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deemoyzaBet My Life | 1,137 words | Fantasy
(In response to this prompt.)
----
The door looked like an ordinary office door. Stained wood, polished brass handle, a frosted-glass window with a decal announcing who worked beyond. But the words on the decal made it very clear where I was:
MANAGER
DEPARTMENT OF DEATH
I blinked and shook my head, but the decal remained the same. Bracing myself for what I might find, I pressed down on the handle and opened the door.
The office was surprisingly bright, considering who it belonged to. The lights were turned all the way up, and assisted by a tall lamp in one corner. The manager’s desk was long, made of a dark, polished wood, and scattered with a number of surprising conveniences. A row of books and binders ran along one end, held in place by a pair of abstract bookends. At the other end sat a printer and a tray filled with papers and file folders. A laptop lay in the middle of the desk, still closed, and, behind the desk, the manager was scrolling through something on her phone, the blue glow of its screen reflected in her glasses.
She acknowledged my entrance with a nod and motioned me forward, still scrolling as I sat down across from her.
“The dead don’t get second chances,” she said finally, then set aside her phone and crossed her arms on her desk. "What makes you think you deserve one?”
“I don’t belong here,” I said, simply.
“Everyone says that.”
“I really don’t. I was tricked. I think you made a mistake.”
“What’s your name?”
“Warner Beake.”
“Hmm, let me check your acquisition report.” She slid a binder from the row at the end of her desk and flipped through it, murmuring my name over and over.
“Um, why don’t you …?” I pointed to the closed laptop on her desk.
“I don’t believe you’re in the system yet. We’re short-staffed in Records right now, and have a backlog of several weeks.” She continued flipping. "Ah, here we are, Warner Beake. The agent reported that they brought you here per the terms of a verbal agreement between you and them. A bet, if you will. Is that correct?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“It wasn’t a real bet!”
“According to the report, the terms were quite clear. Our agent bet a significant sum of money on one team winning the game you were watching, and you countered with betting your life on the opposite outcome. All bets were settled in accordance with the actual outcome.”
“But, but it’s just a figure of speech!”
“Perhaps you ought to have chosen your words more carefully.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was drunk!” I stood and slammed my palms on the desk, prepared to launch into a passionate plea, a dramatic show, anything to move this cold woman to mercy, or, at least, to doubt.
I never got the chance. Before I could say more, the manager’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then held up her hand.
“I’m sorry, will you excuse me?” she said, picking it up. "One of our field agents. Yes, this is she … what do you mean, you’re unable to secure the soul? … She outsmarted you? Well, that’s hardly a surprise … yes, yes, I apologize; that was harsh … but I cannot give you another extension. Each of our agents must reach their quotas by the end of the third quarter … that clerical error, over in Birth, resulted in a massive surplus … No, once they’re shipped, they can’t be recalled! That’s why we have to clear room. … Yes, I know we’re always cleaning up after them, but that is our job. Now, do yours, or it’s six months in Limbo! I don’t want to hear from you again until you submit your acquisition report. Goodbye.”
The manager ended the call and sighed, then turned back to me. "You were saying?“
I stammered for a moment, chasing down my train of thought. "I couldn’t properly agree to the terms of the bet. I was drunk at the time.”
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "Our easiest marks often are.”
“What? Oh, come on, you know I wouldn’t have bet anything if I’d been sober! I wasn’t thinking. This isn’t fair!”
“No one ever said we were fair. As you no doubt heard, there is a surplus of humans en route to the Living Plane as we speak. If we don’t make room, the Living Plane will become nearly uninhabitable.
"Overpopulation is a nasty scenario, one with its own department here. And, if you think our agents are shifty and cruel, you’d best hope with what’s left of your soul that you never cross paths with one of theirs. They work on a large scale, indiscriminately, and leave the job half-done. Our agents are only cleared to step in after they leave, as euthanists, collectors. Reapers. The field is so immense, we can only work in batches, until a reasonable balance between the planes is restored. We’re trying to stay ahead of that, at all costs. Even if it means holding a drunkard to his word.”
“I’m not a drunkard. Er, I wasn’t one. I was just winding down after work, catching the game, when … when … Hey, how did I get here?”
The manager consulted her binder. "You fell outside of the bar and struck your head against the curb. It was quick, efficient. The agent who acquired you is one of our best. You were lucky.”
“Lucky? I’m dead!”
“Yes, and free of pain.” The manager rose and walked toward the door. "There is an entire life here, of a unique sort. What those on the Living Plane call the Afterlife. You will find that, within its own rules, it is not drastically different from what you knew. Punishments are more severe here, of course, to maintain order, but rewards are much greater.” She opened the door and motioned for me to leave. "Don’t dwell on the past, Mr. Beake. Let it go, and you will soon forget all about it.“
I stepped over the threshold, but she did not immediately close the door behind me. I turned around and saw her tapping a finger against her lower lip, thoughtful.
"But,” she went on, “if you need another perspective, consider the imminent situation on the Living Plane. Your arrival here keeps one step us further from O-Pop’s intervention. Thank you for your sacrifice, Mr. Beake. Goodbye.”
She shut the door, and I found myself reading the decal again. I stared at it, at the last word in particular, trying to rearrange the letters and sounds into a different meaning, until another woman, arms full of papers, excused herself with a smile and stepped into the office, the door shutting behind her with decisive click.
(In response to this prompt.)
----
The door looked like an ordinary office door. Stained wood, polished brass handle, a frosted-glass window with a decal announcing who worked beyond. But the words on the decal made it very clear where I was:
DEPARTMENT OF DEATH
I blinked and shook my head, but the decal remained the same. Bracing myself for what I might find, I pressed down on the handle and opened the door.
The office was surprisingly bright, considering who it belonged to. The lights were turned all the way up, and assisted by a tall lamp in one corner. The manager’s desk was long, made of a dark, polished wood, and scattered with a number of surprising conveniences. A row of books and binders ran along one end, held in place by a pair of abstract bookends. At the other end sat a printer and a tray filled with papers and file folders. A laptop lay in the middle of the desk, still closed, and, behind the desk, the manager was scrolling through something on her phone, the blue glow of its screen reflected in her glasses.
She acknowledged my entrance with a nod and motioned me forward, still scrolling as I sat down across from her.
“The dead don’t get second chances,” she said finally, then set aside her phone and crossed her arms on her desk. "What makes you think you deserve one?”
“I don’t belong here,” I said, simply.
“Everyone says that.”
“I really don’t. I was tricked. I think you made a mistake.”
“What’s your name?”
“Warner Beake.”
“Hmm, let me check your acquisition report.” She slid a binder from the row at the end of her desk and flipped through it, murmuring my name over and over.
“Um, why don’t you …?” I pointed to the closed laptop on her desk.
“I don’t believe you’re in the system yet. We’re short-staffed in Records right now, and have a backlog of several weeks.” She continued flipping. "Ah, here we are, Warner Beake. The agent reported that they brought you here per the terms of a verbal agreement between you and them. A bet, if you will. Is that correct?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“It wasn’t a real bet!”
“According to the report, the terms were quite clear. Our agent bet a significant sum of money on one team winning the game you were watching, and you countered with betting your life on the opposite outcome. All bets were settled in accordance with the actual outcome.”
“But, but it’s just a figure of speech!”
“Perhaps you ought to have chosen your words more carefully.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was drunk!” I stood and slammed my palms on the desk, prepared to launch into a passionate plea, a dramatic show, anything to move this cold woman to mercy, or, at least, to doubt.
I never got the chance. Before I could say more, the manager’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then held up her hand.
“I’m sorry, will you excuse me?” she said, picking it up. "One of our field agents. Yes, this is she … what do you mean, you’re unable to secure the soul? … She outsmarted you? Well, that’s hardly a surprise … yes, yes, I apologize; that was harsh … but I cannot give you another extension. Each of our agents must reach their quotas by the end of the third quarter … that clerical error, over in Birth, resulted in a massive surplus … No, once they’re shipped, they can’t be recalled! That’s why we have to clear room. … Yes, I know we’re always cleaning up after them, but that is our job. Now, do yours, or it’s six months in Limbo! I don’t want to hear from you again until you submit your acquisition report. Goodbye.”
The manager ended the call and sighed, then turned back to me. "You were saying?“
I stammered for a moment, chasing down my train of thought. "I couldn’t properly agree to the terms of the bet. I was drunk at the time.”
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "Our easiest marks often are.”
“What? Oh, come on, you know I wouldn’t have bet anything if I’d been sober! I wasn’t thinking. This isn’t fair!”
“No one ever said we were fair. As you no doubt heard, there is a surplus of humans en route to the Living Plane as we speak. If we don’t make room, the Living Plane will become nearly uninhabitable.
"Overpopulation is a nasty scenario, one with its own department here. And, if you think our agents are shifty and cruel, you’d best hope with what’s left of your soul that you never cross paths with one of theirs. They work on a large scale, indiscriminately, and leave the job half-done. Our agents are only cleared to step in after they leave, as euthanists, collectors. Reapers. The field is so immense, we can only work in batches, until a reasonable balance between the planes is restored. We’re trying to stay ahead of that, at all costs. Even if it means holding a drunkard to his word.”
“I’m not a drunkard. Er, I wasn’t one. I was just winding down after work, catching the game, when … when … Hey, how did I get here?”
The manager consulted her binder. "You fell outside of the bar and struck your head against the curb. It was quick, efficient. The agent who acquired you is one of our best. You were lucky.”
“Lucky? I’m dead!”
“Yes, and free of pain.” The manager rose and walked toward the door. "There is an entire life here, of a unique sort. What those on the Living Plane call the Afterlife. You will find that, within its own rules, it is not drastically different from what you knew. Punishments are more severe here, of course, to maintain order, but rewards are much greater.” She opened the door and motioned for me to leave. "Don’t dwell on the past, Mr. Beake. Let it go, and you will soon forget all about it.“
I stepped over the threshold, but she did not immediately close the door behind me. I turned around and saw her tapping a finger against her lower lip, thoughtful.
"But,” she went on, “if you need another perspective, consider the imminent situation on the Living Plane. Your arrival here keeps one step us further from O-Pop’s intervention. Thank you for your sacrifice, Mr. Beake. Goodbye.”
She shut the door, and I found myself reading the decal again. I stared at it, at the last word in particular, trying to rearrange the letters and sounds into a different meaning, until another woman, arms full of papers, excused herself with a smile and stepped into the office, the door shutting behind her with decisive click.
