Atonement Point

Bill Richards wasn’t the type of man to dri­ve aim­less­ly through­out the city, yet, for the past two hours, he’d been doing just that. Since his doc­tors had advised him to step away from his com­pa­ny to take care of his health, he had noth­ing bet­ter to do. His once-busy exec­u­tive sched­ule was emp­ty; his world had mut­ed. In the qui­et of his car, he had ample time to reflect. 

His diag­no­sis: his body was reject­ing his soul.

That wasn’t how his doc­tors would put it, but Bill thought of it that way. Since he was the one who’d suf­fered from this mys­tery ill­ness for the past months, he knew bet­ter. Even with­out an MD, he was the god­damn expert, not those quacks. 

Angry red blis­ters marked every inch of his skin. Ulcers brand­ed the com­mis­sures of his lips and his mouth, down to his low­er esoph­a­gus. With each bow­el move­ment, he shed the lin­ing of his gut, the blood and mucus col­or­ing the toi­let water an alarm­ing red. Cough­ing expelled what remained of his rot­ting lungs. 

But the pain, espe­cial­ly. Twist­ing and tor­tur­ous, burn­ing and bit­ing. Con­stant despite the best anal­gesics his mon­ey could buy. Inside him was a bat­tle­field where his flesh strug­gled to wrench out his spirit.

He’d endured the indig­ni­ties of count­less med­ical eval­u­a­tions. The prob­ing fin­gers and tubes, lab work, and radi­ograph­ic stud­ies. And so many needles—for sam­pling his spinal flu­id and his liv­er, lungs, and lymph nodes. His bone mar­row, as well. “It’ll only hurt for a sec­ond.” the hema­tol­o­gist had promised as Bill lay on his side, his hip, cleansed with an anti­sep­tic, exposed to the per­son­nel crowd­ing the pro­ce­dure room. But the inject­ed numb­ing med­ica­tion burned, and, despite it and the light seda­tion, he felt every­thing: from the small skin inci­sion to the long, hol­low nee­dle bor­ing through what seemed like miles of sub­cu­ta­neous tis­sue into the pelvic bone. After­ward, the awful sound of his own bone crunch­ing rever­ber­at­ed in his night­mares. “Impos­si­ble,” the doc­tor said after Bill com­plained to the hos­pi­tal board. “You were asleep and com­fort­able the entire time.” 

Bill had put up with it all, hop­ing for a diag­no­sis. For something—anything—to treat. Ide­al­ly, to cure. 

In the end, the top spe­cial­ists had ruled out the usu­al cul­prits: not autoim­mune, hered­i­tary, inflam­ma­to­ry, infec­tious, or neo­plas­tic. The unusu­al ones, as well. Even a psy­chi­a­trist was con­sult­ed. Their unan­i­mous con­clu­sion: Bill was a unique case, his afflic­tion idiopathic.

“Well, doc, something’s wrong,” Bill had said to the pal­lia­tive care spe­cial­ist at his appoint­ment ear­li­er that after­noon. It was his final stop: His uniden­ti­fied ail­ment had no treat­ment, let alone a cure. He sat on the exam table, naked but for a thin paper gown, shiv­er­ing in the cold. His skele­tal legs dan­gled toward the ground. “I’m fifty-six. Until a few months ago, I was fine.” He threw up his hands. “So, what’s going on? Did a witch cast a spell on me? Or is some minor deity out to pun­ish me?” 

Bill had been jok­ing, had even chuck­led, but the doc­tor stud­ied him with assess­ing eyes. “That very well could be, Mr. Richards,” the old­er man final­ly answered, his tone somber. “Did you do any­thing to deserve it?” 

What an ass­hole. Though the doc act­ed all holi­er-than-thou, Bill bet he had some­thing to hide. Every­one did. In Bill’s opin­ion, his suc­cess jus­ti­fied his actions—he had noth­ing to atone for.

He accel­er­at­ed his Maserati through a series of red lights, onto a des­o­late stretch of road in some name­less neigh­bor­hood, faster, faster as if his life were a ter­res­tri­al pur­ga­to­ry he could flee. Bill clung to the nec­es­sary illu­sion that noth­ing could stop him, touch him, right here, right now. 

But his end was com­ing. His wealth couldn’t save him this time. His gen­er­ous dona­tions had cleared same-day appoint­ments on packed clin­ic sched­ules, but the so-called top physi­cians proved use­less. He bought his way into clin­i­cal tri­als for which he didn’t qual­i­fy. And the thou­sands he spent on let’s‑see-if-this-works treat­ments did shit. Mod­ern med­i­cine had failed him. 

If every­thing else was for sale, why not an hon­est-to-god mir­a­cle? But cost­ly indul­gences had gained him no reprieve. The inter­ces­so­ry prayers on his behalf from the most pious—paid for in cash up-front—yielded no return on his invest­ment. And his lav­ish offer­ings to a pan­theon of gods, both ancient and mod­ern, had gone com­plete­ly unheeded.

A swal­low set his chest ablaze, his sali­va like acid on his ulcers. Bill whim­pered. Even the most innocu­ous foods—whether puréed or not—were a mis­ery to eat. Sim­ply recall­ing the taste of his favorite meal—a rib­eye steak and gar­lic mashed potatoes—was enough to set off a parox­ysm of pain. How long could he live like this? Weeks, months, years? His doc­tors refused to tell him.

He veered onto a run-down road lined with aban­doned strip malls. In the twi­light, the com­plex­es, all dingy and shut­tered, looked alike, with their cor­rupt­ed dreams and bro­ken promis­es, too ruined to be wor­thy of repair. 

The asphalt end­ed at a road-closed sign with­out a detour. His impo­tent howl pro­voked a cat­a­clysm of cough­ing. Bill col­lect­ed the expec­to­rat­ed soft, gray chunks in a tis­sue he heaved out his win­dow. He fought to refill his rav­aged lungs with air. What­ev­er the ori­gin of this dis­ease, his con­di­tion was rapid­ly declin­ing, a har­bin­ger of his immi­nent demise.

But Bill wasn’t ready to die. Who would com­fort, then mourn him? His ex-wife? The girl­friend who’d just dumped him? The so-called friends who’d oust­ed him from his own com­pa­ny? No. No one. Damn them all.

As he swung the car back around, he noticed lights in a lone store­front that, just a minute before, had been dark. Atone­ment Point Holis­tic Med­i­cine Cen­ter, its blink­ing sign read, beck­on­ing him. How could he have missed it, hope spelled out in neon col­ors, as if designed sole­ly for him? Bill rushed his car into the desert­ed park­ing lot, his tires squealing. 

His short walk from his car to the build­ing left him out of breath. His pound­ing pulse echoed with­in his skull. Since the start of his ill­ness, once-sim­ple activ­i­ties of dai­ly life taxed him as if they were the most ardu­ous tasks. Bill leaned against the wall, next to the Walk-Ins Wel­come sign to recov­er. He hat­ed how he’d become a poor imi­ta­tion of the vital man he’d been. 

The alu­minum-and-glass door weighed as much as if it were steel-rein­forced con­crete. Bill wres­tled it open just enough to slip inside, his grip on the pull han­dle trau­ma­tiz­ing the painful blis­ters on his hands. A low chime rang out. The wait­ing room held a tat­tered couch and a for­lorn row of fold­ing chairs. Its walls were an indus­tri­al white, the paint sooty as if it had been flirt­ing with flames. 

At the back of the room, a red bead­ed cur­tain part­ed like a san­guineous water­fall. “May I assist you, sir?” A woman in a flow­ing white dress appeared in the door­way. Sil­ver hair skimmed her shoul­ders. Her beguil­ing face was age­less, old and young at the same time. 

“I need to see the doc­tor. Right away. Now.” Bill cleared his throat, raw from his cough­ing fit. “I’m sick—dying—but no one can fig­ure out why.” 

The woman nod­ded. “Come with me.”

He fol­lowed her beyond the cur­tain, through a long pas­sage­way, final­ly stag­ger­ing into a cramped, win­dow­less room. “Sit,” she told him, and he dropped onto the chair in front of the desk, too weary to stand. A task lamp pro­vid­ed the only illu­mi­na­tion. Atop a four-draw­er file cab­i­net, glass jars crowd­ed around a set of scales. Sharp-scent­ed incense over­whelmed him.

She placed her hand on his forehead. 

“Wait.” Bill jerked away from the con­tact, a life­time of sus­pi­cion over­com­ing his des­per­a­tion. He scanned the bare walls for a diplo­ma. She didn’t look like a doc­tor. Too pret­ty. “Don’t you want to know my symptoms?” 

“No.” The word resound­ed with dis­dain. Her mid­night eyes pierced him like a well-honed sword. 

Bill cringed as if he’d been struck. Would she decline to treat him? To cast him out? “I’ll give you any­thing. Every­thing. Just fix me…please.”  

“Per­haps.” The woman again laid her palm on him, like an ancient priest­ess offer­ing a bene­dic­tion. This time, he didn’t resist. She was his last shot at salvation.

An unnat­ur­al cold sat­u­rat­ed his body. Bill shook, but her touch was unre­lent­ing. Nau­sea churned in his bel­ly. He clutched at the sides of the seat, his brit­tle fin­ger­nails break­ing against the unyield­ing metal. 

            The woman released him, her judg­ment ren­dered: “You are beyond redemption.”

            “Oh, God. It is my soul, isn’t it.” Bill sobbed, his bowed head in his hands. There would be no mir­a­cle cure for him. “How long before…? How long do I have to live?”

             A desk draw­er glid­ed over its slides. He glanced up. The woman slid a thick fold­er before him, under the soli­tary pool of light. On its cov­er was typed Bill Richards.

He tried to straight­en but didn’t have the strength. “What the hell is this? I nev­er said my name.” Sweat broke out on his slough­ing skin despite the burn­ing ice scorch­ing through his arter­ies. Bill was racked with a pain more har­row­ing than ever before.

“Yet I know you. I marked you for pun­ish­ment long ago.” Her index fin­ger tapped the cov­er. “Now your turn has come.” She opened the fold­er to an old Miss­ing Child fly­er with a pic­ture of a smil­ing girl. 

            Bill recoiled. He’d tried to for­get her. His cousin’s friend. Four­teen, but mature for her age. A blond temptress, despite what oth­ers claimed. “What are you talk­ing about? I don’t know that person.” 

On the next page, an autop­sy pho­to. The same girl—her vacant green eyes, accus­ing him. An open tor­so. An absent heart and lungs. She’d been so frag­ile; he hadn’t expect­ed it, not until it was too late. Bill leaned over to vom­it into a trash can. Blood, just blood. He wiped his mouth against his sleeve. “I swear I’ve nev­er seen her before.” 

“Liar.” Her voice seared him with its ven­om. The death cer­tifi­cate appeared before him. Homi­cide stamped over and over, the red ink hideous against the white paper. 

No, what had hap­pened wasn’t his fault. If the girl hadn’t screamed, if she hadn’t strug­gled…. He hadn’t meant to harm her. “That had noth­ing to do with me.” Boils burst out over his skin, oozed with pus. The stench made him gag. For almost four decades, his mem­o­ries of that night had lain dor­mant, care­ful­ly buried, only to creep unbid­den from the shad­owed depths of his soul to infect his cells, to poi­son his every organ. “You did this. You made me ill,” he said, gasp­ing. “How? The doc­tors found nothing.” 

“Your mal­a­dy is not of your world.” She cir­cled the desk. “But of mine, meant to tor­ment you, then to lure you here, to me.”

“Who—?”

“Neme­sis.”

An old god. Shit. The page turned, but Bill could no longer see. Infi­nite dark­ness smoth­ered him. From its far reach­es, the green-eyed corpse cried out, denounc­ing him for his crimes.

“Divine ret­ri­bu­tion is inescapable, Mr. Richards. Bal­ance must be restored.” The woman was close, her hot breath blow­ing against his ear. “Your soul is for­feit for your unholy trans­gres­sion. Do you hear her? The child demands justice.” 

After all these years, he’d thought he was safe, over­looked by human laws, excused by venal offi­cials. But true vengeance had been delayed, nev­er denied. Neme­sis had been waiting. 

What came next? Eter­nal damnation. 

He pitched onto the floor while falling to his knees to sup­pli­cate. His mouth gaped, but no words came—she’d stolen his sounds. No more time to con­fess, to repent. He’d lost his chance for atonement. 

Her fin­gers pressed against his chest wall, shat­ter­ing ribs and bur­row­ing through the inter­costal mus­cles, fas­cia, and pleu­ra, to deep inside, where a heart still con­tract­ed, and lungs expanded. 

Bill fought her mer­ci­less grip. Was there a super­vi­sor to appeal to? Some­one high­er up to absolve him? He couldn’t accept this fate, all for a lit­tle mis­take. An acci­dent, real­ly. He’d been sev­en­teen and stu­pid, a care­less child him­self. Don’t blame your­self, his par­ents had said, and why would he? No one else in town did, and the girl’s fam­i­ly had been paid for their silence. But the flail­ing of his fists inflamed his every nerve. His body con­vulsed, impa­tient to eject his soul. 

“Give up,” she urged, “and your suf­fer­ing will be over.” 

A sin­gle tear traced the curve of his cheek. He’d gone beyond all options: the usu­al loop­holes, nego­ti­a­tions, and stays. This woman couldn’t be bought; she couldn’t be defeat­ed. No choice but to shape his lips into a “yes, please, make it stop” and spread his arms in surrender. 

The woman seized the writhing mass that was his befouled soul, sev­er­ing it from his fail­ing body. 

His heart­beat ceased. His res­pi­ra­tions halted. 

His body, its bur­den relieved, stilled.

But she’d lied. 

For his malign soul, the agony would nev­er end. 

Neme­sis wouldn’t allow it.