A Scholar's Affection

8

Ming Hansiel was only a scholar, but his parents were semi-violent protestors. His parents loved to get him involved in those protests. He despised it.

He had black eyes and a sweet face with messy black hair, once. He belonged to a family of immigrants from some part of Asia that had come to seek refuge in the United States of America, but all they had found were racial slurs and discrimination. They had marched with a line of protestors in the capital city of their state of Texas, Austin. Outside the state government's building, his parents held signs and yelled and threw rocks at it. Hansiel was obliged to do the same against his will. His parents had reason to protest, but he wanted no part in it. He wanted to study so he could grow up and become someone important. Yes, a much better use of his time than rallying and rebelling. Only words and reasoning solved problems. Violence only led to more violence, in his opinion.

And indeed, did violence lead to more violence.

Someone threw a rock at the same moment as the doors opened and security guards and police came out to stop this. That particularly fated rock had hit one of the cops in the head and struck her unconscious, with blood dripping from her head. This cop had a husband, and he was also a cop in the force. He easily had a low temper, as did a couple other officials in the reinforcement. He didn't go for his taser, oh no. He went for his gun. And he shot it at six people. Four of those bullets missed, and two of them hit one protestor in the chest. He fell bleeding.

Hansiel screamed in horror, ducking, wanting this to be over. Batons struck down on people who weren't Caucasian and the queer adults alike. He stood up to charge at the worst moment. A deafening gun, unknown, shot a bullet past someone's head and hit right into Hansiel's left eye. The blow slammed him into someone else, but he was already dead by that time. His brain was mush.

That was not the end of Hansiel, contrary to his belief.

"I believe you have not met me. Allow me to introduce myself. I am God." These words were spoken by the most beautiful lady he'd laid eyes on. She had flowing blonde hair and green eyes. She had a kind face and wore a white dress that waved like the ocean. "You come from the mortans. Now you are passing to the afterlife. You may mix with other mortans, but please, do not tell them of Posmorta-CI. There's one for each planet, so please, do not speak of your own."

"God, is it?" He muttered.

"I have no doubts of your Colour. You are a Yellow."

"Wow, I die and there's still racism in heaven. Won't my parents be thrilled."

"I do not refer to your nationality. I refer to your soul."

"My soul." He repeated.

"Yes," God said, "Your soul. You are a Yellow. Allow me to explain. When you die, you do not go to a heaven nor a hell. Indeed, you go to an afterlife. Indeed, your doings affect your experience in the afterlife. But no, your actions do not inflict punishment nor reward on yourself. Your actions determine your Colour. There are four main Colours: Red, Blue, Yellow, and Green. Your actions are a representation of your soul, and your actions are that of a Yellow. Thus, you will be placed to live among the Yellows. Do not worry, you may interact with other Colours."

"What exactly is it that makes me a Yellow?"

"You're dedicated to logic and knowledge. You are against violence, though you may partake in it," She smiled, "Come close. Closer."

He did so, and she stuck her hand out to his chest, pointing at his heart. Hansiel was about to complain, but it went with the small white sphere. He didn't know how to do anything. He stood there idly with blank eyes, observing.

"You will not be able to understand this at the moment, for your perception is with your soul here," She raised the marble to him and pulled it away when he tried to bite it, "But your soul is to decide the Colour you will be, not me." The four cylinders at the corners of the desk rose with the spoken colors painted on it. She placed the marble in the middle. It immediately rolled to yellow. "As I thought." She reached in and took out a small yellow ball. She patted it into his chest again and he gasped.

He felt too different. He felt pain in his back as his spine cracked. A weird buzzing noise could be heard, too. He yelled in pain, as something grew in quick spurts out of his back. He noticed a mirror and stumbled to it. There were fluffy yellow wings on his back and a golden halo was appearing over his head and into existence. It was also just then that he noticed that one of his black eyes was missing. Instead, there was a white one.

"Well aren't you hilarious? Ying Yang, seriously?"

"That is not me."

"Oh. So great, I'm a fucking angel."

"You are not an angel. You are a Yellow."

"Oh, like there's so much of a fucking difference."

God frowned, and for a moment, he thought she was going to blast him out of existence again. "Please, tone down your attitude."

"Yeah, sure, okay, it's not like I'm dead."

She squinted. "I am not quite fond of the ungrateful. I am giving you a chance here. You may start a new life."

"Yeah, when does that start, you racist?"

She pointed at a door on the far end of the room. "I must warn you, your memories will be lost."

"Yeah, whatever. I don't care." He opened the door. "Tally-ho!" And that was how Hansiel got sucked into the life of being a Yellow Seminecros.

 

A Scholar's Affection

THE END