Darkness.
Nothing he could see. He ran his fingers over his face. He was blindfolded. The cloth of the blindfold felt withered. He felt for the knot at the back of his head. It was slippery, as if it were moss-infested. He tried scratching the cloth. That was definitely moss. He could not gain a grip on the knot. He could sense that he was standing, but could not feel the ground through his shoes.
He took a step forward. Dirt crisped under his shoes, but it felt as if the ground was wet. He could smell something rotten. Dead.
Still darkness.
He felt for his eyes and found that he was blindfolded. The cloth felt as if it were about to be torn apart. He felt the back of the cloth. There was a tight knot that was holding the piece of cloth together. He tried untying it, but in vain. His fingers slipped over moss. He could feel his cold feet inside some warm shoes.
A crisp of sand. Something was breathing against his neck. He quickly charged his worn-out legs forward. He was running through darkness.
The cloth didn't feel like it could hold the light. He wondered if it was dark outside, where he was standing. His leg tripped over something rigid.
Agonizing pain.
He grunted. He was about to tumble over, his elbow about to hit the ground.
Justin fell out of himself.
He was sweating against his soft blanket. He sat up, looking at the door that was facing his bed. He closed his bewildered eyes and sighed. He looked at the waist-level shelf beside the bed. The clock stood on it.
'92-Night' it showed.
He always had the alarm trigger at '01-Day'.
Justin smacked his lips and fell back into the bed with a thump.
06-Day
Justin was at the Monitor Complex, in the section: Service. He had a tiny table before him, on which was a register. It contained the bold letters: JUSTIN SILANE, Investigative Journalist, Sector T.
It showed an increasing countdown at 'Age-78'. Justin took the ink rifle (pen) on the table and marked the box adjacent to the writing. 'Age-79'.
He knew that was not true. Every day he's at the Monitor Complex, the age in his register has some number. He would just write the next, adding one. Justin couldn't tell when or how he began writing his age. He didn't seem to remember at all, if he, indeed, had been dead for over 79 day-night cycles.
98-Day
A young boy sat opposite Justin's chair, his face giving away his fear. Justin's office had just the adequate light and space for two people at a time. Justin pulled his chair closer and leaned forward on the table that was lying between the boy and himself. Justin opened a file.
"The Takers might've already told you," Justin broke the silence. "Where you are; and why you are here."
The boy shook unsteadily, his face twisted.
"Didn't they?"
He nodded his head.
"Look, I've had a tiring day, and you're my twenty-first case today. Let's make this quick."
The boy held his head down, shaking, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"I have a few questions I'd like to ask," Justin said. "You need to calm down for that."
The boy gulped heavily and pretended to be calm. He inhaled deeply.
"Now," Justin started. "What's your name?"
The boy gulped again. "Larry."
"Full name."
"Uh— Larry Ashley Dessen."
Justin took a note in the file.
"How old are you?"
"I'm 16."
Justin smacked his lips. His pen paused for a moment and then continued.
"You're from Stuttgart, Germany?"
"Yes."
"Were you born there?"
"I was."
"Hmm."
Justin looked at the boy.
"Now to some serious shit. What is the last memory of life that you remember?"
The boy seemed hesitant.
"Trust me, boy, if you're not open with me, you'll suffer from your memories."
"Um— I— I went to a field trip with my friends."
"Mm-Hmm."
"We enjoyed the field during the afternoon. But as soon as it was getting dark, my friends wanted to swim in the river. I—," the boy was beginning to break down. "I tried to stop them, but they dragged me in too. It seems I drowned."
"Look, boy. No one's going to file a case against you for anything here. You can be completely open to me. You led them to the river? That's fine, just tell me."
"No, no, no. I would not do that. Trust me. They were the ones who took me to the river. I can swim in the pool, but I couldn't do the same in the river water. I shouted to them, but they couldn't find me in the darkness. I drowned," tears lingered in his eyes.
Justin took notes.
'He does remember how he died,' he thought in despair.
"Alright, Larry," Justin said slowly. "Do you want to be sent to the Dessens? The dead ones."
"Is there—" the boy stammered. "Is there any alternative?"
Justin looked at the boy with an ominous look. He knew the Mafia House of the Dessens when he was still alive. This boy looked different. "You could live alone, independently."
The boy thought silently for a while. "I'll have that."
"It is no longer a concern of the Complex or me, in that case, if the Dessens seek and find you. They will be informed of your death, nonetheless."
The boy looked tense.
"Sign here if you accept," Justin turned the file around and pushed it towards the boy. He gave him the pen. The boy sighed and signed.
"We'll look into your death case for any unusual happenings and send the information to the Dessens in no time."
The boy nodded, looking at the table.
"Now listen," Justin said calmly, putting aside the file. "I don't usually talk to my clients too much, but I'm telling you this because you're still a boy. This is a place where everyone must come sometime or the other. Many enrol here, but no one leaves. We're all dead. I'm dead too. I might look like I'm in my twenties, but you wouldn't believe me if I told you I'm over a 100 years old."
The boy looked Justin in the eyes.
"No one cares how you've lived your life down there. But the way you live here, in the afterlife, matters, for you are to live under this 20-year-old skin for an eternity here."
The boy looked half-astonished. The timer on the table glowed. It showed: '00-Night.'
"And one more thing. You are free to visit the Complex anytime after," Justin stood up, his chair squeaking. "Welcome to the afterlife."
02-Night
Justin returned to his house. He felt for the lamp beside his bed and pulled it off. He tucked himself in. There was this one thought that didn't let him sound sleep.
'The boy, too, remembers his last moments. It seems I don't remember mine.'
He rolled over and closed his eyes shut.
'Did I really die?'