Gallery of Souls
A young man jumped off the 10th story of the hotel he’d been staying at, flattening against the concrete like a fleshy pancake, there wasn’t much blood, not yet, no more than a can of paint splashed against the ground. His bones had cracked in the most jagged ways, protruding up through the torn skin and out of the indescribable mush that was his newfound corpse. His name, Bryan Smith, was a fitting one for a man whose life knew no excitement and only the mundane. There wasn’t much to say about the young man, his facial features indistinct, not handsome, nor was he ugly, Bryan just was. His only friend was no longer a part of his life, and everyone else had dissipated with the years, opting not to converse with such a drab individual. None of that mattered to him now, he was on his way to hell, or heaven, his soul had not yet decided when Bryan appeared in a corridor, the walls were damp, and cold to the touch as he felt them. But looking up, there was no ceiling, only a vast emptiness above him, void of light and darker than space.
He’d walked and walked, but similar to a maze, he couldn’t find the end, only wrong turns that led to nowhere. Bryan tried to backtrack, but the pathways he took had shifted, and the place seemed to have no discernible destination. Upon taking another hopeless turn, he’d seen a door leading into what he assumed was another dead end. Stepping in, the sound of his shoes against the stone floors, echoed off into the nothingness as he found himself in the middle of a chamber. A man in a white dress shirt, strapped with suspenders, stood there staring at Bryan with a longing grin.
“Who, who are you?”
“Why I’m the middleman, unofficially of course.”
“This, this is hell?”
“Not quite, I caught you before you made it there.”
“Caught me?”
“Well, in layman’s terms, I saw you floating there, so I snatched you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Anywho, I’m building an army, one that God will have no choice but to recognize, come.”
The frigid, damp room had morphed, flipping its walls around to reveal wood paneling, and portraits of men, women, and children lining it. They were bleak, sad portraits, capturing eternal frowns and unlucky dispositions. As Bryan steered his gaze upwards, the walls began to expand with it. It must’ve been the height of a skyscraper, he thought to himself as he stood there, marveling at the thousands of paintings that harbored the souls within their frames. He’d noticed a handful that stood out, a renaissance era woman, her ruff wrapped around her neck like a dog cone, her face oddly oval, and eerily realistic. Among the others, he’d noticed a young boy with a backward baseball cap, and his wide eyes were still red with tears.
“Wh– who are these people?”
“My trophies, those who refused to aid me, a choice you too will make.”
“Why me?”
“Your soul put up no fight, I just snatched you right up.”
“See that one, way up there.” The man said, pointing at one portrait among the thousands. It was hard for Bryan to discern which one he was looking at, but then he saw it. A grizzled man, with the eyes of someone who had seen everything life had to offer, he did not hold a grimace or a frown, his visage was stern, as if waiting for his moment to break free.
“See it?”
“Yeah, I see it, I think.”
“Now that man put up a fight, he was a true warrior, what are you, Bryan? See, that man could have joined me, but instead, he decided to waste his skills of bloodletting, sitting in that watercolor I brushed up just for him.”
“I have no skills, nothing.”
“That is a slight inconvenience, but fear not, I could always teach you a few things. That is, if you accept?”
“If I say no?”
“Well, then I frame you up nicely, you would make a good ornament after all.” He said as he pointed his finger up to the one empty space on the wall he’d saved just for Bryan.
“Decide quickly, boy. Before I change my mind.” His attitude was suddenly temperamental, and the tower of a room they stood in grew precarious as if it was about to crumble had Bryan waited a second longer. His breath was bated, and the eyes of every portrait began to secrete a thick, congealing red as they watched him.
“Decide! Deicide or my hell!”
“Who are you!? Tell me!”
“I’m God’s mistake,” when the man spoke of crimes against the heavens, the souls in each painting began to moan and cry out to them as if the incoming calamity had caused torment within the borders of their frames. Bryan knew that whatever was going to happen, it couldn’t be worse than the perpetuity of the Godless man’s art. If he’d accepted, the nobody he was would finally have a purpose in life, no matter how sick.
“Take me.”
“We’re not going anywhere, not yet," the structure they stood in had ceased its rupture, and the cracks that lined their surroundings had been sealed, all in the very moment Bryan said the words. The portraits that gushed their harsh colors, sucked the paint back into their cells, and the boy with the baseball caps scowl had returned to a resting frown of equally bleak proportions. Bryan knew he was no more than a glorified prisoner now, it didn’t matter, the confines of morality would burst, and that was enough for him. As the place had returned to form, he wondered what would be next for him, and his uncertainty was the only excitement he’d felt in a long time. The archangel flicked his fingers, manifesting a door in front of them. “Follow me, son,” he said, reaching out his hand.
