Purgatech: Adrian's Ghost-hunting Angst

Chapter Thirteen: Lord I've Been Changed

Such a lonely existence, the life of a man that has no one or nothing to keep him going. A pointless existence to a life that could have been something greater had he put the time in to change himself to benefit his own society. A misfit rebel, that in high school was nowhere near the empty shell of a man that stood in the mirror, that fateful morning with a 9mm pistol in his hand, tears in his eyes and more streaming down his face. There was nothing tying him to this world and nothing that he could hold onto, to end his eternal suffering.

He knew that he going forward would yield nothing. He knew that going back, back to a life that gave him no joy, no purpose, would have the same effect; so why then struggle on, when he could end it all?

Downstairs he heard the cheerful laughter of children, the joyous celebration of a forty-fourth birthday that he'd invited his close friends and relatives to and of course, the knocking on the main bedroom door where he stood.

Something had to change and the only person that could change it was him. The question was how? He had no idea, nor did he understand the fundamentals of his own mind, or other's – even as a psychologist – to move past this endeavor.

"Baby, why's the door locked?" The soft voice of his wife came from outside.

"I'll be out in a minute," He replied, fear and sadness gripping at the words and all he could do as hope that she wouldn't have been able to hear his words, "go back and enjoy the party."

"Okay, love. I'll see you downstairs for a little while." She said, leaving the door.

And now again, he stood alone, facing his darkest fear. The ghost's of his past haunting him greatly as he looked into his eyes through the mirror. They seemed cold, distant and fondly trying to remember his youth.

A fleeting youth, that in his old age, he realized he'd had not gained a single thing since he took on the life of an adult. He believed that a family would save him, and for a while, it did.

But such was the nature of man and it's fickle nature.

Coming to grips with his own mortality, only recently, he knew that there was nothing certain in this world apart from death. He'd been scamming the government for years and gained significant monetary gain because of it. They'd never catch him and he knew it, having worked closely with great criminals in his time in the psychological offices of Beck, Sorin and Starkweather.

It was funny, he thought. Doctor/patient confidentiality skyrocketed his paycheck to a point where he would never need to work another day in his life. Offshore accounts and holding companies that held his money safe and removed any paper trail that could be harmful, gave him another escape. That was until he realized that there was no longer any danger in it. That he'd become so good at hiding money, all risk was averted. It was one of the many reasons that he stood before his mirror today, with a gun in his hands and sorrow draining him to the core.

What purpose did life yield without excitement? Going about the same mundane routine day in and day out without end? There was a blissfulness in knowing that you would die, and in the case of Maxwell Beck, there was excitement. The thrill of knowing that there was nothing afterward, not a thing to worry about to try and reclaim the joyousnessof a man that knew he would not live forever.

That was the benefit of death.

And that's what this was for, the party, the gathering of his family, he wanted to have one last day with everyone before he inevitably pulled the trigger. It reminded him of Hunter S. Thompson.

He knew that somewhere down below, this was wrong. That he was abandoning his family, not that his son or daughter cared about him enough other than his money. They enjoyed living in California, where his daughter could w***e herself out on camera and his son could get all the drugs he'd ever need at the press of a button on his cell phone.

His wife would miss him, at least?

Probably. But with all the fighting they'd been doing over the last few years, there was nothing holding him to her. There were moments of civility when those who were around came to visit, but otherwise, it was a mess of rage and drunken nights. There would be a sense of desperation and loss in his brother, at least. They may have only seen each other twice a year on birthdays, but as the older brother, Max would no doubt be missed as the patriarchal head of the family.

Adrian would probably find himself mourning too. The poor young man loved Max. Ever since he was a child, he found his uncle to be the pinnacle of cool, especially when he wore his biker leather's and rode around on the hog. That also changed in recent years. Adrian was growing into his own man now, nearing the age of twenty, no longer wanting to spend all that much time up in Beverly Hills, steadily heading towards a career in whatever he would be doing for the rest of his life.

This thought made Maxwell Beck's heart sink. He was without words or purpose. The only person that showed him an ounce of support in his adult years, was now growing up. He was becoming a man of his own and Max could not deal with this harrowing realization. He preferred living in the knowledge that at least something that he was cool. It wasn't going to be his immediate family and he had long before forgone on any rational concept of friendship. So without the two, what was there to live for?

Giving it a few more minutes, he waited for another voice to come at the door, hoping that someone noticed he wasn't there. In his delusional state, there was the firm belief that those who laughed and played down below, did not come up because they didn't care if he lived or died. His was, however, was just an attentive guest, who made sure everyone's needs were tended to until Max returned from whatever he was doing.

So with a heavy heart, he brought the gun up to his head, never leaving the mirror. Max wanted so badly to see the life drain from his eyes, to see some twinkle within them; one that hadn't been seen in far too many years. He was once a great man, but now he was nothing.

This hope would never be satiated. He pulled the trigger, regretting the decision a moment before he squeezed down, pulling the barrel away from his head. Though he tried, he was too late, and the bullet struck him slightly higher than the target that would have been his temple. It severed and popped both optical nerves before blinding him. He lived for three and a half minutes longer than he'd anticipated for and the agony he faced would never be expressed to others apart from in devastating screeching that followed the gunshot.

"Maxwell?" His brother's voice came.

"What have you done, Max?" Then his wife.

"Daddy?" his daughter.

"Uncle Max?" Adrian's voice was the last he would ever hear. Though death was knocking on his door, he slipped into a coma moments before slipped into its sweet embrace. In the second before he slipped, Adrian's voice comforted him. The sheer terror it held, for an uncle he once loved, clinging to the two simple words.

Why this brought Maxwell Beck any comfort, not him or any of those who claimed him in the afterlife would be able to explain. He begged for his death as a release from the mundanity of day to day existence, only to be awoken in a hellish nightmare of the same.

~ ~ ~

Adrian didn't know how close he was to re-enacting his uncle's death as he stood in the mirror with a gun against his head. He too, stood in his underwear, gun against his temple and a sorrow that was unexplainable. The biggest difference between the two? There was not a tear in sight. He didn't know why he did it, and knew that there was little chance he would actually pull the trigger, but maybe he'd be lucky and the gun would go off, or one of his new ghost acquaintances would be a gentleman and let him die peacefully.

Neither came.

He thought about his uncle and everything he suffered through to get to that point. Uncle Max must have been overwhelmed with pity with no intention of keeping his family going. That was fine but what Adrian couldn't understand is how he could just give up. The world was a cruel place, not only to him but to everyone, so what gave him the right to abandon everyone and everything? When he was young, he never understood it, but as he grew older – especially with everything that had recently taken up part of his life – Adrian realized that his uncle was pathetic.

He lowered the gun from his head and placed it back in the drawer where it came from. It was another day of pointless selfishness and self-loathing, waiting for the next event of the ghosts. Still, nothing would be coming and he went back to his usual afternoon run.

TV, day drinking, and cigarettes.

This had become his routine, now. Day in and day out, he would wait for the next event, but nothing came. Often contacting Eliza, he got nothing back from her. She gave up on him completely and utterly. She focused on her career, so did Martin and the rest of their friends. Days turned to weeks, where he was called into work, yet with him not going in, he lost his job. Eliza still kept far away, and no harrowing events took place.

He was truly left alone. Now, he was living a pointless existence, living on Purgatech's money and a need to get the next series of events kickstarted. Adrian was too afraid to charge or switch on the cell phone that they provided, he had no intention of putting on the goggles and glasses on again and he was waiting for a miracle to occur. Maybe, somewhere out there, it was a sick hoax. Maybe they did keep his information stored and somehow they had access to his search history. There was still the chance that somewhere along the way this was all a hoax and he was free until he used their products again.

So he would not use their products again until he was sure nothing would happen without them. So he lived a simple existence. Seldom leaving the house and having services bring him his food and drink through courier. It made it easier, specifically if there was going to be a sighting when he was out. How could he risk that?

And that was just the way. There would be a party of ghosts in his home and when he finally returned there would be nothing but a child wanting to play, or a crossdresser shouting Red Barn like an illiterate.

But it was on a day, one that started like every other, with a glass of whiskey in his hand – the day drinking long ago turning into morning drinking and then full blown alcoholism – that Adrian received a suspicious message on his phone. It came in the form of an email, reading:

Adrian Beck.

If you are reading this, then you have been wronged.

Purgatech is out to get you and you are a victim of their crimes.

Do not trust anything they say.

Meet me at the Pallazzo del Toro.

We will talk more there.