The afterlife

Marcus awoke with his head pounding, and his memories of the moments before falling asleep hazy. He tried to reach up to his head, to cradle it in an attempt to ease the pain, but he felt that he couldn't reach it for some reason. His eyes were tightly shut with the thudding pain, trying in vain to shut it out. He could feel his arm moving toward his head, could feel the pull in his muscles as his fingers tried to claw at the pain, but he felt no contact being made, as though his hand was somehow being held back from him.

"Welcome," came an icy voice. It sent shivers down his spine, making him feel as though his skin was trying to pull away from his body. He tried to move away from it, but he became abruptly aware of the thickness of the air around him. It felt as though he were floating in water, but deep underneath, far from the surface. "I hope you had a good sleep," the voice continued. "Because it's going to be the last peaceful sleep that you have for a while."

Marcus finally opened his eyes, though he could hardly tell that he had. He was in pitch blackness, unable to see anything in any direction. He, however, was perfectly clear. His feet stood on nothing, his shoes covered in dark mud. His pants were torn, the skin underneath bruised and shallowly cut. His shirt was half covered in blood, sprayed out as if coming from his sleeve. That was when he saw that his arm had been completely severed. It was simply gone.

"What happened?" The words escaped his lips without him even realizing he had opened his mouth. His voice was dry and rugged. It hardly sounded like his own. "Where am I?"

"The memories will come back to you shortly," the voice came again. "Although you may find that you would rather they did not."

As soon as he heard the words, Marcus' memories came flooding back to him. He had been running. Why? The gunshot. He hadn't known where it came from, but it terrified him. He had felt the rush of the bullet grazing his face. His legs had pumped as hard as they could, but that had only been his downfall. He had tripped as he reached the road. Hit his head hard on the cold asphalt. The car had been moving too fast to stop. His arm had been ripped away from him. And then the sound of a gunshot again. Silence.

His head pounded harder with the return of his memories. He curled up in pain. "You should avoid asking questions you do not want the answers to," the voice said. From nowhere a robed figure appeared in front of him. He could barely distinguish the black of the robe from the black of the space around him. There was no face in the robe. No body. It floated on nothing. From within the floating cloak came the distinct shape of the reaper's scythe.

"What are you going to do with me?" Marcus asked.

The scythe slashed before his face, narrowly missing him. The pain disappeared in an instant, as if it had been a thread attached to him, now severed. "I am here to collect you," the figure said. Every word continued to carry an icy shiver with it, running through Marcus' entire body. "To prepare you."

"Prepare me for what?"

"The games, of course. You must compete for placement. You want to get into heaven, don't you?"

"I thought that was determined by my actions in life."

The robe shook, as though it were shaking its head. "Your actions in life determine your entry level array. It gives you a better chance of entry, sure, but only that. You are not done working. And without an arm, you will have to try much harder from here on out."

"What if I don't want to play?"

"Then I can return you to your suffering. Leave you here in limbo. You will become merely another lost figure, never to be anything more than a scream in the darkness."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"I'd rather compete."

"I thought so."