"The tree that would grow to heaven must send its roots to hell."
~Friedrich Nietzsche
Julian screamed until he realized he had no vocal cords. He was falling into a black, bottomless pit.
HELL.
He tumbled through endless, unrelenting darkness for what seemed like an eternity. It gave him sufficient time to be tormented by his memories.
Julian's life flashed before his eyes like broken, jagged pieces of glass. The missed chances, broken promises, self-loathing, toxic breakups, and self-sabotage. The last memory was the most horrific, in which he drank an entire bottle of cheap rum, sitting down to do a satanic ritual randomly picked from the internet titled the Harrowing of Hell. What was he thinking?
"This is it," Julian thought miserably. "I'm falling straight into hell for being a dumbass."
What else could a downward plunge mean, after dying from alcohol abuse? Perhaps his liver finally gave up on him.
Julian waited for the hot fires from below to consume him, but they were nowhere in sight, perhaps taking their time to tease him.
It was his turn to be haunted by regrets. He should've called his mom more, fixed things with his ex, and not wasted nights on pointless internet trolling and shitposting. Would he do any better given a second chance? Probably not. Some people were doomed to hell from the beginning.
The hole stretched forever, while its walls whispered brutal judgment during his memory loops.
Bwahahaha! Henhhenhhenh! What was that? Laughter echoing from the depths of hell? Demons waiting to claim him? The Devil laughing at his limbo? Regardless, the hole was bottoming out, and he began to see a reddish glow as the temperature rose drastically. Eternal damnation had arrived. Julian felt he deserved it, so he let go with a sigh.
Crack! Whoom! Grab! Suddenly, a massive hand clamped around his ankle and yanked him sideways. "What the…!" The hellhole walls gave way, flooding him with harsh light.
Julian gasped into consciousness as his eyes snapped open in panic. Feeling returned to his body like a truck collision. His head throbbed agonizingly; his mouth was dry, and his throat tasted like nail polish.
Julian blinked against the sunlight streaming through a dirty, birdcrap-spotted windshield. He was in the back of a rusty van, bouncing over potholes.
His body felt wrong—taller, leaner, straighter. Julian looked at his hands and couldn't recognize the scars and tiny tattoos on them. When did he become a goth? "What the fuck?" he muttered aloud, rubbing his temples.
"Easy there, Amadeus," a voice said from the front. The driver, a stocky old man in a priest's collar, glanced back with concern. Father Ramirez was the name that popped into Julian's mind. He met the priest for the first time today.
"You passed out for a bit, son. Is the hangover hitting you hard? Will you be okay?"
Amadeus? Was that his name? Julian sat up straighter, piecing it all together. The lost memories flooded in; all of them were strangely not his own.
Julian Amadeus. This body belonged to a young veteran exorcist, twenty-one years old. Until recently, he was the rockstar of the Church. Until the Vatican incident happened, and he lost everything. Wait, what Vatican incident? The memories were fuzzy.
Now, disgraced and broken, Julian held his head to prevent it from reeling. He realized Father Ramirez was waiting for an answer. The young man groped for words, his voice coming out hoarse. "Yeah... Something like that. Where are we going again?"
The priest sighed, keeping his eyes on the road. "Did you forget already? The drinks are killing you, son. Anyway, we're going to a migrant shelter on the edge of town. You agreed to the job, remember?"
Julian turned his head and watched the shabby buildings go by. The priest was driving him to a job? As an exorcist?
Ramirez spied him through the dashboard mirror. The young man looked troubled, as if he had just gotten off a rollercoaster. Was booze his only sin?
"Do I need to repeat everything?" the priest grumbled. "I reckon you were really wasted when I approached you? Fine. What do you remember?"
"Where was I when we met?" Julian asked, squinting against the flashes of sunlight.
Father Ramirez grunted. "Like I told you when I picked you up from that dive bar, BATSONG. The client found your ad in an old newspaper and asked me to reach out to you. What was that cringey ad…? Hole-y guarantee, or your exorcisms are free."
As the priest chuckled, Julian remembered posting that ad when he was running low on money for booze. It seemed like a cool tagline at the time. "Yeah, that's me. But why not get a real exorcist? I don't have a license anymore."
Ramirez licked his lips anxiously. "The Church won't touch this one. Migrants aren't exactly on their priority list. You know that, right? We talked about this at the bar."
Before Julian could respond, the car came to a stop. Two individuals entered, making themselves comfortable on the passenger seat on either side.
On Julian's right was a pot-bellied man with a thick beard. He nodded curtly. "I'm Miguel."
"And this here is Rosa," he added, jerking a thumb at the woman on the other side. She was middle-aged, her face lined with worry. She clutched a rosary tightly and looked up at Julian with hope.
"We're locals volunteering as caretakers at the shelter. Listen! Things got bad last night. Please help us—"
"Rosa!" Father Ramirez interjected. "Mr. Amadeus has had a long night. Let him sit in peace until we reach the shelter. He's our only hope right now."
Rosa crossed herself and looked away. Julian was thankful for the intervention. He needed a break to process his new memories. What kind of life had he lived? One of chasing shadows, banishing demons? That sounded badass, but why was there so much agony in his heart? The Vatican incident? That memory still escaped him.