Chapter 1: Thirty-Six Seconds

Assuming the statistics were correct, then every thirty-six seconds, someone in the United States died of a heart attack. This meant that, in merely the time needed to pause Netflix for a quick break to piss, several people somewhere in the world would’ve already keeled over and dropped dead. This, along with many other details regarding the complex topic of congestive heart failure, was something Arthur Evans knew almost everything about.

And why?

For what purpose had Arthur, someone with no interest in medicine, become so obsessed with heart failure? Why did he spend day after day researching every known heart condition with the zeal of a police technician racing against a ticking clock to defuse a bomb? Well, truth be told, it was actually for one reason and one reason only: to reassure himself that, in moments like this one right now, he was positively, emphatically, and unquestionably not experiencing a heart attack.

“Of course I’m not having a heart attack,” he said aloud to himself. “This isn’t a heart attack, so just calm down. I’m not having a heart attack. I’m perfectly fine.”

But am I? Arthur wondered, butterflies in his stomach. Am I really okay?

Here he was, once again: standing in the middle of his apartment drenched in sweat as he gasped, grimaced, and wondered if the worst was about to happen to him. It was just after four in the morning and, having been unable to sleep, Arthur had gotten up for a small snack. Unfortunately, upon taking just a few steps after getting out of bed, it had begun to happen to him again. And, as always, it struck without warning or mercy.

A sense of alarm exploded in his head and fear flooded every one of his senses as he stumbled his way into the kitchen. His legs wobbled, and fearing he might fall, he tried to grab the tiny countertop across from the refrigerator in his apartment’s pathetically tiny dining area. He missed, somehow managing to instead swat his entire toaster off it. For just a split second, it dangled midair while it remained suspended by the still-attached power cord. Then the toaster immediately snapped free and plummeted straight down to the floor, nearly landing on Arthur’s left foot. With a loud clang and a secondary crunch, it crashed down onto his poorly maintained, seldom washed, and already cracked wooden floor, whereupon several sparks shot out of the torn wire. Fortunately, the worn-out, green-colored rug mere inches away from the malfunctioning toaster did not catch fire from the brief, but heavy shower of sparks.

Having failed to grab hold of something, Arthur began to fall backwards. Thankfully, he managed to spin himself around and grab the back of one of his two old, worn-out wooden chairs that were tucked into the small round dining table. Putting all his weight on it, he struggled to stabilize his body while he continued to vocally reassure himself.

“Don’t be stupid,” he told himself. “I’m not having a heart attack. Of course I’m not. I’m twenty-two years old. My cholesterol’s good. I have no family history of heart disease. It is almost statistically impossible that I could be having a heart attack. I know what a heart attack is. I know everything about them! This isn’t it. This isn’t a real heart attack. So I need to just…I need to just…”

But what if it is actually real this time? he wondered. He felt his eyes widen in pure terror. What if he really was having a heart attack this time? He might be. How could he be sure he wasn’t? After all, his chest was aching and becoming tighter by the second; it was difficult to breathe, and he felt like he was losing control of his body. But no, no, no. It always felt like this, didn’t it?

No! This is different! This time it’s the real deal! I’m dying! This isn’t a panic attack. This is a real heart attack!

It then occurred to Arthur that his hands were becoming weak and that he was going to collapse. Worse, he was going to die! The sense of impending doom was too strong to be a false alarm. Nothing that felt this awful could possibly be benign. Something inside of his body must have broken in a terminal way, and now his body was warning him that the end had arrived. This was it. This was the end of his life. He was about to be no more.

“No!” he shouted to himself, increasing his grip on the wooden chair. It was old and needed replacing, so it was no surprise that a little piece of loose wood dug into his right thumb deep enough that it would be a hassle to remove later. But he didn’t care. Honestly, he didn’t. A little splinter was the least of his concerns, and that went the same for the pain that came with it: hell, he barely even felt it as he whimpered in abject horror at the much worse prospect of ceasing to exist. Right now, the only thing he wanted was to continue to live beyond the next few minutes.

He felt his consciousness fading. He felt his soul begin to leave his body as he became limp. The intensity of the fear was so magnificent that he began to weep. He wasn’t ready to die. He wasn’t ready for his dream to end. His body was actually disobeying the orders he was giving it. This wasn’t like the other times. This was different. This was a real heart attack. Or a stroke. Or something serious. He was finally going to die. His existence would come to an end in this shitty, one-bedroom apartment that served him as both a place of refuge as well as a prison from which he could not escape.

“It’s happening,” he murmured as his grip loosened on the chair and he collapsed, falling face first onto the floor. “I’m dying. This is it. This is the end for—”

His words fell off as, just then, a miracle occurred: a true, genuine miracle. As his terror-stricken, disobedient body flapped and thrashed frantically on the dirty kitchen floor, he just-so happened to swing his right elbow into the leg of the dining table. This caused the entire table to briefly shake before lurching a few inches backwards. An instant later, the sound of a slight “clack” sound emanated from above him, followed by a gentle noise of something plastic rolling on wood and moving in his direction.

Is that what I think it is? Arthur thought. Did I just knock over my…?

Even amid his chaotic bout of distress, and even as his brain screamed at him that his life was moments away from ending, Arthur still found the willpower to focus in on that beautiful, loving, miraculous sound of rolling that grew ever-so louder as it approached the back end of the table, beneath which he now lay helplessly.

“Please,” he begged, now speaking at a whisper. “Please, please, please!”

As though the universe had decided to grant him mercy and oblige his desperate wish, the sound of rolling plastic came to a halt, and then Arthur watched with equal part disbelief and gratitude as a small pill bottle fell off the side of the table and began to drop down towards his face. Without any hesitation, and with a sense of urgency so strong that it bordered on a frenzy, he threw out his left arm, clawing at the air and catching the bottle.

“My Xanax! Oh, thank God! My Xanax!”

With both of his hands shaking intensely and the rest of his body shivering uncontrollably, he twisted off the top and grabbed one of the pills labeled “Alprazolam” and chucked it directly into his mouth without water. He swallowed it as fast as he could before attempting to twist the top back on and seal the bottle. But with his entire body still shaking uncontrollably, he lacked the dexterity to even do something as simple as that, so instead, he clumsily dropped the whole thing and watched as the pills spilled out onto the grimy kitchen floor. He didn’t care, though. He’d pick them up later. Right now, he refused to even move. He remained completely motionless, paralyzed with fear. It felt like even so much as lifting a finger could cause the sense of impending doom to increase dramatically to the point where his body would die an instant death.

Just be calm, he told himself. I just need to be calm.

Eventually, the fear of death began to gradually lessen. The pain in his chest started to dull. This told him the Xanax was working. And if the Xanax was working, then he no longer simply “understood” that the issue wasn’t his heart, but he was able to make himself believe it as well—and in a way that went beyond the merely intellectual but now also included the emotional, as well. In a sense, he’d known the entire time that, logically, it couldn’t have been a heart attack. Truly, it was never the thinking part of his brain that tormented him during these God-awful occasions. It was the emotional part of his brain that absolutely wrecked him.

Now that he was emotionally—as well as logically—positive that what he’d experienced was just another of his panic attacks, his condition improved rapidly. Second by second, he quite literally came to his senses. Even as tears fell from his eyes, he began to laugh at himself—at his own stupidity.

“Of course it was just a panic attack. I’m so fucking stupid. Real basket case over here.”

Before a half-hour had passed, every last trace of terror had drained from his body, and so, with a sigh, he leaned over and began to pick up the ten or so pills that had escaped the bottle. They were probably dirty now, but what was he going to do? Throw them away? Not a chance. Besides, it was his own fault for taking such poor care of his apartment. He was a mess. An absolute mess. And he knew it. There was no denying it.

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Getting up into a sitting position, Arthur slid on his butt over to the area below his sink where the toaster had fallen. He picked it up and examined it. “Broken,” he said with a sad groan. Then he sighed. “Nothing I can do about it now.”

Returning to his feet, he tossed the toaster in the trash and then yawned as fatigue and exhaustion came upon him. He would likely sleep for eight or so hours now, for which he was glad. He loved sleep. The only place Arthur felt safe in this entire world was under his covers. If possible, he would sleep twenty hours a day. Sleep was his escape. It was his refuge. It was his one pleasant interaction with the world. And so, like a wounded warrior, he dragged his weary but thankfully calm body through his pathetically small excuse for a living room and slipped into the one and only bedroom in his dimly lit, dungeon-like apartment. After making a brief stop to relieve himself at his closet-sized bathroom, he climbed into bed as the warm, calming embrace of the sedative merged together with his natural sense of relief. The feeling was almost—almost—enough to make him smile. Yawning, he passed out the moment his head hit the pillow. He was just so damn tired.

*****

For Arthur, the worst part of his day was waking up. There was nothing he hated more than having to return to reality. But, as was always the case, his body was at constant war with his mind; this, his body made perfectly clear to him through the various aches and pains in his back and in his shoulders. The message being sent was plain and easy to understand: his body had had enough lying around in bed, and now it demanded that he get up and stretch.

Moaning quietly to himself, Arthur sat up in his bed and pulled off the covers. He was still so tired, but that was normal. He was always tired. Nothing ever seemed to wake him up. Coffee? Nope. TV shows? Nope. Surfing the internet? Nada. The only thing that had ever helped was an Adderall he’d scored from one of his friends. For around twenty minutes, he’d almost felt like he’d been reborn a new—until he then suffered the worst panic attack of his entire life. So, yeah, that was not an option either. Placing his head in his hands, he rubbed his eyes. He wanted to go back to sleep so badly, but he would have to wait at least an hour or two or else his body would ache from sleeping too much.

“This isn’t living,” he said to himself with a moan. “This isn’t life.”

It took him nearly ten minutes to get out of bed. He was still in his pajamas. He didn’t bother getting changed. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere today. He never went anywhere any day. In fact, aside from a few rare occasions, it had now been a little over a year since he had last left this smelly apartment. It was his prison. His cage. He was stuck here. His only contact with the outside world was through the internet and his aunt, Stacy, who came by once every two weeks with groceries and other provisions. Speaking of which, he’d need to ask her to pick him up a new toaster.

With his back stiff and his knees hurting, he made his way slowly into the bathroom to relive himself. He tried to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. He used to be a great-looking guy. He was a natural blond with wavy, thick locks of hair, and the girls at campus used to tell him he had the most “gorgeous” hazel eyes.

But now? Yeah. No. His hair was a mess. He was unshaven. His entire body from head to toe likely smelled like his armpits. He just didn’t feel like showering anymore. Why bother? Nothing mattered. He didn’t care one bit—or at least he tried to convince himself he didn’t. He obviously wasn’t fully succeeding in that measure, because if he had, he wouldn’t scowl every time he looked in the mirror and saw that his eyes had developed dark circles beneath them. He’d also gained a significant amount of weight: a tremendous amount if he was being honest with himself. It was hard to believe that, fourteen months ago, before those mother fuckers destroyed his life, he’d been a fairly brawny dude. Sure, he was only five-eight, but he didn’t need to be all that tall, as he’d found ways to compensate for that in other areas.

Everything was so perfect.

He kept his blinds down practically all the time, preferring to keep his disgusting little apartment every bit the dark dungeon of hell that it ostensibly was. But it certainly seemed a lot brighter today. For this much light to be trickling through his windows, it meant that today must have been a particularly beautiful July day. Exiting his cubicle-sized bathroom, he returned to his bed, bent over, and began fishing around for his cell phone.

Turning it on, he saw that it was a quarter after two. A sense of uneasiness washed over him. It caused him to worry. Uneasiness could easily turn into anxiety, and anxiety could then, by extension, morph into panic. But, at least for right now, it was only a minor notion of unease. In fact, it was more akin to restlessness.

It's the middle of July. And I’m in here.

He walked over to his bedroom window, pulled aside the dusty curtain, and then lifted a single window blind with his finger so that he could peek out of it. The light that entered his bedroom was so blinding that he had to close his eyes for several seconds before he could again open them. When he did, the sense of uneasiness within him ballooned and grew so quickly that it now actually did approach the beginnings of anxiety—as he knew it would. The reason was obvious.

Peering out of his window, he saw a world he wanted so terribly to be a part of. Every aspect of the sights that greeted him caused him to swell up with a sense of extreme longing and desperation. And by every aspect, it really was every single aspect. It was the way the light hit the top of the trees in the small forested area far into the distance across the town of Elms, New Jersey. It was the sight of kids playing baseball in the massive park across from his apartment complex or the group of dudes around his age playing basketball on the adjacent court. It was the way the cars traveled up and down the road into and out of town with a sense of purpose. These people were out. These people were doing things.

Arthur began to sob, and his sobs turned into a steady flow of tears. Why couldn’t he just leave? Why couldn’t he just walk through the door? There was nothing physically wrong with him. So why, then? Why was he trapped in here?

He didn’t understand himself. On the one hand, he sincerely wanted to go outside. He wanted it so bad that it actually hurt. But, on the other hand, he was simultaneously both too scared and too tired. The thought of actually stepping outside into the street filled him with a sense of dread, but it also filled him with an eerie, if not somewhat confusingly oppressive feeling of exhaustion and tiredness.

Arthur wept as the unfairness of it all boiled him from the inside. He wanted to go out. He did! And look: he understood that if an outside observer or someone generally unfamiliar with his situation were to suddenly become acquainted with his miserable, self-destructive lifestyle, they would likely ask him why he didn’t simply power through the pain and force himself out of his apartment door. They would want to know why he didn’t grow a pair of balls, get off his ass, and make himself leave. Certainly, that would be one of the first questions a stranger would ask—and Arthur knew this because any time he’d talk about his problems, that was always the first point raised.

What people didn’t understand was that he’d tried it: many, many times. So many times. He wanted to go out so bad that, during the first few months of this hell, he’d sometimes make multiple “escape” attempts during the same day. Each and every time resulted in him suffering an immediate and crippling panic attack the moment he’d set so much as one single pinky toe outside of his apartment. He’d tried waiting a few days before making another attempt only to be met with the same result. After that had failed, he’d tried giving himself a month or two to recover before trying again and, yep, wouldn’t you know it? Same result. He’d tried going out at night. He’d tried going out at day. He’d tried going out in the rain. He’d tried going out in the snow. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t leave. This place was a prison, and he was its captive.

Sophie. Oh, my baby. My Sophia. If I didn’t lose you, I wouldn’t have lost myself.

As always, his thoughts turned to her. He had crushed on her since elementary school. Then he’d loved her since junior high. Finally, he’d gotten her in his senior year of high school.

And then he’d lost her—or no, not lost. She’d been taken from him. By them. And they’d gotten away with it. They’d actually gotten away with it.

As Arthur sat in his bed and allowed what little remained of his dignity to pour down his eyes, he wondered why he was even bothering to go on. What was the fucking point anymore? If this was how life was going to be, why should he even bother to live it? Was he really that afraid to die? During a panic attack, sure. When those hit him, he would enter straight-up survival mode. But what about the majority of the time when he was just his lonely self? Was he still afraid to die? What did he really have in this world? Seriously. What did he have?

He’d lost both his parents to cancer, he’d been raised by an abusive, alcoholic aunt who genuinely seemed to think that her sudden conversion to Christianity at the age of 57 somehow made up for more than a decade of abuse, and the love of his life was rotting in the ground. He was also poor. The only income he had was from disability, and it was only enough to pay the rent. Nothing was going well. He was trapped in this hellhole. Just…it was a mountain of bad built upon another mountain of bad.

He was screwed. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing was ever going to get any better. Nothing could ever improve beyond where things were at right now. So why bother? His life was in such a state of disarray that the only thing he had left to love—the only positive thing in his entire fucking life other than sleep was a bottle of Xanax.

You know what?

Fuck it.

No, seriously. Fuck it.

Enough was enough.

He was tired of this shit. He was tired of everything. No more. No fucking more. He was going to take the whole bottle. Then he could finally sleep. If his aunt was right, he’d be able to see Sophia again. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d end up in hell. Either way, it was time to give a middle finger to life itself. He was going to do it. He was really going to do it.

Of all possible reactions to his sudden rush of determination, Arthur laughed of all things as he made the depressingly short trip from his tiny bedroom to his even tinier kitchen to retrieve the bottle of benzodiazepines. It was time to check out. This was the right thing to do. He’d had enough. No more. It ended today.

As Arthur sat back down on his bed with the pill bottle and a Gatorade from the fridge, he decided to count the pills out of curiosity. He couldn’t help but laugh as he counted thirty-six pills. What a wonderful final coincidence. Thirty-six pills. Thirty-six seconds. Thirty-six reasons why it was time to lie down and never sit back up again. He poured all of them into his mouth and then began downing them with the Gatorade. Bottom’s up! Time to sleep. Good luck waking up after downing thirty-six of these.

The drowsiness came immediately, and Arthur fell into an almost coma-like state, fully believing he was going to die, although unlike during a panic attack, this time, it was what he wanted. He was finally going to get it—or so he believed.

Instead, the world gave birth to a God.