Chapter 02 - Death
Timmy came to with a start. Where was he? What happened?
He seemed to be sitting in a chair. It was comfortable for the moment, but promised to get less and less so as time wore on. As images swam back and forth in front of his eyes, he tried to make sense of things.
The last thing Timmy could remember was an explosion like a bomb going off. The taste of tin. Then blackness, falling, a void...
And now he appeared to be sitting in what was looking more and more like a waiting room. It had an offensive flower print on the walls. The magazines in a rack on the wall had a familiar look, although now that Timmy looked closer, they seemed to have titles like Incorporeal Being Quarterly and Planar Residence.
The only other person in the room was a forbidding woman at a desk. With no other course of action presenting itself to him, Timmy got up unsteadily and walked over to the desk.
“Excuse me... Where am I?”
The woman looked over her half-moon spectacles at him and pointed at a sign on the front of the desk. In a simple but final style, in a typeface that looked like it had been chiseled out of stone, was the word “Limbo.”
Limbo. Timmy couldn’t handle it. He didn’t know what to do. It was stupid to stay standing there so he sat back down and waited for the universe to start making sense again, or at least resume not making sense in the way that he was used to. He tried to sort things out in his mind. He knew he had died. And now he seemed to be in some sort of cosmic waiting room.
Timmy had never been very religious. He had felt bad about it. He was never able to summon up the unquestioning faith that seemed to come naturally to other people. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to believe in anything that messed people about like how they were. He did sometimes wonder, if there was some divine entity in control, what it thought it was doing, and when it would stop.
Timmy is going to get the chance of an afterlife-time.
A door at a far wall appeared. There was no fancy fading in or out, no “Shazam!” or popping noises; where there wasn’t a door there now was. The door opened and a middle-aged, clerical-looking man’s head appeared.
“Timmy?” he asked.
Timmy stood up.
“Oh, there you are. If you could come into my office, there are a few things I think we need to straighten out.”
Timmy went into the office and shut the door behind him. It vanished in the same anti-theatrical way that it appeared. He looked around the office. It was a mess. He selected the only chair that wasn’t covered in papers and sat down. The man, who had taken up residence once more behind his desk, regarded Timmy over another stack of papers.
“I just have to make sure for the paperwork — you are, in fact, Timothy Clair Winslow?”
Timmy nodded gloomily.
“Good, good… Now, I suppose you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here. Well,” the man paused to take a breath and said, in an absolutely atrocious Jamaican accent, “welcome to Limbo!”
Timmy just stared. The man coughed nervously.
“Sorry, uh… The processing, er, process is usually made easier if people are at their ease during it. Now, um, where did I put your file?” The man turned from Timmy and caused a small avalanche of paper behind him. Timmy heard him cry triumphantly and turn around again.
“Now, uh… Well, this is odd. Most unusual.”
Timmy spoke for the first time.
“What is it?”
The man started as if he had forgotten that Timmy was there.
“It looks like you’re meant to go back to earth. I mean, usually, you die, and you stay dead. But, no, it’s very clear. It looks like you’re an immortal.”
“An immortal?”
“Oh yes.”
Timmy considered this. He had never felt immortal. He knew for a fact that if you cut him he would bleed like anybody else. Then again, Timmy had never tried dying. That’s what immortality is all about, really.
“So... I’ll never die?”
“Um. Not exactly. I suppose I was a little unclear.” The man straightened up. When he spoke again, there was brass in his voice. “You have a mission!
“And until you fulfill it you’ll be exempt from death,” he said in more normal tones.
“All right,” said Timmy, “what’s my mission?”
The man looked embarrassed.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
“You can’t tell me? Why not?”
“Mostly because I don’t know and partly because I’m not allowed to.”
“Then… How am I supposed to know how to do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“How will I know I have done it?”
“Oh, that’s easy. You’ll be mortal again.”
“So I’ll know because I’ll be dead and staying dead?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t strike you as at all unhelpful?”
“Look,” the man said defensively, “don’t shoot the messenger. I don’t make the rules. I’m just a servant.”
“All right, all right. I was just saying.”
They stared at each other for a while.
“Oh yes! Sorry. Almost forgot. Sign here,” he said, and thrust a paper and leaky pen at Timmy.
“What is this?”
“Waiver of the risks inherent of immortality.”
“What if I don’t sign it?”
“Then you stay down here for eternity.”
Timmy signed it.
As he finished the last flourish on his rather elegant signature he vanished. The man behind the desk sighed and walked around to get his pen back. Then he sat down again muttering.
“Paperwork, paperwork, always bloody paperwork.”
At that very moment, Timmy’s heart started.
He seemed to be sitting in a chair. It was comfortable for the moment, but promised to get less and less so as time wore on. As images swam back and forth in front of his eyes, he tried to make sense of things.
The last thing Timmy could remember was an explosion like a bomb going off. The taste of tin. Then blackness, falling, a void...
And now he appeared to be sitting in what was looking more and more like a waiting room. It had an offensive flower print on the walls. The magazines in a rack on the wall had a familiar look, although now that Timmy looked closer, they seemed to have titles like Incorporeal Being Quarterly and Planar Residence.
The only other person in the room was a forbidding woman at a desk. With no other course of action presenting itself to him, Timmy got up unsteadily and walked over to the desk.
“Excuse me... Where am I?”
The woman looked over her half-moon spectacles at him and pointed at a sign on the front of the desk. In a simple but final style, in a typeface that looked like it had been chiseled out of stone, was the word “Limbo.”
Limbo. Timmy couldn’t handle it. He didn’t know what to do. It was stupid to stay standing there so he sat back down and waited for the universe to start making sense again, or at least resume not making sense in the way that he was used to. He tried to sort things out in his mind. He knew he had died. And now he seemed to be in some sort of cosmic waiting room.
Timmy had never been very religious. He had felt bad about it. He was never able to summon up the unquestioning faith that seemed to come naturally to other people. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to believe in anything that messed people about like how they were. He did sometimes wonder, if there was some divine entity in control, what it thought it was doing, and when it would stop.
Timmy is going to get the chance of an afterlife-time.
A door at a far wall appeared. There was no fancy fading in or out, no “Shazam!” or popping noises; where there wasn’t a door there now was. The door opened and a middle-aged, clerical-looking man’s head appeared.
“Timmy?” he asked.
Timmy stood up.
“Oh, there you are. If you could come into my office, there are a few things I think we need to straighten out.”
Timmy went into the office and shut the door behind him. It vanished in the same anti-theatrical way that it appeared. He looked around the office. It was a mess. He selected the only chair that wasn’t covered in papers and sat down. The man, who had taken up residence once more behind his desk, regarded Timmy over another stack of papers.
“I just have to make sure for the paperwork — you are, in fact, Timothy Clair Winslow?”
Timmy nodded gloomily.
“Good, good… Now, I suppose you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here. Well,” the man paused to take a breath and said, in an absolutely atrocious Jamaican accent, “welcome to Limbo!”
Timmy just stared. The man coughed nervously.
“Sorry, uh… The processing, er, process is usually made easier if people are at their ease during it. Now, um, where did I put your file?” The man turned from Timmy and caused a small avalanche of paper behind him. Timmy heard him cry triumphantly and turn around again.
“Now, uh… Well, this is odd. Most unusual.”
Timmy spoke for the first time.
“What is it?”
The man started as if he had forgotten that Timmy was there.
“It looks like you’re meant to go back to earth. I mean, usually, you die, and you stay dead. But, no, it’s very clear. It looks like you’re an immortal.”
“An immortal?”
“Oh yes.”
Timmy considered this. He had never felt immortal. He knew for a fact that if you cut him he would bleed like anybody else. Then again, Timmy had never tried dying. That’s what immortality is all about, really.
“So... I’ll never die?”
“Um. Not exactly. I suppose I was a little unclear.” The man straightened up. When he spoke again, there was brass in his voice. “You have a mission!
“And until you fulfill it you’ll be exempt from death,” he said in more normal tones.
“All right,” said Timmy, “what’s my mission?”
The man looked embarrassed.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
“You can’t tell me? Why not?”
“Mostly because I don’t know and partly because I’m not allowed to.”
“Then… How am I supposed to know how to do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“How will I know I have done it?”
“Oh, that’s easy. You’ll be mortal again.”
“So I’ll know because I’ll be dead and staying dead?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t strike you as at all unhelpful?”
“Look,” the man said defensively, “don’t shoot the messenger. I don’t make the rules. I’m just a servant.”
“All right, all right. I was just saying.”
They stared at each other for a while.
“Oh yes! Sorry. Almost forgot. Sign here,” he said, and thrust a paper and leaky pen at Timmy.
“What is this?”
“Waiver of the risks inherent of immortality.”
“What if I don’t sign it?”
“Then you stay down here for eternity.”
Timmy signed it.
As he finished the last flourish on his rather elegant signature he vanished. The man behind the desk sighed and walked around to get his pen back. Then he sat down again muttering.
“Paperwork, paperwork, always bloody paperwork.”
At that very moment, Timmy’s heart started.
1 Comments:
Interesting premise. I'm looking forward to the follow through!
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