Adam Elliot always thought that in the end you went into the light. He questioned that now. Echoes sounded. But, all sight ceased to be. Now only seeing through mortified eyes that penetrated the cooper pieces placed precariously over his sealed lids.
Music. Soft. Pastoral. Celestial in its comfort, it played through unseen instruments by invisible musicians. Adam never believed in it and it still continued to leave doubt of its verity. And yet, Elliot’s thoughts found clarity and virtue in the ring of each perfect note played. It must have been his day of reckoning.
He notices the people now. Or what appear to be people. Shapes of people. Wisps of people. Familiarity dripping from every face in a place without definition. Adam’s steps were unfaltering; movements were fluid and ethereal, it felt so real. So damn wrong!
This is not the place they thought he’d end up. Elliot was a raucous rascal; a roust-about. He loved his music loud and pulsing. Bright lights and vivid colors, not this pasty representation in muted pastel. If he didn’t know any better Adam’d think he was in…
Hell! He had landed his fat ass in hell; to be tortured for an everlasting eternity here. And now he looked pretty ridiculous in that AC/DC 1979 tour shirt. “Highway to Hell”, the self-fulfilling prophecy. Too drunk to have seen the headlights of the oncoming tractor-trailer. “Into the light” wasn’t an option he had expected, but it was chosen for him anyway. That headache will stay with Adam Elliot for as long as the Choir Angelic fucks with his sense of rhythm.