Ready

A Short Story by Devon A

"Your shoulder looks comfortable," she says, nearly whispering. She scootches closer to him and rests her head on it.

“Is it?" he asks.

She laughs. "Not really, but I think it's because of the ground and not-"

"Maybe this will help," he says warmly.

He rests his forehead on hers, which is resting on him. The stars above them sparkle; his eyes locate vega, and then altair, and then, lastly, deneb, shimmering blue...

He smiles. Not across his face, like his favorite character did something badass. Not small and uncontrollable, like a kitten fell asleep in his arms, no, it's a new type of smile. It's a smile like everything is okay, and everything is perfect the way it is now. He's never felt this physically and mentally comfortable ever before. The October cold washes over him like a beach tide, and he shivers. But inside he's warm. It isn't like a firey hot warm, it's like a hug on a mild day during a sunset with someone you trust who also happens to be a great hugger after telling them something that you've needed to get off of your chest for years. That kind of warm. Good warm.

With his head still against hers, his eyelids fall into gravity's pull. The noise of the world disintegrates gradually from his consciousness, as the only thing he's aware of is the closeness, the comfort, the contentment...

He's still smiling as he falls aslee-

Awake?

His eyes open and the left one feeds his brain a blurry purple image, no lines defined to help him identify what reality is. He's too tired to question what's going on though.

And then full consciousness resumes. He's awake, in his bed, with purple sheets, after sleeping. He was dreaming. It wasn't...

Well, it was real, but it was like a month ago. He pouts. Preparing for what might be another long day quarantined in his dorm, he stretches his legs out and rolls over, expecting the view of his newly redesigned room.

Only instead his sleepy eyes are met with an endless void of black.

His playful pout quickly transitions to a confused, concerned glare at the infinite dark. He blinks a few times but nothing new appears. Just the same pitch black endlessness.

His fight or flight response scrambles any rational thought, but there's little rational anything in this situation. He takes a few seconds to catch himself, and then some more to account the situation.

He's in a void or something, the only thing visible is his bed, the sheets on it, his pillow, and himself. He thinks to himself that something's off about the sheets.

Somehow everything's illuminated- where is the light coming from? Directly after this occurs to him he puts his hand out in front of him. No shadow appears on the sheets. He begins to move his fingers around, to see if a shadow appears on his palm, or another finger. None do.

His eyes go back to the sheets, which have no shadows at all, giving it a textureless appearance despite there being obvious creases. He can feel them, but light somehow reaches their every angle.

"What the hell is this?" he whispers.

"This is The Transition," replies another whisper.

He's caught so off guard by this response, a response at all, he jumps pretty harshly out of shock. His head automatically swivels around, looking for who said it. Nothing new.

It takes him a second to say something else. He finds his voice eventually.

"What?" he says, voice shaky.

"You are in The Transition," the whisper says.

"What is that?" he says, without thinking it through at all, but it isn't something he doesn't want to know.

The whisper returns. "The Transition is an opportunity for those who have had an unexpected and undeserving death to have a say in what their next life will look like."

He waits a second, but his brain refuses to comprehend what he's just heard. "What?..."

"Not everyone arrives here. You were chosen to have this opportunity, so you have been granted it. If you are confused, it is my sole purpose to help you understand, accept, and choose wisely."

He doesn't understand. At all. He loops the whisper's words again and again in his head. Next life? Chosen? The whisper can help him accept- "Accept what?" he blurts out.

The second after he says it he already knows.

"You had a heart attack at 3:33 AM last night for you, and it was fatal. You died. I can help you accept your death."

"I died?"

"Correct."

"I died?"

"Correct."

"How?"

"You had a heart-"

He interrupts the whisper, panic mixing with frustration, blending with the confusion. "I- oh my god, oh my god-"

"I'm here. Calm." the whisper is closer now. He suddenly does feel calmer, however getting past the frustration just opens the gates to the flood of sadness. Tears stream out of his eyes like rivers. He sobs.

"I'm here," the whisper repeats after a minute of him thinking about things over many many tears.

"So that's it? My life is over?..." his voice crackles.

"You could say that the one you just lived is, yes. Your vessel is no longer conductive to life."

He thinks about this. "So what now?"

"Are you ready to choose?"

"Choose...?"

"Your next vessel."

"There's no way this is actually happening, right?..." He looks at his hands. "This is another dream. I'm dreaming, right? Yeah, I'm... wait..." He realizes he never knows he's dreaming when he actually is. He doesn't lucid dream, only she can d-

His eyes widen.

Her.

He died?

"I died?"

"Correct," the whisper responds again.

The tears return to his eyes but don't fall. They just cloud his vision; the bed below him becomes a purple blob again as he pictures her in his head. How her eyes would twinkle. How her face would light up when he made a joke. Her in the one of the chairs outside his dorm, waiting for him, obviously smiling despite the mask...

"Oh my god," he whispers.

He would never see her again, never feel her shoulder on his, her against him, ever again. She will wake up today and learn that he had died spontaneously, and he won't be able to be there for her because he's the one who died. Everyone at the school would know, many people would be impacted...

His mind feeds him a picture of his younger sister running up to hug him with a huge grin, then his older sister happy-crying as he performs a song he wrote for her for her birthday. His dad and his mom, in the kitchen, with nothing but support and love for him. He visions his cat, leaning into his hands as he pets her, purring softly...

He would never see any of them again.

The tears overflow and spill down his cheeks. "Oh my god."

The whisper speaks again. "You seem to have realized the effect your death will have on the others that knew you."

He doesn't attempt say anything back or even breathe. He doesn't know if he can.

"By your silence, I assume I am correct." The whisper pauses. "You can talk to me, if you'd like, but know I cannot return you to your former vessel."

His head lifts up to the void. "Who... what even are you?" He chokes on his words and coughs lightly.

"I am a helper of sorts. I do not reserve a title, nor must I. No living being on Earth knows of me, as after the choice is made all recollection of my interactions with them dissipate completely again. Refer to me as whatever you would like."

"The choice, you keep talking about that, what is that?"

"You have been given the opportunity to choose where you would like to begin again."

He considers this, but doesn't come up with anything. All he really wants to do is go back but he knows he can't.

"Some popular options among older souls are to choose a vessel that's still in the family line. Others want as much distance as possible from their prior family and choose to be reborn into a more closer, loving, supportive, perhaps more stable one... it's really up to you," the whisper states.

"What else could I do?"

"Well, you could choose qualities, natural abilities that your new vessel will exhibit. If one, say, loves art or music, one can choose to have natural creativity. You can also choose where you'd like your vessel to be born, as what gender, with whatever potential you wish."

His mind whirls. He takes a second to rethink everything through. "Wait. You said something about not everyone arriving here or something."

The whisper responds promptly. "Yes. You have been chosen to ha-"

"Chosen by who?"

"The Universe."

He laughs. He can't help himself. "I'm sorry, the universe chose me for something?"

"Correct-"

"Yeah, okay." he laughs, irritation bleeding through his every word. "This is all great. Whoever's doing whatever this is can stop now. It's really hilarious, you really got me, didn't you! You did such a great job, must be so proud of yourself-" He puts his foot out off of the bed, but no floor is there to catch it. He flails off of the bed, but doesn't fall downwards. He more so floats strangely to the side. Its like swimming in air. His panic is set off again, and the whisper reappears to calm him.

After he catches his breath for a moment, the whisper speaks again. "You are not dreaming. You are not still inside your vessel. You have died, and you are in The Transition."

"So blunt," he says through rapid breathing. "So let me get this straight. I died, and I can't go back to how I was, but for some unknown reason the universe chose me to have a special opportunity that not every gets to design my next life?"

"Correct," the whisper responds, "but the reason is not unknown. You have been deemed a good person, to say it simply. The Universe admires your choices. Everyone has the potential to be a kind person, but not everyone does with that what you have. It is what you've chosen to do for the people around you, or for a good cause, that is what has earned you this opportunity. Your vessel brought light to many others."

He tries to wrap his brain around this, but it still doesn't seem real. He's sure he isn't dreaming now, though, because his subconscious would never positively view himself.

"I..." He begins to speak, but has no idea what to say. He just wants to go back to his old life, his old relationships, his old everything. No... not everything, he thinks to himself. However, if he was given a choice, never would he choose to completely restart because of the negatives.

But he would have, once upon a time. A year ago, and a year before that.

His thoughts take him back in time to his bad days. The struggles, the hospitalizations, the hallucinations, the medication, the infinite meetings with the school, the infinite therapy sessions and therapists themselves. All the fights, all the tears, all the screams, all the sharps, hidden from him, out of terror he'd misuse them while the only adult in the house finally tried to put the youngest to bed.

Although... look where he ended up. Good terms with all of his family, good terms with all of his peers. Depression no longer debilitating. Anxiety being managed. Not the healthiest person ever, but...

Finally happy.

He thinks of her again.

But this time he smiles with the tears still painted on his cheeks.

He was so grateful for who she was, and what she did for him by just being herself. Her presence in his life had made it better, brighter, and worth it all. He missed her like hell, but the pain was nothing on the perfect, warm, comfort that he had felt next to her.

A year ago, things were definitely not the lightest, but if he had given up, he never would have met her.

He straightens himself up, takes a deep breath, and speaks into the vast darkness. To the whisper. To the something in the nothingness. To the possibility.

"I'm ready."