Second Chances

Hear me, Lord of Death. Another approaches.

I've read the texts.

I can see you. That's right. That is your body. The damage is not that bad. Dead? Not quite. Not just yet. But tell me, what were you trying to do? Leave? Yes, I know. Everything IS hard. But stay for just a moment with me, weightless in this sunless space. Who am I? An echo of regret. Oh, you don't like that? Ok, look, just imagine I have a hand, and you have a hand. And here, I gently take yours in mine. I'm a friend. I have a lot to share with you.

I've done the rituals.

Hand in hand, see what I see. Look into what might have been the sky. What do you see?

Despite the fact that neither of us have flesh, I can feel the frisson of terror. It is almost as if, in the act of wilting from the imagined heat, the slight shade besides me gains actual mass. A substance made of fear.

There's nowhere to back away into. Except maybe... No? Why you? I'm sorry. It's like this for just about everyone. It has so many names, but it's not really a place. It's the accumulated harm you yourself believe you are due.

I know the words, written and spoken in an ancient tongue.

You have to understand, no one wants to punish you. There is no cosmic bean counter. It's just you. You have loved justice so much, you cannot help but find yourself, here at the transition point, the last judge and executioner, wielding that justice you wished so badly on others. Did you not find it delicious to know the rogue who ate your food a the office finally received their comeuppance? Now that very meal is yours to serve. It's the raw suffering you think you deserve in light of how you have treated others. Waiting there for you. Part of you. It's all a bit too simplistic an interpretation, small and human, but we're short on time and... What can you do? I'll tell you.

The purpose is clear.

So, the mess waiting for you through that opening, I'm claiming you made it, right? What if I told you that the future is, indeed, yours to make? Justice isn't only about punishment. It's simply a way of talking about your just, your proper, rewards. You have a chance. You have to be strong. And there's so much you can do. As long as you have a form, you can help others. What form?

I can use the breath beneath the breath.

Look, there, the form that brought you here. Breath persists; life rustles impatiently within it. What you hoped would fail and release you is quite hardy indeed. There is a way to make use of that form still. Trust me, I've seen quite a few broken bodies in my day, and that one, it's got years and years to go.

To free you of the weight.

I know. It was hard. So hard you rushed into a realm you didn't really believe existed. Let me tell you some secrets: now that you know this is here, you'll have something to fall back on. A foundational support. You know through experience what so many claim to know, though only through hearsay. This gate, to suffering or bliss, is here. Waiting for you. Part of you. I just want to help.

To remove you from the suffering shell.

What do I get out of it? Look around you. It's lonely here. I'm really glad to have these chats. It's not often people come through here who can make the choice. Those without a choice don't really tarry. I try to catch their attentions, but... Everyone's got somewhere to be. And you. Where do you want to be? I can show you the way, I can give you some pointers, but I can't do it for you.

To walk again in the world in a new body.

I'll get you back. You just have to remember to make good use of your remaining time. I would also advise against speaking about this with others. Most will not believe you, and many will ridicule you. You may even come to disbelieve and ridicule yourself. So steel yourself now. Remember me, this place, the ever malleable future. And when the doctors say, "You should have died," know that there is a space between, and that an old man turned you around. You just... You don't have to say that to anyone.

Your body.

Alright? Then it's settled. Sit here, take my hands. Remember what it is like to breathe. Even if it's just a strange echo in your mind. There, do you feel it? Let that old, fleshy metronome set the rhythm. Soon you will wake, a little worse for wear. Ready to conquer death itself.

I've read the texts. I've done the rituals. I know the words, written and spoken in an ancient tongue. The purpose is clear. I can use the breath beneath breath. To free you of the weight. To remove you from the suffering shell. To walk again in the world in a new body. Your body. Now my body.

But that's never how it ends. I watch as the shade is superimposed for a moment on their old vessel, and then they wake. Confused, shocked, elated... Determined. Always.

I could have more than second chances. I could dance through flesh until the end of time. But I can't bring myself to do it. You poor shades, when you see what waits for you, the desert of the dreams beyond, you quail, and I am moved. And besides, I have found some strange contentment in being a stubborn shadow, an irascible specter, the scary old man, who is, despite himself, essentially kindness. Sit with me a moment, so that I may give you your second chance.