Chapter 16 #2
Where do I even start? There's so much I want to know, so many questions that have been multiplying since I discovered what he is. The first thick raindrops tap against the tin roof.
“Were you born like this?” I ask. “Or is it some vampire type of thing where you were made immortal?”
His movements slow as he organizes tools in a drawer.
“The vampire thing isn’t too far off, I suppose. I was dying,” he states. “I don't remember all the details—though I'm sure that's by design—but I was given a choice to pass on or stay alive in this form. I chose this.”
“What do you mean you got a choice? How did that work?”
“I had a heart condition that I didn’t know about, and one day, it just gave out.
I was only thirty eight when it happened.
Everything went dark, but then I was in a sort of dream—only I knew it wasn’t a dream.
There was a powerful presence there, and I know I spoke to It, but the conversation is hazy now as it was when I awoke.
All I know is that It had given me the choice to return to this life, living it out for as long as I chose.
But in order to continue living, I had to…
” He pauses. “Well, you know that part.”
“So what, you spoke to God?” The shock in my tone is evident. This is even more unbelievable than I imagined it would be.
He shrugs. “I’m not really sure. Like I said, it's hazy, and a lot of the details are missing.
Maybe God, maybe the Devil, maybe something in between.
It's impossible to know.” He says it like he's talking about a conversation with a local farmer and not some omnipotent supernatural being that can bring people back to life.
“Why would you choose to stay alive?” The question slips past my lips before I realize it was meant to stay inside my head.
Ambrose’s dark eyes pierce me as he lowers himself into a chair about ten feet away. “Why not?”
“It’s one thing to not want to die because you’re worried there’s nothing after this.
” Admittedly, that had been one of my biggest wonders when I thought about killing myself.
Does anything come next, or am I just gone forever?
I’ve never really believed in God, but apparently my lack of faith was misplaced according to what Ambrose is telling me.
“But if you were given the choice between staying here and going to an afterlife, I just don’t understand why you’d choose to stay. ”
“Call it curiosity,” he says, running his fingers along the armrest of the chair he’s in, seeming to examine the wood grain.
“I wanted to experience life to the fullest before I gave up. There are so many simple pleasures in this life, and each day brings a new one.” He looks directly at me, and I avert my gaze.
This is all too intense, and the way he examines at me makes it feel like he’s looking into my very soul.
“Plus, I'm not sure there is an afterlife,” he adds.
“Just because there's some powerful being in the space between life and death doesn't necessarily mean there's a Heaven or Hell, or whatever else one might believe in.
There are infinite possibilities, and that's just as scary as the idea that there's nothing at all.”
The storm accelerates, rain drumming against the roof and echoing through the room.
With the car port open, the sudden rush of cool air blows through the garage carrying the earthy scent of petrichor.
When the wind whips faster, raindrops dart into the garage, and Ambrose is forced to close the car port door to keep the wood pieces from getting wet.
The space suddenly feels more intimate as we’re shut in against the storm raging outside.
“I’m not sure how long this storm is supposed to last,” Ambrose says. “We either run inside now or chance getting stuck out here once the lightning starts.”
“Let’s go inside,” I suggest. Already, the air in the garage feels heavier without the cool breeze floating through it, and I’d rather be in the house if the storm is going to pick up.
Ambrose puts away the last of his tools, and we both stand at the door to the garage preparing to make the run to the back door of the house.
“Ready?” he asks, grinning.
“Ready.”
We sprint across the slick grass, cool rain pelting our skin and seeping into our clothes. Thunder rolls through the hills, closer now, and we stumble through the back door, breathless and smiling.
The air conditioning on my damp skin raises goosebumps across my arms.
“Would you like to join me in the living room?” Ambrose asks.
I nod and follow him down the hallway, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around my shoulders before sitting.
“What other questions do you have?”
I think for a moment. “Have you done any jobs in your life besides selling your furniture and wood stuff?”
“I have. Believe it or not, I initially went to college and double majored in English Literature and Philosophy. I was a teacher at a small college for a handful of years, I worked as a ghostwriter for many well-known authors, I did physical labor in some places.”
Well, that explains the books. And the mind games. And the muscles.
“How long have you been alive?”
He hesitates before answering, “I was born in the 1880s.”
My eyes widen. Holy shit. Almost one hundred and fifty years. It takes me a moment to regain my composure to ask my next question.
“So, if you’re technically immortal, do you ever get sick? What happens if someone tries to hurt you?”
“I don’t get sick,” he answers, “and I’m not sure what the limitations are for physical injuries, though I’d prefer not to find out.
My artifact—the necklace—serves as a protective item, but I have never been seriously hurt enough to know if it would protect me from something like, say, a gunshot.
Cuts and such heal exceedingly quickly, though. ”
Thunder booms outside, rattling the windows, and I glance out the large picture window just in time to see lightning crack against the purple-gray thunderclouds, illuminating the landscape for a fraction of a second with its jagged white light.
Raindrops hurl against the windows, and I simply stare at the awe-inspiring sight of the heavy storm surging over the land. There’s nothing more captivating and formidable than a late summer thunderstorm in the south.
“Do you have any other questions?” Ambrose asks.
“I don’t think so.” I do, but they’ve all managed to leave my thoughts. I’ll be stuck here with him for many more days, though, so I’m sure I’ll have more time to pester him with my curiosity.
“Well, in that case, I’m going to start making dinner. I hope our conversation was enlightening.” He flashes a sardonic smile in my direction, but there’s a sincerity to the smile that he tries to hide.
He wasn’t as insufferable as usual, I think, then immediately correct myself by reasoning that I’m probably suffering from some Stockholm Syndrome bullshit.
As I head up to my bedroom to change into drier clothes, my head spins with newfound information that I have no idea what to do with.
However, it is fascinating to have some sort of confirmation of the fact that a deity exists, even if the idea that God—or something God-adjacent—exists is enough to throw me into an existential crisis.
Just one more thing to come to terms with in the chaos that my life has become.