Shrouded

.VI.

I stumbled on the wet stone steps as I left the station, feeling strangely disoriented, like I wasn't supposed to be outside. After the bright light of the interrogation room, the settling darkness seemed ominous and wrong.

Hesitating on the sidewalk in front of the street, I looked back at the bright station, then hitched my backpack higher and stepped into the road.

I didn't see the car coming.

Its headlights were off and it was moving incredibly fast. Maybe the driver was drunk, or just not paying attention. When it hit, I felt the impact over my torso, and I flew back, barely aware of the vehicle coming to a screeching, sliding halt on the damp asphalt. My backpack was torn off as I hit, the tops of the straps tearing from the pack itself, and my shirt ripped as my unprotected back scraped along the street, beginning to burn as it was shredded by the rough ground.

I noticed many things at once as I lay in the street after sliding harshly to a stop.

The rain pattering onto my prone body.

The pounding in my head, searing pain at the base of my skull.

The difficulty I had with breathing, the warm blood filling and then spilling out the sides of my mouth.

My heartbeat slowing as shouts filled the air, dozens of people surrounding me, bright lights, sirens...

I closed my eyes and felt nothing.

-

When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in a line. I had one person in front of me, and an interminable number of people waiting behind. We were in an endlessly long hallway, tiled with white ceramic, the walls painted an empty, dull beige.

I tapped the shoulder of the old, dark skinned man in front of me. He slowly twisted his head to look at me, his eyes blank, and then, just as slowly, turned back, ignoring me. I tapped him again, this time getting no response at all.

Looking behind, I could see that every person in the line had the same blank eyes, and every one of them stood statue-still, the only movement was the rise and fall of each chest. I waved my hand in front of the face of the person behind me, but they gave no sign that they saw, or cared. 

I focused on myself for a moment, trying to calm my anxious heart. I felt light. Empty. At this point, the withdrawal fever should have been coursing through my veins, setting my skin afire, but it wasn't. I felt no symptoms. No shakes. I wasn't jonesing. I felt no pain from the car hitting me. I felt fine.

"Next?"

I started at the sound of a voice, the only noise I'd heard in the long, quiet hall.

The man in front of me stepped forward, stopping before a desk I hadn't noticed. Behind the desk was another man, garbed in grey. His skin, too, had a slightly grey tint. His face had an ageless quality, and he could have been twenty or two hundred.

"Name?" He asked the other man, flipping open a huge book, peering over his glasses as the old man spoke.

"Charles James Hardford," the elder said, his voice light and whispery.

The grey man nodded, flipping a few pages in the book. "Passed of old age, saved. Through the white door, please."

The gray man pointed behind his desk, to three open doorways. One glowed a brilliant white, one was a black void, and between the two was a portal of grey. The elder made his way to the white door, disappearing through it in a brilliant flash. I caught, for a moment, the light, heady scent of fresh water and honeysuckle.