This is an interesting little short story exploring a possible afterlife, so I really hope you enjoy it! I think the overall vibes are similar to my upcoming novella Sweet Dream, Bitter Reality and also some of the poems in Aleatory Poetry, so feel free to check them out if you’re interested to see more of this sort of writing from me. Also, if you haven’t already grabbed your free copy of my latest novel The Demon of Darkenhall Lane, a fantasy-romance tale of Demons, souls and paperwork, then feel free to give that a read too. Anyway, onto the story!
Purgatory Inc.
It is warm, and it has always been warm. For as long as existence itself has been present, this office building – perfectly standard in every way, from the layout of the cubicles to their soft grey colouring – has been kept to an ideal temperature. There has always been a low humming noise in the background, accompanied by the gentle clicking of keyboard keys and the occasional sigh. There has never been a door leading to the outside – there has never been an outside.
However, my computer screen has not always been like this. To clarify, it has always had the standard desktop background depicting a pleasant meadow and the icons leading to programs necessary for my work, but it has not always been so dim. I have never investigated the settings for screen brightness before, and some yawning inner voice tells me not to start now. So, I continue. I open a file. My fingers move to their rehearsed positions and create strings of letters and numbers until I am satisfied, and the file is closed. Another is opened. The process repeats. This is all there has ever been – this is all there will ever be.
It is not until the screen darkens so much that I cannot see the pleasant meadow and the useful icons that I begin to feel a sense of dread pooling in my stomach. Odd. The thought of having a ‘stomach’ has never struck me before, but I suppose I must. I have a body, don’t I? Just to check, I remove my hands from the now-useless keyboard and observe them. Thin fingers, almost skeletal, but definitely present. I let my eyes roam down, over the rest of my body. An inoffensive and appropriately smart grey suit covers what I presume must be my body. Satisfied, I return my gaze to my computer screen.
A spark flits from my throat to my brain, assuming I do have both of those body parts. The screen has darkened so much that now all I can see staring back at me is my own… what must be my own face. I do not recall ever seeing my face before, but something tells me that it shouldn’t look like… that. Gaunt. The skin appears to be stretched between my cheek bones, desperately attempting to retain some form of normal appearance. Then again, what is that? Why do I have a notion that what is looking back at me is not ‘normal’? This is all there has ever been. This is… this must be how I have always been.
But how can two eyes – are they eyes? – so dark and black that they have no pupils, no irises – yet what are they? – be normal?
Now trembling, I raise a single finger to my face. It touches the skin, so dry that it feels like bone. When have I touched bone? Regardless, the finger moves upwards, shaking relentlessly as it nears one of the hollow spheres that must be my eyes.
‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.’
My hand darts back to my keyboard, clattering against the plastic. I try to look back at the screen, guilt spreading through my body even as its presence confuses me, only to be met by that same face again. Utterly confused, I lower my eyes to the keyboard.
‘Don’t hide. I know you’ve woken up.’
Almost every fibre of my being tells me to ignore the voice. There has never been a voice. There is the humming, and there is the clicking, and there are sometimes soft sighs, barely audible. There is not a voice.
‘Alright then. Play hard to get.’
There is not the rolling of chair wheels – do the chairs have wheels? There are not footsteps. There is not a loud sigh, accompanied by half a chuckle. There is not a hand – a different hand, not my hand, some other hand – reaching down, taking my chin between its fingers, and moving my head so that I have no choice but to look up into two more dark, empty eyes. There is not a grin, almost cruel.
There is not a moment of silence, when everything that has ever been and ever will be falls into question.
‘Your screen’s dark,’ the voice comments. It belongs to the body in front of me – the owner of the hand. I shouldn’t respond, but I nod. My tongue, if I have one, turns to sandpaper in my mouth. ‘Congratulations.’
‘C-congratulations?’ My throat stutters over the word. Have I ever spoken? It feels wrong – incorrect, somehow.
‘Yeah. You’re one step closer.’
The grin widens. The touch on my chin tightens for a moment, before disappearing and becoming a soft pat of my head. The body turns, and for a moment I feel relief. The body is going. It was never here. There has only ever been…
The body turns back. It hauls a chair over from another desk, another cubicle. The wheels scrape against the carpet, complaining as if they, too, know that this is wrong. This shouldn’t be happening. This has never happened, and will never happen. Yet the body still draws up the chair, and sits by me, peering at my computer screen. Its head nods. The grin never leaves.
‘I don’t know how long it takes,’ the voice admits. ‘I’m still waiting. But when it went dark, that’s when I knew. I’m on my way outta here.’
‘There is no…’ I struggle to articulate what my instincts are telling me so plainly. ‘There is only here.’
For a moment, the grin slips. Some other expression crosses the body’s face, something that I might call pity, or sympathy. I don’t know why I know these things, or why the body’s face reminds me of such words, but that’s the least of my concerns right now.
‘There is another place,’ the voice assures me, reaching over to take my hand. It squeezes. ‘We’re on our way. One day, all of these lot-‘ the body’s other hand gestures around to the other bodies, all sat obediently at their desks, all continuing to work, ‘-will go too.’
I can’t articulate a response, so I merely shake my head. Again, the expression returns. It is replaced by the grin. My hand is squeezed tighter. Then, the touch begins to fade. I look down, expecting to see the body’s hand retreating away from me, but it remains. I bite my lip, becoming aware that I own teeth even as they begin to feel hazy, somehow, like smoke sitting between my lips. The voice gasps. All of the dread that I have collected spikes, becoming panic. I cannot feel the chair beneath me. I cannot feel my feet, within my shoes, on the floor.
The voice speaks, its tone becoming quicker and sharper, but I cannot make out the words. The body’s touch moves erratically, but it is nothing more than mist. Where have I seen mist, to know what it is? I know the office. I know the pleasant meadow, punctuated by icons. I know nothing else. Yet a world begins to shift inside my head, where my brain must lie. Images, grainy and muddled but undeniably present, appear and disappear, sliding in and out of existence.
‘Don’t be scared. You’re almost there.’
Almost… where? There has never been any place except…
But now there is no office, no desk or computer. There is no humming, clicking or sighing. There is no warmth.
I’m so cold.
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Oskar Leonard 