The Day(s) I Died {Book 1 - Completed}

31

raison d'être

(n.) the most important reason or purpose for someone or something's existence

***

Since the first time I "died" I have often wondered about how wonderful it would be to actually die.

The thought sounds rather depressing to most, I'm sure, but when you are faced with the possibility of never staying dead and living a cruddy life from state to state without ever settling and having a family. . . well, it is sometimes the only thing that you can hold onto.

In between my fourth and fifth death, I would often lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling of the small cottage I was renting and imagining what it would be like.

Would there be shiny, pearly gates waiting for me? Or would it just be the darkness I had already experienced, but for eternity instead of a few hours? Or—the more likely option—would I wake up surrounded be Hellfire, doomed to an afterlife of atoning for my sins?

When I wake up after my twelfth death, I am not faced with any of those things. Instead, I wake up in the midst of four sky blue walls, standing at the end of a line of about six other individuals. At the front of the line, a woman with smooth white hair is settled behind a desk, her fingers clacking over a keyboard as she murmurs something to the person in front of her.

Letting my gaze drift, I find several small couches scattered throughout the space, some of which are occupied, and the many side tables and magazines are enough to remind me of a doctor's office.

Of course, the people around me do not necessarily look as though they belong in such a setting. Settled on the couches, I see an older man crying with a smile, a small child playing with a stuffed animal and no parent in sight, and a woman around my age, looking down at a clipboard and marking things off.

In the line before me, there is a middle-aged man in a suit, an elderly woman wearing a loose-fitting sweater, a young man clad in tattered clothes, and another man at the front, dressed in only sweatpants as he questions the woman behind the desk. After a moment, he nods at whatever she has told him, takes a clipboard of his own, and settles down on one of the couches.

The line moves up, and I decide that this must be the line to Hell, and the clipboards must list off the various punishments. Maybe if we lived our lives half-way decent we get a say in what sentence we will receive.

Choices in Hell? Keep dreaming, Vivian.

I will, thanks.

The receptionist (or whoever she is) works quickly, and soon I am standing just behind the man in the suit while he speaks with her.

"Did I do it?" he asks, his voice hushed.

She smiles kindly, stamping a piece of paper before passing him a clipboard. "You did. Have a seat and fill this out, please." His shoulders relax, and when he turns to join the others in the waiting room I see a relieved smile on his features. I watch him settle on a couch, and it is only then that I notice that some of the others are missing: Gone is the little girl, older man, young woman, and sweatpants-man.

"Where did they go?" I ask before I can stop myself, my tone curious.

The woman smiles at me kindly, and when she speaks to me her voice is so patient and peaceful that I cannot help but hold onto every word in a daze. "They're moving forward. Your name, dear?"

I almost forget to answer because I am so captivated by her eyes, which swirl with every color I have ever seen. "Vivian—" I am about to give her a fake last name, if only because it is a knee-jerk reaction that has become implanted in my very being, but I find that the second I attempt to lie my voice gives out.