Anja unclipped the decorative belt strapped around her ribcage. She criss-crossed the black strap around her left forearm up to her elbow and clipped it in place. The circular, coaster-sized belt buckle dangled from her wrist. She shook it so the compacted notches in the center descended and clicked into place, creating a handle. When she gripped the handle, light exploded upward from the hollow core of the handle and solidified into a silver, double-edged sword.
The sword of the Spirit.
Anja laid on her back on the floor.
Time to cross over.
Deep breath in. Long exhale relieving anxiety, relaxing from the adrenaline of the fight. Her head rolled to the right. She focused on the seam of the kitchen wall where it met the floor.
Concentrate intensely enough to start a fire…
A flame danced at the crease of the wall and floor. The flame zipped to the right and left as far as the house stretched side to side. That line of fire crept toward Anja like lava, melting away all color and sense. The singe sifted through her, her skin caught fire, and her soul evaporated from her body. Out of body into Purgatory.
Stormy gray painted over the drab tan walls, the clean white baseboards, the brown of Anja’s dress. Gray, gray, go away. It clouded the sunlight, rained sorrow upon her heart, oppressed joy and purpose.
Her soul felt lost in a vast nothingness. No emotion to feel. No scents to smell. No color to see. No way to be heard. Just aimless wandering in the dead realm. Watching the living experience all the senses death and Purgatory deprive.