The Valley of the Shadow of Death

The Valley of the Shadow of Death
By: Sheila Toney
It’s raining here. No one notices. It always rains here. It rains because God is crying; His tears are falling on the heads of the miserable, lost souls. He is crying for the addicts who are boarding the train below. He regrets that they can not see the light and have strayed from the beaten path. Each one, living only from day to day, trip to trip. All wanting the instant gratification that comes with these trips instead of fighting against temptation and working for the ever after. He watches the addicts as they board the train below…
One by one, with their heads hanging from grief and pain, the poor souls show their tickets to the ticket taker. Each ticket is the weapon of choice. Some show bloodied wrists, tracks on their arms, emaciated bodies, and some carry empty bottles filled with sorrow. They are addicted, not to the pain, or the release, but to the hope. Each addict wants to feel loved, needed, and cared for. These promises, left unfulfilled, lead the addicts astray, clouding their judgment and letting the deceptive white light glitter on their tickets to The Valley. Every ticket is different. Every ticket is the same. Every ticket is accepted.
The Conductor stands in the shadows, silently grieving. The blood is absent from her beautiful face and she keeps her eyes, not seeing, but looking at the ground before her feet. The tears on her face are fresh, yet they have been there since her death. She is wrapped in a long, white robe that hangs on her thin frail body. Much too big for her, the robe pools on the ground around her. Her beauty is matched only by her pain and the pain she causes. Her image seems flawless, yet there is a flaw; a splotch of crimson red on the breast of the robe. The spot is her sin and the blood from it has long since been dry. The physical pain no longer throbs, and only thing that remains is the constant guilt that grows within. Guilt for her sin; the first of its kind; suicide.
She is the unspoken daughter of Cain, the untold chapter of Genesis. The guilt of her father’s sins weighed upon her marked head until her untimely death.
“This is my fault,” she mumbles “The responsibility for this pain belongs to my grandmother who began the deceit and took the forbidden, it is the fault of my father who drew the blood of his own brother, and my fault. My fault…”
Her words are scattered into the icy wind and she gazes over the faces in the crowd, she sees that some are familiar, some new, and some are missing. Mixed with the pain, jealousy throbs in her heart. Jealousy of those who have stopped coming to The Valley, of those who saw the truth, of those who had someone who cared enough to stop them. Jealous of the chance she never had.
As painful as the jealousy is that she feels for those who stop coming to The Valley, the pain is worse when she has to see the same tortured faces every day. She cries for those who come back because she knows their fate, a fate similar to her own. The poor tortured souls, all so alike in their differences. This is her punishment, a punishment for her sin, a punishment for her father’s sin: to see them every day. To know their pain and never to be able to stop them.
The whistle blows. It is the sound of a tortured soul, the cry of a mother mourning for her child, the final breath one takes before slipping off into the abyss, and the signal for the Conductor to assume her duty and deliver the souls to Death Valley.
Each trip is short, but the journey is long. The addicts sit silently screaming, crying, moaning, with each heavy breath filled with pain. Some can not endure the journey’s pain and faint before reaching their destination. Each passenger knows what will happen next. Every trip is the same, just like every game of Russian roulette; they all know the rules and how to play, and no one knows who will find the filled chamber or when they will find it. They fill with the fear of the familiar unexpectedness. They look around themselves, seeing other familiar faces, noticing faces that are new, and faces that are missing.
At first, the jolts of the train are sharp and painful, like a deceitful razor dancing across a slender wrist in a trembling hand, then the rattling of the train begins to soothe its passengers as the pain becomes dull and repetitive.
One by one, when the whistle moans again, the passengers file out of the train doors. Stepping out into the Valley, all seems calm. The addict’s pale faces tilt upward as they stand squinting into the calm sky. The Valley is peaceful, the sky is clear, the world seems as fresh and new as the day of its creation. The warm sun begins to relax their tense muscles, dry the tiny rivulets of tears, and instill in the addicts a new sense of hope.
Some do not hear the whistle’s moan. They stay asleep on the train. Peace falls across their pain-stricken faces. For some this was their first trip to The Valley; others have traveled many times before. It no longer matters, their fate has been decided. Their souls are trapped in the eternal hell of the train; always enduring the pain of the journey, and never feeling the release of the trip.
The Conductor finally steps off the train and gazes upon the faces of those who have survived the journey. A heavy pang of guilt weighs on her heart. These poor souls come to her for help, yet they are blind to the hurt she causes. To them she is a savior, in their cloudy eyes she gives them release, makes their pain go away. They can not see the truth. She is the blade that glitters with false hope, she is the pill that promises release, she is the liquid that burns and fills hearts with a sense of comfort. She is a liar, a deceiver, not only breaking the truth, but hearts and homes. She hurts everyone that crosses her path, yet they are blind.
The addicts can feel no pain here in Death Valley. Nothing can reach them, the red tears do not cascade from the sky and no screams are heard. Serenity washes over them in waves of ecstasy, filling them with a false sense of happiness and new hope. For a moment, all seems right with the world.
Yet, as all illusions do, the image quickly fades and the pain comes bleeding through again. The clear blue sky turns cloudy and dark. Lighting and thunder flash across the sky as crimson rain begins to pour over the Valley. All of the addicts begin to run for the seemingly safe cover of the train.
The lightning strikes. One has fallen, his train ticket is still firmly clutched in his hand. He is cold and his blood no longer flows. His face is now colorless. He looks like a black and white flower that has been mistakenly painted on a color canvas. Sobs escape from the throats of the other passengers as they climb into the train. Once again, reality has burned their castles and walls of protection, leaving them vulnerable and weak. The addicts are different, yet all the same. The build up the walls around them with hope and they feel a sense of disappointment when their castles’ tumble to the ground, but what the castle is built of, the tools they use, and what they do once the castle tumbles, differs from soul to soul.
The Conductor gathers pain from the remaining addicts as they board the train. No one can look at her face; they can not see her tears, yet they know she is crying. They know their pain causes the tears that flow down her beautiful yet grief-stricken face. Regret fills each tear, each perfect droplet flowing down her face symbolizes her eternal pain and suffering. My grandmother, she thinks to herself, Eve may have eaten the apple, but I, I have drawn the sword and caused the blood to flow.
With the few addicts left, the train rumbles down the tracks, back to reality. As the tracks fall behind the train, their minds begin to flash with the overwhelming truth of their actions. Each silently vows that this was the last trip to The Valley. For some this was the last trip to The Valley, but for most it was not. Some will get better and see the truth, and some will be condemned to spend eternity on the train.
As the whistle blows one last time for this trip, the addicts step off the train into reality. Each the same. Each different. Each with his pass to The Valley keeping steady vigil in his pocket.

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