Virtual Heaven

Paradise, for all of Dr. Sands' clients, always began in the same way. They would see a gateway in the distance made of two wooden pillars with another connecting them from the top. Their feet, clacking along the brick path, would be the only sound they heard at first. As they walked, the landscape would come to life. Wildflowers would bloom with brilliant colors, their fragrant scents filling the air. Birds would sing from their perches in the distant cherry orchard. The late afternoon sun would shine warmly against their faces from a cloudless sky.
The gateway lay at the foot of a grassy hill. Beyond it, the path twisted and the traveler could not see his destination until he had walked beneath. Past the gate, each client's paradise was tailor-made by the doctor to meet the requested specifications of the client. Of course, sometimes Dr. Sands was moved to improvise...
His business was booming. Who would have thought so many people just weren't willing to take their chances on the afterlife? The price for his services varied according to the complexity of the clients' requests, but averaged around two hundred thousand dollars. Dr. Sands believed it was a small price to pay for eternal bliss.
Of course, he didn't always give them bliss, but who would ever know?
He hadn't guessed his business would prove so lucrative. Perhaps it was symptomatic of a troubled world that so many were willing to check out of it so easily. He also kept the dual function of his place of business a secret from the general public. It was, ostensibly, a high-tech arcade called Virtual Heaven, and always teeming with youths, most of whom found themselves addicted to his games. These games were truly cutting edge in their graphics and tailored to fit the thought patterns and muscle movements of their operators. Most dealt with the very violent themes that teenage kids were most attracted to. He'd seen kids come in fresh-faced and enthusiastic, and watched them deteriorate into slack-faced junkies within only a few months. The games began to matter more than life to them. Dr. Sands wasn't moved by their plight. It was just another option for escape, he told himself; no different than books, movies, or music. It wasn't like he was a drug dealer.
The arcade was very profitable, but the real business was done after hours.
He met them by appointment and did not see them until they had spent a month considering it. A few changed their minds, but most did not. Nearly all had incurable illnesses, although he wasn't above offering his services to healthy individuals as well. If a man or woman wished to die, who was he to disallow it? All that he required was payment and the obligatory waiting period.
After he had met with his client in his office to ensure for one final time that he or she had most definitively decided that they were taking the proper action for themselves, he took them down to the underground warehouse where the cryonic vaults were located. This warehouse was a vast space that currently held nearly five hundred frozen people. All were hooked to monitors that kept careful watch over their vital signs and ensured their body temperature remained properly low. Dr. Sands enjoyed the warehouse. He liked to listen to the low hum of the instruments and to walk amongst the sealed vaults. It pleased him to think of his charges inside, with virtual reality goggles strapped to their heads, perpetually dreaming of a world he had created only for them.
Not all of them dreamed of paradise. Some were tortured by their visions. He tried his best to give them what they deserved.
He wasn't hasty in his judgments. During the month waiting period, he researched his clients' lives as thoroughly as he was able. He almost always knew what fate awaited a given man or woman by the time he met them, but just in case, he designed two possible programs for every one; one containing the heaven that had been requested, the other holding a much less pleasant fate.
In the end, he gave most the benefit of the doubt. Everyone had his foibles and frailties. But some he just could not forgive.
There was the former mob boss, Richard Eruzione. He had been serving a life sentence at San Quentin, but had been released to die at home when a malignant tumor was discovered in his brain He’d quickly contacted Dr. Sands before the cancer had its way with him. He pretended to be contrite for the many murders and crimes he’d arranged or committed in his lifetime, but Dr. Sands was not convinced. After a bit of thought, he designed what he deemed a fitting hell for the man.
In the afterlife, Mr. Eruzione found himself on his back in the middle of a banquet table surrounded by all of his past victims. They all had knives and plates. One by one, each took their turn cutting his flesh and eating it, all the while observing proper table etiquette. They sipped his blood in wine glasses and talked of what a great and powerful man he was. He was a little tough to chew, however. Perhaps, he should have been cooked a little more. In the kitchen, the oven was hot and the chefs were willing.
But some cases were not so easily judged.
He'd made a much harder choice in condemning Sylvia James. She’d had a nightmarish childhood herself, constantly abused and neglected by her drug-abusing parents. In her teens, she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and prone to periods of psychotic mania. She once wrote a three hundred-page novel in three days. The only problem was that her handwriting was so expansive and full of overlapping loops, and flourishes, she could not read a word of it and did not even remember the plot a week later when the manic phase had run its course. The depressive phase soon followed. Sylvia had scars crisscrossing her arms and legs from the slashes she had self-inflicted with a razorblade. Only frequent stays at mental hospitals and the assistance of medications and therapists had prevented her from committing suicide.
In her twenties, she had managed to crawl out from under the shadow of her mental illness and live a normal life for a time. She went to law school, graduated with honors, and then began a successful practice. She kept her past mental health history a closely guarded secret and blamed her scars on a traffic accident in her youth. She soon married, and a year later gave birth to twin girls: Kierstin and Megan. They were the light of her life.
After their birth, however, the symptoms of her mental illness came roaring back, seemingly undeterred by medication. In the midst of a psychotic episode, she became convinced that her two beautiful babies were dual Antichrists. She carved 666 on their foreheads with a steak knife and was standing over Kierstin with the knife poised above her heart when her husband came home and forcefully took the knife from her hands. He left with the children, and Sylvia soon lost her law practice and was declared an unfit mother. Then she'd made her way to see Dr. Sands with a check for all of her savings.
The doctor discovered all of this on his own, and was amazed by Sylvia's brutal honesty when she told him the whole story herself on the day of their meeting. Dr. Sands promised her peace from her illness at last. But he was lying.
He had debated to exhaustion in attempting to determine Sylvia's proper fate. She would have murdered her children if her husband had not stopped her, and had succeeded in mutilating their innocent bodies. He certainly believed she was not in her right mind, but in his view, this made no difference. A person had to answer for his deeds. Excuses were irrelevant. Besides, his own mother had abandoned him at an orphanage when he was three years old. He still remembered her final words to him and the sheer terror he had felt when she had walked away from him for the final time.
"Be a good boy, little Lewis," she had said. "Mother needs to go away for awhile. I'll be back for you. Don't worry."
But she never came back. He was moved from foster-home to foster-home, group home to group home until he turned eighteen and found his way to a better life through Science.
He had little sympathy for mothers who mistreated their children. Mental illness was a crutch for the weak-minded, he believed. Thus, Sylvia had to pay for her sins.
He had walked with her to the vault and placed the virtual reality goggles on her face once she had climbed inside. In a few moments, she found herself again standing over her babies with the steak knife poised above them. This time, her husband did not come home to save them. She could try her hardest to prevent the knife from coming down into first little Megan's heart and then Kierstin's, but its descent was inevitable. In her hell, she murdered her babies over and over again, each time experiencing the horror of it freshly. This was her fate for all eternity.
In hindsight, Dr. Sands believed he might have been a little harsh, but he was not troubled with regret. He preferred to make a decision and to not look back. He believed this attitude contributed to his success.

Tonight, he closed the arcade and went to the back to await his client. He’d spoken to him on the phone just yesterday. The man had wanted to make an appointment immediately, and the doctor's scheduled client for tonight had cancelled, so he had fit him in. The man was dying of leukemia. The doctors had done all they could and sent him home to die. He was reasonably young at fifty-seven years and married for thirty-three of those years. His wife would be accompanying him to the appointment. On the phone last night, the man insisted on addressing the doctor by his first name throughout the conversation as if he had a reason to be familiar with him. Dr. Sands found it irritating, but supposed it must have been an eccentricity. And besides the man was dying.
At eleven thirty, Mr. Samuel Ellis and his wife arrived right on time. They walked through the door holding hands, both of their eyes swollen from crying. Mr. Ellis was very tall and had probably once presented a dashing figure, but now his disease had reduced him to resemble a concentration camp victim; his eyes sunken deep in their sockets, bald-headed from radiation treatments and painfully emaciated. His wife, in contrast, was the picture of health: an attractive middle-aged woman with striking blue eyes and a thick mane of raven hair. She walked with perfect posture, and presented a rather severe aura. Dr. Sands imagined she must have been a school principal or a military officer. She walked like someone who expected respect. He idly wondered if he should give it to her or put her in her place.
He assumed his "undertaker" role and stepped around his desk to greet them.
"Hello Mr. Ellis. Last night, you did not mention a Misses," he said.
“This is my wife, Isabel,” Mr. Ellis said. “She is the love of my life, and has been my strength throughout this horrible year.”
Dr. Sands shook Mrs. Ellis’ hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said. He could tell by her gaze and her grip that she was sizing him up. He thought he would have likely done the same if their circumstances had been reversed. He always strove to keep meetings with his clients as formal as possible. Things seemed to go smoother that way. They didn’t seem to be in the mood for small talk, which suited him. He was not a naturally garrulous person.
"Let us speak in my office," he said.
He led the couple there and they took their seats.
"Mr. Ellis," Dr. Sands began. "You told me of your situation last night. As I told you on the phone, I require a month waiting period and payment in full before I design your custom heaven and fit you into a sleeping vault. Do you have any questions about either of these requirements?"
Mr. Ellis seemed hesitant to speak at first, but found the strength when his wife took his hand.
"Well, Lewis," he said. "It is not a question, but a statement I have concerning your two requirements. That is, that I can't abide by either of them."
"That's unfortunate," said Dr. Sands, "I'm afraid we will not be able to do business in that case. I wish the two of you the best." He rose from the chair to see them out, but neither stood from the couch.
"Wait," the dying man said. "There is something....personal I need to speak to you about. Just give us a few more minutes of your time if you could, Lewis."
"Personal?" Dr. Sands said, perplexed. He sat down again and waited for Mr. Ellis to continue.
"Yes, something very personal. You see, Lewis, I am...." He put his head down and seemed unable to continue. Fresh tears leaked from his eyes. At last his wife spoke for him.
"What Samuel is trying to say, Dr. Sands, is that he is your father."
"My father?" said the doctor, bewildered. He studied the hollow-eyed man with fresh eyes and knew in a moment that his wife spoke the truth. His features were strikingly similar to his own, particularly his distinctive Roman nose and slightly under-sized ears. Even the way the man held himself suggested a kinship between them.
But what need did he have of a father? He'd lived his entire life without a parent of any kind. It angered him to have this man suddenly appear to make such a declaration and expect to be instantly accepted, to even expect to be granted special privileges when he was in truth, nothing but a stranger with whom he shared his DNA.
"You must be mistaken," said Dr. Sands coldly. "I have never known a father. Now would you kindly be on your way? The hour is late and I would like to go home."
He stood from his chair again and this time, Samuel Ellis stood as well, with an air of defeat. His wife did not stand. When the doctor moved within reach of her, she shot out her hand and gripped his wrist with painful force, pulling him down to meet her eyes. Dr. Sands tried to break her grasp, but was shocked to discover that he could not. Her grip and her gaze made him feel like an ill-behaved child.
"Do not be so cold and arrogant, Doctor," she said to him. "Your father is not perfect, but he is good. He regrets that he could not raise you as a son, but he never knew of your existence until recently. Sit down and let him tell his story."
It took all of Dr. Sands' willpower not to comply in the face of her authoritative presence, but he somehow managed defiance. "Mrs. Ellis, I have no desire to hear his story. If this shell of a man here is in truth my biological father, then so be it. But he is only a stranger to me. I owe him nothing. Won't you please be on your way?"
She did not release her iron grip and her eyes bore like lasers into his.
"You will hear him out," she said. "Or you will regret it.”
“Are you threatening me?” he asked in disbelief.
“Call it what you will,” she said. “Just because you carry out the deeds of God here does not mean you share His omnipotence."
The doctor’s cheeks burned, and he wanted to strike her, but instead he sat back in his chair. "Have it your way," he said. He feigned nonchalance and shifted impatiently in his seat. “Then speak your piece, Father,” he said.
It was a standard tale of woe and love lost. His mother and he were very young when they met and he'd traveled to college and left her behind, not aware that she carried his child. Samuel Ellis only learned of his son’s existence ten years ago when he saw Lewis's picture in the paper after Dr. Sands had received a prestigious scientific award and read a bit about his life. He was afraid announcing himself to his son after so many years would make him seem overly opportunistic. He'd been content to follow his successful career at a distance. He'd only come here tonight because his wife, who was a devout Catholic, feared he would burn in Hell after his death. He was an atheist and had no such fears, but he wished to appease his wife who, Dr. Sands would have to agree, could be quite persuasive. He had been an astrophysicist of some merit until his health forced him to quit a year ago, and now he'd spent his last dime fighting his disease, and was out of options. He apologized for never being the proper father he suspected his son always hoped for. He could not wait a month. In a month, he would certainly be dead.
When the story was done, Dr. Sands summoned his best empathic expression and hid his condescension. He had once needed a father, but no longer did. A true man of character would have found a way to be there for his son, he believed. His father, Samuel Ellis, had failed him.
"I understand, Father," he said. "I am sorry for behaving so harshly before. I understand that events in life often occur beyond our control, especially in the days of our youth. I was wrong to have judged you without first hearing you out. My only regret is that we will never be able to truly know one another as father and son."
"Thank you, Lewis," Mr. Ellis said. Then he buried his head in his hands and sobbed.
Annoyed, the doctor handed him a Kleenex.
"So you will make the necessary preparations tonight for him?" Isabel Ellis asked.
‘Have they no shame,' he thought. He usually spent several days designing a suitable fate for his clients. But he forced a smile and looked her in the eye.
"Certainly," he said.
Isabel placed a comforting hand on her husband's back. "Darling, can you tell your son what kind of paradise you are hoping for?"
Samuel looked up and wiped his eyes. "No," he said. “I’d rather not. Surprise me, Lewis. I trust you."
Dr. Sands’ tone was properly somber. "I will do my best, Father."
He left them alone in his office to work on the computer program for his father's afterlife. He wracked his brain to come up with something creative, but in the end decided standard fare fit the man best. Just before dawn, it was finished. He was proud of himself. For a program so hastily created, he thought he had done quite well.
He found them asleep on the leather couch. Samuel's head rested on his wife's shoulder.
"It is ready," he told them in a voice he thought loud enough to wake them.
Isabel woke before Samuel. She stared at him, and he could not discern her expression. He didn’t like the woman and wished she were going to the same place as her husband.
"This is a good and honest man beside me," she told him. "He's placed his trust in you only because he truly sees you as a son. I love this man and you had best grant him the grandest heaven ever imagined."
"That is what he deserves," the doctor answered.
They measured each other like prizefighters for a few more moments before she woke him.
"Samuel, my darling," she said. "Your son is ready for you."
He opened his eyes shared a moment of communion with his wife before turning his gaze to Dr. Sands. With a great effort, he stood from the couch without assistance.
"Very well then," he said.
Dr. Sands led them to the basement where the vault he’d prepared for his father waited.
Samuel embraced his wife one final time. "Good-bye, my love," he told her. "My body might be frozen in that tank, but my spirit will always love you."
She wept as Samuel shook Louis’ hand.
"I am grateful for the kindness you have shown me," he said. "I would not have blamed you if you had turned me away. My only regret is that we will never know one another as a father and son should."
Dr. Sands could think of no proper reply to his father's words and was relieved when the man stepped into the vault. He reclined against the cushioned interior and waited. With an air of great ceremony, Dr. Sands attached the goggles to his face. Then he sealed the top and activated the freezing jets.
When Samuel Ellis next opened his eyes, he was horrified to see a lake of fire burning below him. Its flames leaped high into the air, seeming to reach for him like greedy fingers. He realized now that his son held a grudge.
"Lewis, why have you betrayed me?" he screamed into the blackness. But no one answered him. In the next moment, he splashed into the lake and was engulfed by the flames. They scorched him from the inside without touching his skin. His heart, his lungs, all of his organs erupted within him as they boiled. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came from his lips. He burned and burned, yet the agony never ceased. As he lay in the lake of fire curled into a fetal position, writhing in anguish, he sensed someone standing over him. Hopeful they had come to ease his pain, he lifted his head and gazed upon the familiar face of his beloved Isabel. He felt a moment of relief until he saw the hatred in her eyes. They were alight with ecstasy, taking pleasure from his pain.
"Burn, my slave," she said to him. She cackled and her evil laughter echoed through the bowels of his hell.
"This is unjust!" Samuel Ellis tried to tell her. But Dr. Sands had not intended justice to be part of his design.

He walked his father's widow to her car and helped her inside. All of her intimidating presence seemed to have deserted her during her husband's final moments.
"Thank you, Doctor," she told him. "I believe he is gone to a better place because of you. He will no longer have to suffer so."
"Yes," he said. "I will tell you, that in his mind, you are forever by his side."
"Is that right?" she said, touched. "I believe I misjudged you, Doctor."
"Perhaps I misjudged you as well.”
She gave him a final hug and drove away.
When he finally reached his home, he was exhausted and slept the day away. In the evening, a flash of lightning closely followed by crashing thunder woke him. He looked out the window to see rain falling in torrents and wind bending the treetops. The storm fit his troubled mood. He was the epitome of the rich recluse, living alone in a mansion built in the middle of a thousand acre plot of wilderness. He enjoyed his solitude. He thought of this place as his own little slice of heaven. He was not a man of extended conscience, but still felt a vague pang of irritation in his belly. It was not everyday that a man condemned his father to hell. He considered going out into the storm and allowing the cold rain to soak him to the bone. Perhaps it would clear his mind. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Isabel would somehow learn of what he’d done. He laughed at his paranoia
“The crazy old bat,” he said aloud to himself. He watched the storm through the window, mesmerized by its power. The rain pelted his manicured lawn until it was reduced to a marshy quagmire.
A particularly bright flash of lightning illuminated the soggy landscape and Dr. Sands saw in its fleeting light the shape of a woman staring back at him. He disbelieved the sight at first, but it was confirmed to him when a second lightning flash revealed her as well. He recognized her easily, although thirty-seven years had passed since he’d last seen her face. The face of his mother was as permanently etched into his mind as his own.
She spoke to him.
"Lewis," she said. "I've finally come back for you." Again came the lightning and again he saw her face in the flash. She lifted her hand and beckoned him.
"Come to me," she whispered in his mind. "Come accept your mother's love." He could not understand how she could be real and yet here she was. Perhaps, he reasoned, his father had somehow led her here. Without another moment's hesitation, he rushed out in the storm, anxious to embrace her, and forgive her for deserting him so many years before. But when he reached the place where had stood, she was gone.
"Mother!" he shrieked to the storm. He turned in a circle, seeking her, but despaired in the knowledge that she had deserted him yet again.
He collapsed in the mud, sobbing with disappointment. He had seen her and heard her voice only moments before.
“Where did you go?” he begged. But nothing answered him accept the thunder and pounding rain. He stood and looked into the sky, blinking against the raindrops. Then he felt all of the hairs on his body stand on end. A surge of heat coursed through him so powerfully, he thought his eyes would bulge from their sockets. In the next instant, a flash of lightning descended upon him and ended his days of judgment forever.

He found himself on a familiar brick path approaching a familiar gate. The flowers bloomed to either side of him. The scent of honeysuckle was strong in the air. Birds sang pleasant songs from the distant orchard. The sun shone warm on his face. As he reached the gateway, he noticed an added feature not of his design. On the overhanging beam, symbols were carved in hieroglyphics. He was surprised to realize that he knew the meaning of the words.
'JUDGE NOT, LEST YE BE JUDGED!'
A group he recognized had gathered beneath the gate. These were those he had condemned. His father walked with heavy steps toward him. This was not the gaunt, hollow-eyed man he had sent to an unjust reward the night before, but a younger, more vibrant version: a man of purpose. The man's steps clacked along the brick path as he approached. Lewis could only wait-- paralyzed with dread
His father placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Son," he said. "A man reaps what he sows. So shall it be with you. Some sins cannot be forgiven. You will not pass beneath this gate, Lewis. Turn away from us."
Compelled to obey, he did as he was told.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in a hospital bed. Nurses worked busily about him. Tubes and sensors of every sort were attached to his body. He tried to lift an arm, but discovered he could not. Neither could he move a limb of any sort. He could not move his head the slightest bit, nor even blink his eyes. He discovered, to his dismay, that he was paralyzed. The heat of the lightning strike still burnt inside of him. If his vocal chords had worked, he would have screamed in pain.
He could see someone by his side.
"Can you hear me, Lewis?" Isabel Ellis said. "I bet you can. Lightning struck you last night. The doctors say it's a miracle you survived. Your internal organs were cooked to mush, but somehow your heart continues to beat. They imagine you will feel the pain of your internal wounds for the rest of your life and also you will never move so much as an eyelid ever again. One doctor remarked you would be better off dead, trapped in a living hell as you are.
"But don't worry, Lewis, I'm going to great lengths to make sure I keep you alive for a very long time. I'm not one to forget a debt. You took care of him and now I'm taking care of you. That is the way it should be."
He wanted to beg for death, but no words would form on his lips. She left him to bear his penance.

He grew to be very remorseful for his deeds.