Ticket to Hell, Please

Most folk don't remember how they died. Or they do and believe it is common courtesy to feign ignorance, akin to the social faux pas of asking a prisoner why he's doing time. Apparently, the same applies in the afterlife, you shouldn't be so rude as to remind others of their mortal coil. I remember it quite vividly, not so much because it was a life-changing experience, rather, because it debunked most old wives' tales.

Your life doesn't flash through your eyes like some speeding PowerPoint presentation, overwhelming the searing pain of asphyxiation crawling its way up your esophagus and bursting out of your gaping mouth. No. You simply die, you cease to exist. No warm, fuzzy recollections of life well-spent, no inner peace in coming to terms with your Maker. No. There's only you, and the final harrowing moments spent on Earth.

It's not until you wake up from death that the post-mortem hangover kicks in. It's brightly lit – overly so – like staring at the blinding halogen lamp of a dentist chair. I wonder if that's where the old adage comes from, of not following the light – though I've never met anyone who's made it to hell or heaven and back. The second thing you'll notice is discomfort, your ass-cheeks numb and tender as if you've been sitting here for an eternity. It very well might've been, I've yet to figure out how long it takes to get here, people just seem to pop out of nowhere.

This place is called Purgatorium, and it looks precisely like you think it does: a DMV that hasn't updated its décor since the early 2000's. We're talking rows of metal chairs with blue-plastic seats, a couple of 2007 plasma TV's that always skip your number, and blank faced employees who always seem to be on a cigarette break. Unlike the DMV though, they aren't hell spawn. I guess they're angels, though none of them have wings. They're dressed in white suits with halos hovering over their heads, some crooked like poorly fastened ties. Motivational posters line the white-washed walls sparsely:

<< Please be patient, eternity awaits >>

Or,

<< Use your inner voice, scream internally >>

Right, I forgot to mention that part. Memory works in weird ways; death is the last and first thing you experience. I remember being jolted by the shrieks coming from the man sitting next to me, his fingers lodged deep into his face, followed by confusion and then embarrassment for causing such a commotion. It wasn't until much later that I found out he spent his last breaths on Earth ablaze. Another man was clutching at his stomach wondering where the knife had gone; a teenager sitting in the row behind us gazed at her pristine wrists with wonderful bewilderment; a portly young man kept checking for a noose that wasn't there.

I remember death quite vividly, mostly because of how boring it was. I overdosed on pain prescription pills, and woke up here. I still have the taste in my mouth, it's a mixture of chalk and wax, but smooth like the cover of a Babybel. I think that's why I was taken aback at the screams at first, though like everything in life – or death I guess – you get accustomed to it.

For some holy reason, my number popped up on one of the TVs. I remember fishing it out of my pocket despite never having looked at it before, knowing it was my turn to go. As I approached the desk, I couldn't help but notice they were using a computer. An old Windows-XP, you know, the ones with big, boxy screens?

"Name."

It wasn't a question, she didn't even so much as glance at me.

"Andrew Smith."

"Occupation."

"I'm dead. I am dead, right? So...unemployed, I guess?

"Cause of death."

"Shouldn't you already know this? I mean you're supposed to know my sins and –" This time she did look up. It was hard to tell, none of the angels seemed to emote but I could sense some mild annoyance in her otherwise vacant stare.

"Cause of death."

I shrugged. "Overdose. Pills."

I don't know if this is the right description, but she gave me an understanding look, somewhere between solemnity and...pity? It wasn't quite that, from my brief time here I understood that such emotions could only belong to those of mortal flesh. Her voice caught me off guard.

"Heaven or Hell?"

I wasn't expecting a question, let alone an option.

"Sorry, I don't think I understand."

"Where do you belong?" She replied nonchalantly, with blatant disregard to the existential quagmire that the question posed.

"Again, I'm not sure what you mean by that. As in, what I deserve? Where I believe I should go? I think holy judgement is more of your prerogative than mine. Don't you have some guidelines to follow, the ten commandments and what not?"

"It's 2021." She replied matter of fact. "They're old and outdated."

"So, I just get to choose where I go? What about being good, or evil? Of consequence?"

For a moment it seemed like she was about to sigh and say "look, man, I'm just doing my job, can we get a move on?" Yet, she wouldn't reply, nothing but the sporadic screams of Purgatorium answered my seemingly stupid questions.

"Can I –" Before the words left my mouth, I heard screams from the desk two rows over to the left. Not the regular old screams, screams of sudden realization of having died. No, these shrieks were far more familiar.

"I want to speak to a manager! Now!"

In retrospect, it wasn't that surprising to find a Karen in purgatory. They already made life a living hell, they couldn't help but make purgatory one too.

"Do you get these often?"

"Everyday."

I chuckled, and in a way, I think she did so too. She didn't show it, but I knew that was as close to a laugh I was going to get.

"Ok. Quick question, where do people like her ask to go?"

"Heaven. Always."

"And do you actually send them there?"

"Yes."

I smiled.

"One ticket to Hell, please."