You are inexplicable. | ONC 2021

i - MEETING.

This is not how you imagined Death.

Okay, maybe you never really put much thought into it. But this man...creature...entity? He—or it?—is not what you would have expected.

Suspenders stretch over his hunched shoulders over a plain white button-up. You're certain every muscle would be tense—if he had any. His bones look worn, somehow, like he spent years of his existence decaying underground. 

Before you, he complains about work while furiously filling out forms. You dare to edge forward on your chair and realize that they are death certificates. Of course.

"Always more deadlines! Every day. Can't catch a break!" His voice is odd—featureless and disembodied as if projected from all directions. "I swear, someday management will come to their senses and see that I'm right. We're in dire need of a...of a plague! Yes! Or...I've been eyeing up that volcano under Yellowstone for centuries." 

Death licks his lips—or lack thereof.

"Is another mass extinction really too much to ask?" he goes on. "It's bound to happen soon, anyway. I guess that's the silver lining here. You're doing it to yourselves! No need for all the bureaucracy." He throws his head back with harsh, raucous laughter, then returns to his work.

Eventually, he looks up from the stacks of files on his desk. You think he's looking at you, but you can't be sure. At least, his eye sockets are aimed in your direction. Your eyes flit away and back as you try not to stare.

"And then you," he says, leaning forward and interlacing his phalanges. "You show up and complicate things. I've got a job to do—to keep the damn world running smoothly. I don't have time for this!" He wrings his skeletal fists in the air.

Then he lowers them, sinking into his chair with resignation. "What's your name supposed to be, anyway? Who are you?" He snatches up a pen and searches aimlessly for a blank sheet of paper.

"I, uh...I don't know," you say, clenching the rigid wooden armrests of your chair. 

It's true; you can't seem to remember a thing about your own identity. A sense of unease creeps over you at the thought.

"Look, you know why I've got this job? Because I do it well. I don't make...mistakes." His eye sockets bore into you with contempt. You feel the burning warmth of life drain from your heart, almost going slack in your seat. After a moment, he looks away, and you gasp as your blood desperately resumes pulsing, roaring in your ears. "You've got to be in here somewhere." He begins tearing open filing cabinets behind him, seemingly skimming through files at random.

"Okay, okay, I've got an idea. I'll just drop you off when I've got an appointment with someone who fits your description. You'll take their place. Everything will be fine and dandy, no one will notice a thing."

You sit there patiently in Death's office, twiddling your thumbs and taking in his decor. On his desk, there's a photograph of himself pushing a smaller skeleton, dressed in pink, on a swingset. There are a dozen filing cabinets along the wall behind his chair. You wonder where he could possibly fit billions of files, assuming there's one for every living person—never mind the already deceased. 

The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, and the ceiling is stained with water damage. Your heart thuds harder as you realize there are no doors. For a long moment, you eye the painting on the wall: a skull with a lit cigarette between its teeth.

Death takes notice. "That's a portrait of me, of course. A gift from a lovely man called Vincent. He's one of the few I still visit." He turns back to his work. "Mind you, I have since quit smoking," he mutters. "Deadly habit."

Your gaze shifts to a point above his head, not wanting to look directly at him. "You can visit...the dead?" you say, considering the implications.

"You didn't hear me say that!" he commands. "Mortals aren't supposed to know. Don't tell anyone." A strange desire to obey his orders washes over you. 

After a long while of silently working and ignoring you, Death stands and pulls on a well-fitted suit jacket. He gathers up an armful of files and packs them neatly into a sleek black briefcase. He beckons you to follow, so you stiffly rise from your seat. You turn to see that death has conjured a door you're certain was not present before. 

It is imposing, its heavy deep-brown wood carved with ornamental designs. As you move closer, you see that the designs are actually hundreds of intricate, melded figures—gaunt men and women with their mouths frozen mid-scream, their hands clawing desperately for a salvation that would never come.

As Death turns the nob and tears open the door, a burst of arctic air rushes over you. Immediately, you begin to shiver; the cold seems to permeate the marrow of your bones. Beyond the threshold is a void of relentless blackness. You want nothing more than to turn and run, yet a pressing force draws you forward, into the abyss. You begin to fear that Death has decided on an entirely different, more convenient plan of action. 

If there is no record of you ever existing, then why should you?

Death places his unyielding hand on your shoulder. An absolute numbness radiates from the point of contact, and you suck in a shuddering, icy gasp. He thrusts you through the entrance into blackness.

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So as usual, I'm writing whatever comes to mind. I've definitely never written anything lengthy in second person, so I don't know how well this will work. I'm just here to have a good time. ;D

Last ONC, I started way late and only got to 8k words. This one, I really hope to finish. If I write for 60 days, I believe I only need to do 333.33 words per day or 1k every three days.

This is about 900 words on day one. I have a major problem with ever finishing stories, so the goal really is quantity over quality, for now.

If anyone happens to read this and enjoy it, that's a wonderful bonus.

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