ADRIAN'S STORY

"I graduated high school in 2001, from this small town school near New York City, and after September 11th, joined the army. Just wanted to defend my country, you know? 3rd Infantry
Division."

"Training was hard, and it was probably more harder to desensitize me. We knew a war was coming, and we were prepared for it. My unit was moved to Saudi Arabia, and then Kuwait, and then along the border of Iraq. The 48-hour limit was given."

"And of course, there was no backing down. We fought our way through Iraq, past Nasiriya and Najaf. At Karbala we were nervous, because that was where Sadaam was supposed to be going to use his weapons of mass destruction on us, but that never happened. We penetrated Baghdad, and my company defended a cloverleaf highway in the south of the city for a long time against the last remnants of the Republican Guard."

"Then a worse enemy arose, the insurgents. Every day all summer you'd here of a guy from 2nd Battalion blown up by an IED, or 1st Platoon was ambushed today and took three casualties. My platoon got a new record—ambushed just fifty yards from the Green Zone. We were pinned down by Iraqi fighters after a car bomb tore up half the street. I'll never forget the sight, it was like a human slaughterhouse. Bodies, and parts of bodies, lay everywhere. We were under attack, but we called in another platoon and Black Hawks, and they destroyed the insurgents."

"I killed someone there for the first time. Passing an alley I saw two insurgents. I shot the first one, and then my whole squad turned around at the sound and got the second. That was the essence of my existence. A bigger battle happened in April of 2004, when I seem to have killed al-Zahari when his army tried to take the municipal building of al-Sadr."

"In late 2004 I was ambushed and hit with small arms fire and indirect grenade fire. I took shrapnel in the face and a bullet in the ankle. Not that bad of a wound, but I was sent home for it."

"I never really was connected to people, especially not what was left of my family, so I moved into the city and joined the Mano Negro. Not on purpose, but I just met some people involved, I just got hooked into it. Miguel lived on my block."

"I started out as a low-level guy, but Miguel saw that my military training could be of some use. I was involved in much bigger operations, and much more mortal. I killed a NYPD cop. I stole and robbed and pillaged the people of Harlem and Hell's Kitchen for all they were worth. I was...bad, maybe even evil."

"I was part of the Mano Negro for a long time. In the fall of 2005 I shot and killed both Curtis and Lashawn Jones as part of the gang's codes of secrecy. I rose in the ranks of the gang, and was an assistant to Miguel. Miguel trusted me, and trusted me to kill whoever necessary to complete goals. About eleven months later, I was robbing a man's house, Englewood, New Jersey. The man caught us in the act and I knocked him unconscious."

"He was bleeding heavily, but was alive. He was just a poor guy coming down because he thought his son was home...Miguel wanted to kill him, but I said no. I said something stupid, like something about calling the cops, but I wasn't thinking correct. A few seconds later, I wasn't thinking at all. Miguel killed me."

"And I was sent here." Adrian stated simply. "That man, the devil or whatever he is, he locked me in here."

"As well as the rest of us," Callister added.

"I've killed a lot," Adrian said. "A lot of people. Not just in Iraq, but in America, in the slums. I've..."

Adrian choked, stopping his stream of words mid-sentence. A wave of burning guilt overwhelmed him, and he rent his shirt in anguish. All his crimes and sins were retread in his mind, repeated ad infinitum in his cursed memory.

"What have I done?" Adrian moaned. "I'm sorry for everything! I'm sorry to everyone! To Lashawn, Curtis, al-Zahari, Miguel, all those I killed! I'm sorry!"

The five others looked shocked.

"You are...sorry...?" al-Zahiri inquired.

"God forgive me!" Adrian cried. "I am sorry!"

The door's bolt slid open with an ominous and well-oiled bang. Everyone turned to look at the door, which was now opening slowly and allowing a male figure into the chamber.

It was the same man who had led Adrian, and everyone else, into the White Room and locked them inside for eternity.

"Adrian?" the man asked. "Come with me."

Feeling dazed, Adrian stood up, his legs suddenly tense and stiff.

"What? Pain?" Adrian exclaimed, surprised at these earthly feelings. "Is anyone else—"

Adrian gasped as he looked around. All the others, Alice, John, Abu, Lashawn and Patrick, were dead and mangled. Their bodies were still moving and staring, but their wounds showed.

Lashawn's body was bullet-riddled and his face was slightly green. The top of al-Zahiri's head was shot away by a high-velocity bullet, laying bare what was left of his brain. Alice was the worst; the left side of her body was blown apart. Father Patrick was waxy and sickly pale, and John Callister's mouth was dripping blood, as was the exit wound at the side of his head. Adrian felt sick, he stumbled and raised his hands in overwhelming confusion.

"What's wrong, Adrian?" Lashawn asked through a shattered jaw. "I think they're freeing you."

"You're all..." Adrian began.

But they couldn't see each other clearly. Adrian saw all their sins and deaths flashed before his eyes, overpowering him with reality. His lungs took a deep breath of air and his heart sputtered and jerked into a new rhythm.

"Adrian?" the man asked. Adrian stepped forward out of the dismal room, and out into the white hallway, his mind dizzy.

"Yo Adrian!" came an all-too familiar voice. Adrian saw Miguel standing just behind the devilish man who ran Hell.

"Yo, what's going on, man? What are we doing here? I got the chair, damn! I got the chair up in Sing Sing."

"You..." Adrian started. But he could not describe hell. The endless hours and days spent in the small cell were washing from his mind as though water was pouring through his brain.

"Please enter, Miguel," the man ordered. Miguel bemusedly entered the room, and took his seat, the same chair Adrian had just vacated.

"What are we doing here, Adrian? What happens to us?" Miguel asked.

Adrian paused at the threshold of the doorway, and turned to the man who controlled the door to the White Room.

"What happens now?" Adrian asked.

"You leave my domain, and head to somewhere else." the man replied. "Somewhere better. Leave. Down the hall, door number 77777. It's to my left, about fifty feet down."

Adrian stood for another few seconds looking at the six damned inhabitants of the cell. The six looked out at him, jaws dropped, outraged and surprised that Adrian had actually left the all-encompassing dreamland of hell.

"I'll see you, then," Adrian said, waving goodbye. The man closed the door and slammed a large deadbolt to lock it.

"Go," the devil said simply.

Adrian walked down the corridor, passing innumerable other doors. Out of the billions and billions of humans who had gone here after leading unjust lives, they were all here, all but the select few who had been released. Attila the Hun, Adolf Hitler...somewhere in the bowels of this asylum of evil they all dwelled, spending centuries in miserable lassitude and depression.

Door 77777. Seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven. Adrian looked around down both sides of the interminable hall. The devil was nowhere to be seen.

With a daring lunge, Adrian gripped the door handle and swung it wide. Stepping into the light, Adrian smiled. Friends, family, laughter...Adrian felt the last traces of consciousness escape him in a bubble of swirling bliss.

And Adrian was gone.

THE END