you will. You can think of me as your guide."

            "No offense, but I don't really have a lot of places to go to. I never got around much." It's somewhat strange to refer to myself in the past tense in this context, but I'm sure I'll get used to it.

            "Fair enough. There is one place I am required to take you to, however." At this, my partner grabs my wrist. As he does so, something like an allergic reaction begins to sweep through my sinuses and I begin sneezing. The fits leave as quickly as they came and when I open my eyes, we are no longer standing in Whitechapel. Instead, we are now outdoors, the sun shining through my translucent body and I begin to take in my surroundings. We are in a graveyard. I know this place. My parents are buried here. I haven't been back since the day of the funeral. My work always prevented me from returning.

            "Sorry about your sneezing, there. First time travelling like that can have numerous effects on a soul."

            "What are we doing here?" I plead.

            "Necessary stop. It's part of my duty to take you to your burial site."

            "This isn't going to be like Scrooge is it? Am I supposed to learn the value of Christmas from all of this?" I facetiously ask.

            "Only if you want it to be. I can't force any lesson upon you." We maneuver across the lot, my feet taking steps but making no real contact with the ground, and arrive at a collection of tombstones. The two on the left bear the names of my parents, Donald and Mary Adamson. Beside them is, upon further inspection, my own tombstone. Quinn Arthur Adamson. Born 18 August1909. Died 6 January 1941. The grave marker is worn and covered in moss.

            As I stare upon my crypt, I cannot seem to remember how exactly my demise was brought about. "How did I die?" I inquire, never averting my gaze from my final resting place. It's an eerie thing to look upon your own tomb, something I would not recommend. A silly recommendation, but sincere.

            "London Blitz. You were returning from the art gallery, visiting your work when the Luftwaffe dropped a shell not ten meters from you. It was quick. You briefly felt the heat from the explosion, but nothing more." I try to imagine any of this happening but to no avail. I'm just going to have to take his word on it.

            "How long ago was it?"

            "Somewhat recently. Time is a bit of a confusing concept for me to grasp. It doesn't exist for me the way it does to you, formerly for that matter. In Earth years, the Blitz happened seven years ago. The war ended two years ago. You and I met already three years ago Earth time." My head is spinning. The concept of time not really existing in the realm of the deceased is something I don't think I am going to get used to very easily.

            The scene is starting to weigh down on me. I want to leave. "Do you mind if we go back to the gallery? I wish to admire my work once more."

            "If that's what you want." Blink of an eye and we're back in Whitechapel. I meander over to a bench and feign sitting down. The people visiting the museum walk aimlessly about, none of whom are even paying any attention to the masterpiece right in front of their very eyes. As my friend and I linger, a woman I know or once used to know comes strolling our way.

            "Ho! It's my sister!" I shout in pleasure to my companion. "But who's that little fellow with her?" Clutching my sister's leg is a boy no older than four wearing a navy pea coat, blonde hair tousled upon his round head.

            "Molly Cooper, formerly Molly Adamson, and her son, Benjamin."

            "Where's the father?"

            "Michael Cooper was killed in France during the war."

            I am trying to remember any Michael Cooper that my sister may have ever mentioned. As far as I knew, Molly was never married, so I must have never met the man. "She married after I died."

            My friend looks me straight on. "Molly Cooper, married sixth of June, nineteen-thirty-seven."

            I am stunned. Of course, I hadn't seen Molly since our parent's funeral. Her marriage occurred seven years before I died. My sister. A married woman all the while I was walking the earth. If I had the capability to cry right now, I probably would be shedding a tear.

            She picks up the child and she leads them up to my painting. "See that, Benny? That painting right there? Your uncle made that. He made that all by himself. You would've liked your uncle, Benny. He was creative, just like you. Oh, the drawings he used to do when we were children." Molly begins to cry. "You would have loved him, Benny. And he would have taught you everything he knows." She's lying to herself. It's evident on her face. She's lying more to herself than she is to the toddler.

            "What was his name, Mummy?" the tyke asks.

            The mother looks as if she is on the verge of breaking down, but straightens up and puts on her best smile for her son. "Quinn, Benny. His name was Quinn. My mummy named him that. Come on, now, darling. Let's not linger. Other people are wanting to see the lovely picture."

            I want to scream out to Molly that I'm right here, right next to her, but I know that it would be futile. "That was really something," my friend says.

            "How do you mean?"

            "That was the first time she has been able to say your name since your funeral. She loved you, Quinn. Still does. Hurts her so, but she still loves you." This weighs heavily on me. I loved Molly too, all my heart. But it had been so long since we had spoken that I chose to sever the communication altogether so I could focus on my art. Couldn't have anyone interfering, even my own flesh and blood.

            I turn away from my companion and Molly is there again, but she is older. Not much older, but time is whizzing by and she is aging right before my eyes. The painting on the wall is also starting to look faded, affected by this time warp. "What's happening?"

            "Time is happening, Quinn. Every year, on the anniversary of your passing, Molly comes to this gallery to remember you. She feels as if it's the most contact she's had with you in a very long while, possibly the most she's ever had." As he is speaking, time is slowing down and Molly sits before us now a very old woman. With tired eyes she gazes upon the painting with such a pity and sorrow the likes this soul has never seen.

            A middle-aged man with thinning, blonde hair comes rushing around the corner. He spots Molly on the bench and rushes up to her. "There you are, Mother. Had us all worried sick, you did. Over here, nurse."

            A young woman in a white uniform walks around the corner."There, there, Mrs. Cooper. Gave us quite a scare. That's it. Nice and easy. Let's get you back to the home now. It's nearly time for your medication. Wouldn't want to have missed that, would we?" She starts leading my sister away. The frail old woman struggles a bit but is no match for the nurse's youth and reluctantly goes along.

            "It's nineteen-eighty-seven.," my friend begins. "Molly is eighty-one years old and has been suffering from dementia. Her son placed her in a nursing home a few months ago. She will be joining our realm in a short matter of time, now."

            Benjamin remains standing in our presence and a very official looking gentleman walks up to him. "She all right?" the man politely asks.

            "Yeah, she'll be fine," Benjamin replies. He turns and looks upon my painting and a scowl falls upon his face. "Ugh, I don't know what she sees in this painting. It's her favorite one, though. Comes here about once a year to look at it. I think she once knew the man that painted it. Maybe it was her brother? Come to think of it, I'm not sure she had a brother. If she did, she never mentioned him much. I don't even think she can remember why she comes here to look at this piece of junk, but she does it all the same."

            "Yes, not much is known about this painting. We believe it is the artist's only piece. It's been here since the nineteen thirties and is finally coming down this week to make room for a new exhibit coming in. It isn't worth very much. Would you like to talk to my superiors and see if perhaps we can donate it to your mother's nursing home?"

            Benjamin looks with contempt upon the piece. "Come to think of it, I think she did have a brother. Kyle? Quail? I'm not sure. She can't even remember my name, much less his. No, dispose of it like you would any other painting. It will be better for her." With this, Benjamin begins to walk away.

            I am running, gliding, screaming at my nephew. "Give it to her! She needs it! Your mother needs this! My sister needs this!" My words fall on deaf ears. "My name is Quinn! It's Quinn! Listen, damn it, my name is Quinn!" Benjamin hesitates for a moment. Is it possible that he can hear me? He looks about suspiciously, shakes off the notion,  and proceeds out of the building.

            "You know, Quinn, they say a man dies twice. There's the actual day of his passing and then the last time his name is mentioned. It appears your second death has come."

            I throw myself at my visitor, arms flailing but they pass right through him. I stop my thrashing and fall at his feet. "Is there anything I can do? I can't let it end like this. I need to help my sister. I need to let her know that she is not forgotten though I may be."

            My friend bends down to my level, looks me in the eye, and slaps me firmly on the cheek. "Get up," he commands. I rub the place on my face my friend made contact with, trying to sooth the stinging. I do as he says. "Quinn, life is much more than art, much more than any other hobby or interest that one might have. Life's about the relationships you make. Your art is here one day and gone the next. You're witness to that. Relationships last eternity. They come into this realm with you very much real and alive."

            I am now coming to the realization that my friend slapped my cheek. His hand did not pass through. I look at my own hands and they are growing ever more solid until they are once again flesh. "You're getting a chance here, Quinn. Don't mess this up. Make the most of what you have."

            The gallery is growing brighter by the second. A loud ringing is filling the halls and I cover my ears. "Who are you?" I shout over the deafening noise.

            "I don't have a name that would be understood by you humans. Call me The Reckoning. Make the most of what you have, Quinn."

            My eyes pop open to the all too familiar sight of my flat, dirty and covered in art supplies. The alarm on the clock next to my bed is ringing, a quarter past nine. I slam my hand over the anvil, put on a fresh shirt and trousers, and run out into the street. I scamper clear across the heart of London to a little house on Baker Street. Frantically, I ring the bell until a woman comes and answers the door. "Quinn? What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the gallery?"

            "The gallery can wait, Molly. I just wanted to spend the time with you today, catch up, ya know? I want to teach Benjamin some of the tricks to my trade, too, if that's all right."

            "Who's Benjamin?" she implores with a joyous, curious twinkling in her eye.

            I laugh to myself and reply, "This may be a strange question, but what year is it?"
            "It's 1936, Quinn. What's gotten into you?"

            "Who is it, darling?" A brusque man walks around the corner and into the doorway. His firm yet caring hands tak hold of Molly by the shoulders.

            "Oh, Michael, you startled me." Molly averts her gaze from the man and looks at me. "Michael's my fiancé." Her adoring eyes fall once again upon the man. For whom the adoration is for, I cannot entirely say, but the love I feel right now is greater than that which I have felt in years, perhaps my life. "Michael, this is my brother, Quinn."