Chapter 3: Cross the threshold Ezekiel Wallace

“And behold, there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven, approached, rolled back the stone, and sat upon it,”
Matthew 28:2

Ezekiel David Wallace stood before his front door, as he often did, his eyes glancing over the crooked and tarnished 4E nailed there. It was 10:30 he had just finished working a late shift at a Pizza Palace. Sighing he placed the key in the door and walked into kitchen. A thick layer of grime corroded the discolored apartment. Entering the cramped kitchen, he walked across brown tiles that got browner every day and passed his father.
 Fred Wallace sat at a small plastic blue table in a wooden chair. He wore a tight stained wife beater. The balding man looked over at Ezekiel with a grimace and a beer in his hand.

“You’re two hours late!” the man screamed.

 Ezekiel turned with a sigh. “I’m sorry; I thought I told you that I was going to work a late shift.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me!” Fred frowned. “Lies! Where’s this months rent?”
 
 Ezekiel shook his head, “Dad, I’ll pay you as soon as my check comes in, okay?”
  His voice was almost a whisper, “My boss said it should be in this week.”

 “This week?! This week?!” Fred screamed at the top of his lungs.

 “Are you talking back to your father?” Lauren questioned as she entered the room, her hair disheveled and her clothes loosely clung to her weak sick body.

  “No…” Ezekiel turned to her. “Mom, could you please go lay down before you get dizzy?”

“Listen,” Fred screamed behind Ezekiel. “I don’t need help raising my own son!”

 Ezekiel’s eyes enlarged as he turned back to his father, “You don’t have to speak to her like that...”

 “I swear, if I have to get up out of this fucking chair!” Fred yelled slamming his beer can on the table.
 Ezekiel bit his lower lip and wanted to vomit, “Okay.”

Taut, Ezekiel walked into his room and gently closed his door. He sat in the same bed he’s had all his life, and held the back of his head with both hands. Looking at himself in the mirror he watched as tears rushed down his cheeks. His eyes were almost black, large and wet. His hair grew in large thick black curls and extended an inch above his cinnamon-colored face. He was small framed and had youthful sadness about him. Pulling the sleeves of his recycled sweater over his hands he closed his eyes in ritual.
Ezekiel always wore old long sleeved shirts, sometimes in layers but mostly in dark earth tone colors. Breathing and calming down, he couldn’t remember the last time he had bought something for himself, except for art supplies. Most of his money had gone to either rent or to help pay for the doctors to treat his mother’s unknown illness.
   
 He was angry, of course, but he understood the dynamic of his home. He understood his father was bitter and angry because his wife was sickly-- his mother was bitter and angry because his father was bitter and angry. So he knew he couldn’t move out.  If he didn’t take care of his mother, who would?

        The walls of Ezekiel’s room were covered in his paintings, sketches, and drawings. Pictures of fields, birds, skies and oceans reminded him that a great world existed outside this apartment. Thumbing through his drawing pad, Ezekiel came across a picture of violets he had drawn earlier that week. His mother loved violets and he forgot to give her the picture. Sighing heavily, he ripped the picture from his pad and walked to his mother’s room. 
        His mother was lying awake in bed pulling her thick hair back into bun as he knocked. She looked up to him as he entered the room and frowned. “Yes…” she said restlessly.

 “Oh, um, I j-just remembered. I…” Ezekiel paused. “I drew you a picture the other day. I saw some violets and I-I know you like them. I couldn’t buy them, so I did the next best thing. I drew you a picture.”

Lauren looked up to her son, “Thank you, could you leave it on the dresser?”

Ezekiel nodded and did as he was told. “I’m…” he paused awkwardly. “I’m going to start on the dishes.”
        Rolling up his sleeves, he approached the sink full of dirty dishes and began washing them.  He looked towards the refrigerator and noticed a flyer, the lead singer of his favorite band, R.I.P, was going to be in Manhattan tomorrow. He had to see him. Finishing off the dishes, he got into bed, closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep.


 
       A cold clammy bitter impression polished Ezekiel’s cheek as he slept. Hovering above his face was a white cloud with two evident gray circles, like eyes on its tadpole-like body. Ezekiel leapt out of his bed. Several figures floated all around his room and within seconds, they all faded. Sour liquid entered his mouth as he ran out of his room, slamming the door behind.

A cloud faded into the living room, pushing the small television off its stand, then parting, disappearing into the darkness. Ezekiel screamed as his parents came rushing in.

“Is everything alright?” Lauren asked.

Ezekiel relaxed, looking at his mother. “I-I d-don’t know. Mom, I t-think I’m seeing ghosts or something.”
        “Looks like he finally lost it,” his father decided to add.

“I don’t know, m-maybe…I guess?” Ezekiel narrowed his eyes at his father and sauntered to the fridge. “I’m getting a glass of water,” he sighed. “does anyone want anything to drink?”

“I’d rather go to bed.” His mother sighed as she walked back into her room.

 “You owe us for a new television,” Fred said, following his wife.

Refusing to return to his room, Ezekiel laid on the couch, awake. His eyes remained open in constant surveillance but only after a few hours eventually closed.
 Sunshine trickled through the blinds and Ezekiel’s eyes flickered. The kitchen clock read 7:16. Running to the bathroom he threw on his clothes and dressed as usual, long-sleeved white sweater and black jeans. At the bus stop, Ezekiel fished into his pockets for change.

  He checked the street for an oncoming bus but saw a crowded street full of cars and people. Reminded of his hatred for the city Ezekiel noticed a figure rise across the horizon. It could have been a truck or his bus, he couldn’t tell from his distance. In his struggling gaze he suddenly felt a bubbling eruption in his chest.

Ezekiel was standing at the horizon and watching the number 38 bus pass him. How did he get down here? Turning as the bus passed him, he found himself standing right where he was before, the bus pulling up before him.
 “Fred was right… I am losing my mind…” He entered as the bus pulled away.

The Arts and Entertainment complex was a gigantic building made of blue glass and steel. It gave off a clean smell that soothed him. The front desk was guarded by a bulky man dressed in a black suit and dark shades. Relaxation melted away from Ezekiel as he took a deep breath and pulled his sleeves over his hands.

“I.D….” the man said in a deep intimidating voice.

An ID card. Ezekiel forgot that he needed one. “I.D.? I’m sorry. N-n-no one t-t-told me to bring it…I, ah…left it at home?”

“Outside…” the man said.
 “Come on, give me a break. I really need to get in there. S-see, my m-mother forgot her keys at home and I just need to bring them to her.” Ezekiel smirked tensely. He was a bad liar, but it seemed to be enough to fool the man.

Sighing, the guard nodded. “Hurry up…”
 With a burst of excitement, Ezekiel ran to the elevator. He pressed the top button and waited for one of the many doors to open jumping into the first one that did.

“Hold it!” A blonde haired woman holding several bags ran up to the elevator. “Thirteen please…” she beamed.
 Ezekiel pressed the button, “Hi, yeah, do you know where they’ll be shooting the Michael Barron movie?”

 “Absolutely positively! The same place I’m going, the thirteenth floor,” she put down her bags. “You know, the number thirteen gets a bad rep, but I don’t think it’s that bad. I mean, it’s only one more than twelve and good things come in twelves. And have you ever heard of a Bakers dozen? That’s like thirteen cookies. And what sick individual would have a problem with thirteen cookies? I mean unless you’re on a diet... or have diabetes...I suppose... but there are always sugarless cookies! But I digress!” The woman lifted a finger and pointed towards the bags on the ground. “That’s food.”

Looking through the slits of his eyes he watched as she failed to discretely pull out a wedgie. When the elevator stopped, she picked up her bags and started out, “See you later, you cutie! Come by my stand while you’re here.” A huge, almost frightening smile crossed her face, showing all of her white teeth, “Free food. Everybody loves free food!”

The halls were crowded and it was hard for Ezekiel to make out each individual. Nonetheless, it was clear enough for him to see this thin woman slap a man across the face.
“Nice!” he said, commenting on her blow, laughing to himself.
Ezekiel began to feel light headed. Something was bubbling up in his chest. The bathroom. There he saw Neil, crouched up against the door of a stall. A stream of water slowly floated from the sink in a long levitating stream and splashed against the wall. Neil looked up harshly at Ezekiel as the floating stream of water fell to the ground.
 “Oh m-my god…” Ezekiel muttered, shaken.

Neil stood up and walked over to Ezekiel. He lifted him up and slammed him into the wall. “How did you do that?” he spat before Ezekiel faded through his grasp and the bathroom wall.
 He rushed down the hallway and to the elevator. Frantically the tried to press the button as his fingers slid through the wall.



La'Von Gittens
NoV'al Publishing
Divine Apocalypse: The Beginning of the End