Caught Somewhere in Time

Limbo

With some difficulty, Sweeney opened his heavy eyes only to find himself no longer on Fleet Street but in a room as white as freshly fallen snow. Only that instead of feeling cold, there was a pleasant warmth as if he were close to a burning fire, but certainly not the one in the bake house, stinking with the calcined remnants of all the men and women he killed. Sweeney let out a deep breath and squinting to better tolerate the brightness in the room, he looked around. He pinched himself once, twice, surely he was dreaming. But he didn't awaken. He moved his hand to his belt, looking for his beloved razors to offer him some protection in such a strange setting but much to his dismay, they weren't there. He then reckoned he probably was in some sort of hospital or perhaps in bedlam, although the floors were too pristine for that. Its white marble reminded Sweeney of a palace, not that he'd ever set foot in one, but flooring was always described as such in the books he used to read to Johanna when she was a baby, that he remembered as if it were yesterday. Because it had been yesterday, when she sat reading the same books to Toby.

However, instead of a lavishly furnished room with a grand golden throne in the middle, Sweeney saw nothing. No source of fire, no furniture, not even walls– the ends of the room seemed to be delimited by white smoke that looked like clouds. He was starting to suspect he was dead. Anxiety began to rise in his chest and it surprised him, as he'd been wanting to die for a long time now, ever since he learnt of Lucy's fate­–or what he thought was her fate. Surely he'd wanted to live long enough to avenge her and set Johanna free but he wasn't really living, he was merely existing. Except when he was with her. He pushed that thought out of his mind, not willing to spare her a single second. After all, her soul was probably burning somewhere in the pits of hell, paying for her sins.

But where was he? If such a thing as hell existed, he should be there too. He deserved nothing less after the countless lives he'd taken. Sweeney Todd was no longer a Christian. For a while he willed himself to believe that there was a God watching over them, protecting him and his little family for their devoutness and the goodness in their hearts but he'd long realised there was no such thing as an almighty deity that guarded the pious and punished the evil, so perhaps heaven and hell were nothing more than an earthly fabrication to appease those dreading the unknown. In that case, what lay ahead of him? Was there some sort of afterlife? Would he be condemned to a life wandering around on earth as a ghost haunting the living? Or perhaps this was all he would ever get? White, empty, nothing. For all the eternity.

"Do not worry, you are not dead" a feminine voice reverberated through the room, seemingly reading his mind. But he didn't see anyone.

"Who is it? Where am I?" he asked desperately but he received no reply. Growing anxious, he stood up and walked towards the white smoke, expecting an exit of some sorts hidden behind the fog or at least a hard concrete wall, but much to his surprise he found himself in the same room. He tried again on the other side but the result was the same. He was trapped. Was this some sort of modern prison? Had the police found him surrounded by rotting corpses after he burnt Mrs. Lovett alive and they brought him here? To this torture chamber composed just of identical empty white rooms divided by curtains of smoke. It wasn't physical pain like the lashing or the forced labour he'd been subjected to in Australia but he knew he'd surely go mad if he remained there long enough.

"No, you are not in prison either and you won't be here long. Just until you reconsider your choices" the mysterious female voice spoke again and he kept probing her for answers. But once again he received no reply. The room remained in silence for what felt like hours, leaving Sweeney alone with his thoughts.

Alone. Over the years, he'd never been truly alone. He had his wonderful family growing up, guiding him to become the good man he once was. He then had his angel Lucy, who showed him what love and happiness truly were, and later on his little lamb Johanna, whom he loved more than life itself. Even when he was transported to Australia, he was never alone in the actual sense of the word, cramped up in a cell with the other prisoners, working alongside them in the fields. Even in solitary confinement there would always be a guard pacing nearby. He'd been alone floating in the middle of the sea before the Bountiful rescued him but the memories of his wife and daughter, the promise of seeing them again kept him company. When he returned to Fleet Street after fifteen years and found out that their much-anticipated reunion would not be possible, there was her. Eleanor Lovett, who'd actually been alone years after her husband passed away, with no family, few clients and even fewer friends and attached herself to him like a leech, always blabbering around, touching him, offering herself to him like a whore. Not letting him enjoy the time alone he craved to think, to plan, to remember his Lucy. He'd always order her out but he could nonetheless feel her presence in the house, hear the thuds of her rolling pin hitting the countertop downstairs, her humming or occasional singing, her laugh as she chatted with Toby or the stupid customers that flocked to her shop when they started their little enterprise. Eventually, he warmed up to it, warmed up to her light that threatened to banish loneliness forever. But all the while, the true light of his life was alive begging on the streets, with no one taking mercy on her, no one helping her remember. While he gave himself over to the baker, he'd left her alone.