Free Rooms: A Novel by James L. Rubart Page B

wouldn’t listen. He struggled to get to his knees. Not possible.
    He wanted to strike out. At anything. Everything. Rage and rejection slammed into his mind.
    Come on! He had to get control.
    He raised his arm, as if he could block the hurricane of emotions.
    Clarity. Have to focus. It . . . is . . . not . . . real!
    But it was.
    The memories jumped back and forth across the years and went faster.
    “Leave him alone!” he shouted as he watched his fifth-grade basketball coach scream at his younger self for missing a free throw in the last game of the season.
    Tears formed as he watched his three best friends from junior high go to the Alanis Morissette concert without him, laughing about how they’d been able to ditch Micah.
    He lashed out with his arms. “Help me.”
    No answer.
    “If You’re here, help me!”
    All the images vanished.
    Silence.
    It was over.
    Wasn’t it?
    An instant later a scene filled the entire back wall of the room. A nine-year-old Micah ran along the beach, stumbling, lips trembling, deep lines of worry etched into his face.
    “No.” A moan escaped his lips and surged into a guttural scream. “Not this.”
    “Come back, Mom! Come back!”
    Micah leaped into the air, straining to see out over the ocean. The boy spun and screamed north up the beach, “Help her! Help my mom!” He turned south and screamed again. He started to run toward the row of houses behind him. Two quick paces before he stopped, turned, and ran back to where he’d started, his bare feet kicking sand onto a Spider-Man beach towel.
    Then he froze, not knowing which way to go. What to do.
    Micah’s mind continued to scream what he was seeing wasn’t real; his heart screamed louder it was all too genuine. “This will kill me. I can’t do this. Can’t see this. I need You, God.” The last part was a whisper.
    The young Micah leaped into the air, legs shaking, eyes filled with tears. Micah now watched himself scream again and again and again.
    He huddled on the carpet on his side, knees held up to his chest.
    “God, help me!”
    The room shifted. Hope appeared inside like a pinprick of light in a black sky. The pain receded somewhat. Breathing came easier. The tentacles of fear wrapped around his mind loosened. But not enough.
    “Please help me.” He didn’t know if he’d said it out loud or only in his mind.
    The struggle raged on.
    The younger Micah knelt in the sand now, sobbing. A man sprinted past him into the waves. His father.
    “Don’t make me face it!” Micah shouted at the scene.
    He wasn’t going to make it.
    Micah slid into darkness.
    In that instant it came. A flash of light, then peace, and a sensation he hadn’t felt in years—the presence of God.
    Silence. This time it remained.
    The peace built till he was able to get off the floor and stumble through the door, through the house, into the star-filled night, onto the beach.
    He reached the sand, collapsed, and let the tears come.
    ||||||||
    When he awoke, the sun had climbed halfway to noon. He guessed it was as late as nine o’clock. He rubbed his eyes, stumbled to his feet, and eased toward the ocean.
    People clad in bright jackets ambled up the beach. Three kids filled the sky with their multicolored kites, laughing as they kicked up little clouds of sand with their dark feet, racing to keep their flying machines aloft.
    It made last night seem like a dream.
    Maybe it was just a nightmare.
    But he knew it wasn’t. God had rescued him. Right? Or was He the one who pushed Micah into that room?
    But he’d felt God, just like he did back in high school. At least he thought it was God. Maybe it wasn’t.
    Micah stood in the surf, and his stomach churned—maybe from hunger, possibly from the thought of going back inside. Probably a combination. The thought of facing that room again made hackles dance on his neck. He paced in two inches of water for ten minutes. But there was no way he would let one of Archie’s rooms have control over