“What is this place?” I ask. Every time the colorful light flashes, I see faces in the walls. Some are smiling, some are frowning, some are laughing, some are mid-scream. I look down to the conveyor belt to avoid seeing any more faces.
“These are the souls that are being cleansed. It’s sort of like a jail for the afterlife. These souls are murderers, rapists, pedophiles. They will eventually move on once they have been cleansed of their unnatural urges.”
“Where will they go?” I’m not sure I want to know but couldn’t resist asking.
“Depends. Some will become productive members of the afterlife.”
“Like you?” I ask.
“No. Not like me. I never had to go through the cleanse.” His voice betrays a slight annoyance, but he maintains his professional posture.
“That’s not what I meant. Sorry.”
Ernesto waves his hand dismissively and says, “Natural deaths like mine after a life within the acceptable bounds of society have very little drama in the afterlife. No grief watch, little red tape. It’s not so bad.
“But the truly punished souls like these don’t have an easy go. The ones here who are suicide souls will move through that process next. It’s more difficult for them to get through it since a lot of time has passed between their death and grief watch. But that’s part of the punishment for dangerously deviant behavior.”
“And why are we going this way?” Greg asks.
“This is the fastest way to move between areas. In this case from the Vapid Body Waiting Area to Suicide Soul Station. This conveyor system will take you pretty much anywhere you want to go.”
“But I didn’t come this way to get to the Vapid Body Waiting Area. I just appeared there,” Greg says.
I open my eyes and look around, noticing the vast system that escaped me before. There are conveyor belts everywhere. All of them contain several souls in groups.
“That’s different. You weren’t choosing when you moved from place to place at that time,” Ernesto says.
There are so many dead people all around us.
“How do they know when a soul has been cleansed?” I ask.
“There is a machine that souls get hooked up to. It’s sort of like a mind-reading machine. Apparently, it’s very painful to have your brain read. It’s best to avoid at all costs.”
“Worse pain than being eaten by the Death Shadow?” I ask.
Greg turns to me slowly. “How do you know that’s painful?”
“I was there when my mentor was taken. If I slept, his screams would haunt my dreams.”
“You sure you’re not just being dramatic?” Greg asks.
“Are you sure you’re not just being an asshole?” I put my hands out and try to push Greg, but of course it doesn’t work. Greg’s face registers enough anger that he must think it did.
“Boys, boys,” Ernesto says. “We have to figure this out or you will both get firsthand knowledge of the Death Shadow.”
“I’m not being dramatic. It’s fucking terrifying.”
“He’s right.” Ernesto puts his hand on Greg’s shoulder right where I tried to push him. “The Shadow is not to be trifled with.”
Greg nods solemnly and looks down.
We continue on the conveyor belt silently. I look down to avoid the faces in the walls. If we had all known what the afterlife was like, would we have done things differently?
Probably not.
“When we find Doris, let me do the talking,” Ernesto says. “She has quite a temper.”
“No problem.” I have no desire to speak with Doris anyway. Previous interactions with her were less than pleasant and that was before I knew she was trying to send me to Oblivion.
Greg pulls the letter from his pocket and says, “I’ve lost two more spaces.” He looks up at Ernesto like a child asking his dad for help.
“Almost there. We’ll get this sorted out.” Ernesto smiles softly.
Maybe Oblivion won’t be so bad. I won’t have PTSD from the Shadow if I’m not aware of anything.
Segments. Now time is broken into segments. This revelation should be a positive thing. It should be a relief to have a marker, to have some sort of indication of what is happening and when. But it’s not. Without time markers I was liberated. I was outside of the construct of someone else’s expectations of when or how long. It was a freedom that I didn’t realize I had and now it’s gone.
And I can’t stop staring at the damn watch. It takes one segment for me to sign into the laptop and open a few folders. I try to get on the Internet but then quickly realize there is no such thing here. We are beyond the Internet, in the outer reaches of existence.
Or should I say non-existence?
The folders contain different categories of what I assume are suicide souls. We have been divided up among suicide methods. Wrist-cutters, self-inflicted gunshot wounds, intentional overdoses, etc. Names go under each heading until they move on to a new body. After that they go into a separate folder titled “relocated to vapid bodies.” I can’t figure out why we even have records for those unless it is just for reference. Maybe when there is unlimited storage space, all information is kept.
There is a separate folder for souls in Oblivion. I click on it and find Tony’s name immediately. The names must be organized by time, or segments. And Tony was the most recent soul to go to Oblivion. Tony poisoned himself with cyanide. Our choices of drugs were different, but the intention was the same.
Tony’s wife Rachel had terminal brain cancer. She was falling apart in front of him and she wanted to die. He poisoned her and then poisoned himself. It wasn’t murder. But I guess Doris hadn’t called it murder, had she?
When Tony poisoned his wife, he took her before her time. That’s why he was being punished.
Life’s not fair, and neither is death.
It’s been two segments now. It’s like I’m checking the clock for my cigarette break or a Lean Cuisine lunch.
The staff binder is right where Doris left it. I touch the glossy cover, and it feels mostly like nothing just like everything else around here. The pages contain photographs and bios. The photographs were all taken by a coroner. Everyone is blue and expressionless.
Why didn’t one of these dead fuckers get the job? They’ve been here longer than me. Judging by her photo, Edith Valentine has been here since the 1950s. She’s wearing an adorable dress with a cinched waist and full skirt, and her head is in the same type of oven my grandma had until sometime in the 1980s.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” my grandma would say with her lipstick-stained mouth wrapped around a Virginia Slim.
Why me? Sure, I’m freaking awesome. But what about me was worth waiting so long for?
Or maybe these people knew better than to take the job.
It’s been almost three segments when I look up and see Luke, Greg, and some other guy standing in my office. It’s becoming less startling to have people suddenly appear.
I guess you can get used to anything.
I know why they’re here. But I don’t know what I can do about it.
“Miss, do you know where Doris is?” the man asks.
“This is Ernesto. He’s helping us because Doris has been stealing our spots in line.” Luke gestures at Ernesto.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m Ernesto.”
“I like your new outfit,” Greg says. I smile at him for a half second then remind myself where we are.
“Yeah. I like it, too,” Luke says. He has ditched the tragic cargo shorts. I want to talk to him alone. Away from these two.
“Doris will be in a meeting with me in about two segments.”
“Segments?” Greg asks.