Dear Diary--A Journal From Purgatory by Patrick Sean Lee (10 best books of all time .txt) 📖

so because I am certain she must know what Teresa did in another lifetime that made her walk through that cursed opening.

Thus, I made my way back toward my starting point in great despair and confusion. I passed the bookstore, and after a short distance retraced my steps and entered for some reason. A dog on its way home will stop and retrace its steps often enough for no apparent reason other than something catching its eye or nose. And so I confess, Diary, at that moment I felt little better than a common cur.

Inside a dozen or more lovers of the written word milled about browsing the titles in the racks, chatting as though there was no sanctity in a house of books. I approached the proprietor and asked him if the woman garbed in the robes of a nun had been in today. He replied that there were no nuns in Purgatory. Only priests—and many of them.

“The popes get to congregate in Hell.”

“Thank you,” I replied, “I know that firsthand. And Bishops. But didn’t you see her a day or two ago sitting over there reading a book the size of the Pentagon?”

“The what?”

“Never mind,” I said. “A very large book is all.”

“I saw no nuns…nor priests for that matter, lately. But if you’re referring to a big book, perhaps it’s The Very Best Recipes For War From Alexander the Great to George W. Bush

. Lots of fabulous stuff in that one.”

“No, I don’t think that would have been it. She mentioned the title, but I’ve forgotten it,” I think is what I replied, Diary.

“There was no nun. Hasn’t been one…”

“Yes, yes, I know. Well, thank you anyway.” I turned to leave, having no desire to read the account of the rape of the Sabine Women or any other “recipe”.

“Wait!” His voice halted all the chatter momentarily. “There is another, although it hasn’t left the shelf in ages. Written by some unknown author from nowhere around these parts. Good, or Glob…something like that. You’re welcome to take a gander. If you like it I’ll let it go for half…no, three-quarters of the cover price.”

I told him he was too kind in offering me such a steal, but that I’d like to see it first. I think I know why he was sent here. He was probably a thief. Definitely not corporate…they’re all in Hell. He removed himself from behind the counter and rushed to the rear of the store, returning in a moment with the book. Yes, its cover looked the same. Maybe inside it lay the clue concerning the children and the way into Teresa’s chamber of horrors. The non-existent nun seemed to have indicated as much when we spoke.

“Sorry. Written by some guy named God,” he said with an out-of-breath huff.

“You’re serious,” I had to respond.

“Yes. Right here,” he said plopping it onto the corner of an un-occupied table and then pointing at the byline. “G-O-D.”

“You don’t know who God is?”

“Just some long-winded writer I guess, judging from the length of this thing.”

Hell is an insane asylum, but Purgatory isn’t far behind, Diary. I asked him how much he wanted for the book that I’d need a truck to lug back to the camp outside the city with. He eyed me, and seeing as I was naked, he frowned.

“Thirty pieces of silver. Not a coin less.”

Curious price.

I don’t know why I wound up here in Purgatory…well, yes I do. That was my choice. I think. Our choice. At any rate, at least I’d heard

of God. Is this place and the people inhabiting it located in another part of the universe? Another universe altogether? Somewhere that God hasn’t visited and screwed up yet? The shop owner knew of popes, but where did they come from in his un-God world?

Who cares? I dickered with him and got the price reduced to fifteen silver pieces.

“Fair enough. Now, put the money on the table and then you can drag this thing out of here and read it until Hell freezes over.”

“I doubt that will happen anytime soon, but as you can see I’ve obviously forgotten my wallet.” I patted my butt cheek and smiled.

“Then you can forget the book and get your naked ass out of my store…whoever you are.”

As I had no Teresa, no little girl, no nun, and no clothes, I decided on another tactic to get my hands on the book.

I left.

I hung around a few doors down the street, noting for the first time that I was the only soul without clothes on. It’s no wonder the people here cast sidelong glances at me whenever they pass by.

I returned to the bookstore some length of time later and glanced in the front window. More customers had gathered. I could hear their chattering even through the glass. Fortune smiled at me. The book lay resting exactly where the owner had placed it hours ago. I opened the door, stuck my head in, and screamed “FIRE!”

Odd though they might be, the citizens here are no different than they were back on planet Earth. Hysteria erupted in the face of one highly-charged word. There was an instant of shock followed by a mass stampede…the owner leading the way. I stepped in, and when the bulk of bodies had passed by, leapt onto the book and followed them out. I gallivanted down the street, surprised that God’s book seemed so light in my hands.

When I’d gotten safely away—now a thief myself who might qualify for entry into the darkened door behind which my Teresa lay—I scanned the title. “The Secret”. At first I turned up my nose. I’d read a book by that title when I was alive and had ten times thirty pieces of silver in my wallet, inside my trouser pocket, stitched onto the pants I always wore in public. That book didn’t impress me, although it was written by an entirely different author.

I went home, sat down after starting a fire, and began to read.

Now, only past the acknowledgments, table of contents, copyright page, and introduction, I weary. It might be that I’m beginning a James Michener version of the Book of Numbers. I don’t know, Diary. I’ll dig in again tomorrow to see.

Goodnight my friend

Ps. Will any who might happen upon you in the future see my words as…wearisome? I hope not.


March 22, The year of Our Lord…who knows?

Dear Diary,

It must be near midnight. I haven’t left our camp, nor have I stood, save to gather more kindling for the fire I really have no need for in Teresa’s absence.

I spent a great deal of time in the Table of Contents, which covers 352 pages.

God certainly is verbose.

The date of publication was strange. It said “Event-post 2”. Not only is God very talkative on paper, he is very, very old if I am to believe what is written. But I mention that only as a curiosity, Diary.

My head is spinning! It would appear this book transcribes the creations and aftermaths of beings in our very own Milky Way Galaxy. God calls it Quadrant 6682...wait a minute, I need to check.

Yes, Quandrant 66,824,546,987,245. By any stretch of the imagination, that’s a very large number of quadrants to keep an eye on. Earth is mentioned. We are, or were when Teresa and I were there, sub-group P in the second to the last 4. I think. Near the middle (and I was lucky to have found the chapter!).

I thumbed through P quickly, trying to find some mention of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, and happened upon a chapter that I found very disconcerting. Basically a recounting of the biblical version of the ten commandments being etched by the fiery finger of God in stone—granite in this volume’s rendition, chiseled by Moses (okay), with sweat pouring from his brow. Rather shocking, this part:

1) I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt not have false gods before me.
2) Remember that I am Woman, and thou shalt…

I stopped right there. Holy smoke, Diary, if that book is the real McCoy, it’s no wonder Hell is so overwhelmed with men. It would seem, too, that when we were alive we had it all wrong. And Lucifer…what are we to make of him and the City of the Enlightened now? Lots of questions in view of this strange new twist to the Deity-in-charge revelation.

Well, I didn’t put much credence in the Holy Book when I was back on earth, and I won’t put too much credence in this new version either. I am dead, yet alive. That’s all that matters, really. Now if only I can find Teresa again. No clues in this book so far.

I’ve had to stop reading momentarily just when it was getting interesting. It’s near dawn…the little girl is walking up the hill.

That’s all for now, friend.
T


March 23

Good God. I was right…almost.

Her name is Ann and she is six years old by Earth’s old standards of time. She is Ann because Teresa named her that before she disappeared into the horrible building. Teresa gave her that

name because Ann is Teresa’s middle name.

Ann is her daughter.

She is six because six years ago Teresa made the decision to abort her I am now certain. That is how long little Ann has been here in this land, waiting for her mother to appear and take her back. Take her away. Stay here with her. Simply be with her forever.

Ann wept the entire time she spoke in her tiny sobbing voice, the way only children are capable of weeping. She knew nothing of the first abandonment, only of the woman dressed in the attire of a nun being present from her very first memory only a few years ago. Ann grew

here, and it seems only natural that she will continue to grow until such time that she reaches maturity, or leaves, or…?

None of this she elucidated clearly, only asking me to explain, over and over, what “I would have been…I am your mother,” meant. Those words told me everything, finally. But how do I try to explain the statement by Teresa? Little Ann can never be the same, now. It is up to me, if no one else, to try to lead her forward, and I will do that by finding Teresa and bringing her back out, even if I must call on God him…whoever…to help me.

She is innocent, as all six year-olds are in whatever time or space or dimension they inhabit.


Ann is sleeping soundly beside me. God bless the children.

I’ve banked the fire.

Goodnight, Diary


March 24

Dear Diary,

Ann and I walked among the flowers and trees most of the day. She has, I’ve discovered, a ravenous appetite. When she finally asked me who I was, I stumbled momentarily and choked on the handful of berries I’d just begun chewing.

Who am I?

I told her I was her father. And so I shall be. The dilemma surfaces, though, Diary: What do I do with Ann when I enter the door? Do I simply leave her? I suppose she will be safe among her piers, in the care of the Guardians. She has been up until now, anyway.

The way into