『GRIM』

1- 『Two Words, Seven Letters』

I jumped.

Off that roof, eight stories up. 

I don't remember hitting the concrete. I don't remember hearing anyone screaming. I don't remember the ambulances, the police cars, the red-and-blue lights. I don't remember the inside of the body bag, or the sound of the zipper. I don't remember the sound of the crying mother who wept by my side at the morgue. I don't remember her face. I don't remember the funeral service, the white roses, the pitifully small crowd that came to avenge me. I don't remember the dirt being piled on top of my coffin. 

I don't remember the name carved into my gravestone.

But, despite all that, I opened my eyes. 

Lights switched on overhead. Blinding, fluorescent lights that buzzed and rattled and flickered above me. The building was white, completely white, with white linoleum patches made to look like tiles. The ceiling was covered with sprinklers, and a surveillance camera watched me from the corner. To my left were windows; the outside was just inky black, and the only thing I could see was my reflection.

Me.  I was a boy (a man, maybe?) with brown hair. I had a rather unsavoury, choppy hairstyle, the right side short and the left side considerably longer. I wore a baggy red parka with thumb-holes cut in the sleeves; the fabric was pilling and thin. My shoes were old, the color faded by five or six shades, unlaced and with no socks. My eyes were dark, with big black bags around them, my cheeks sunken and hollow. I didn't recognize the face, and I didn't remember buying the clothes. Regardless, this was still me.

Behind me, there was just a wall. No way out, no door, no glowing green exit sign. Clearly, the only way was forward. 

The sound of my feet on the floor seemed extremely loud. I near to winced with every step. My reflection stalked me in the windows, literally like a shadow, and my heart threatened to burst out of my ribcage. This hallway stretched on for what felt like miles, the same whitewashed scenery, over and over again. The same faux tiles, the same white light, the same windows. But eventually, it turned. 

It was darker down there. It was like the turn opened up into a haunted house, full of dark and cobwebs and smelling like mothballs. To one side, there were piles of plastic chairs, stacked on top of one another. The other, there were boxes. Boxes of papers, manila folders and blank sheets. The folders just had more paper in them, printed with people's profiles and pictures, stamped with red letters. 

Where was this? Why was I here?

Behind the piles of cardboard boxes, plastic tubs and Styrofoam trays, there was a door. An unlabelled door, painted grey; light shone from the gap underneath it, illuminating the meagre darkness that surrounded me on all sides. I put my hand, shaking, on the handle; the silver alloy was cold on my fingers. It turned, gave a small rasping sound, and the door swung ajar. 

Inside the room was a rectangular table and two chairs. Aside from that, it was empty. I stepped inside...

There was a click as the door shut and locked. My ears were full of the R-n'-B of my heartbeat when I felt a hand on my shoulder. My ears perked, the small hairs on my skin rose and goosebumps tagged along. I scrambled away, knocking over one of the chairs with a resounding thud. 

"Gee, why the long face, boy? You should be happy!" It was a man's voice, crooning and acidic.

I didn't recognize the man... but I had Buckley's chance of that when I didn't even recognize myself. He was a tall, lanky man (taller than me), with short-cropped black hair. His yellow eyes ogled and stared at me, and his teeth were covered in plaque. He wore a tidy black suit, with a tidy black dress shirt, and a tidy black bowtie, topped off with a tidier-looking black top hat. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and smiled. "You've been given a second chance! I am the Watchman! And you, boy, must be here for the interview!"