Misplaced

Brendan hit the ground hard, and his vision blurred together into one mass of dark red. It felt like his ribs had shattered, and his entire spine was numb. He didn't know if he would even be able to stand up again. The fact that he was alive was little more than a miracle. He had been falling for quite some time. So long that it had seemed like all other sounds had simply disappeared. After lying on the floor for some time, he heard the sound of someone sighing as they sat down beside him, but he didn't feel them reaching out to touch him in any way. They waited.

After a while, Brendan's vision returned to him, though the things that he saw seemed unreal. Above his head was a staircase, completely upside down, like in those perspective challenging paintings, completely with a twisted figure walking along it. In fact, such abstract images surrounded him entirely. Only one thing seemed to be the right way up, and that was the cloaked figure sitting next to him, waiting for him to get up, though it took Brendan some time to realize that that was what the figure was waiting for.

"I don't think I can move," he murmured out weakly. Even with how weak he felt, his voice was surprisingly quiet, yet he could hear it perfectly clear.

"You can move," the figure said dismissively. "But what in the blazes are you doing here? That shouldn't even be possible in your condition. This is going to be a logistical nightmare..."

Brendan rolled his head towards the figure, sending shocks of pain throughout his system, pulling a gasp from his lips. With how much that gasp hurt, he wondered if one of the shattered ribs had pierced his lungs. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

The figure's head moved in such a way as to imply it was rolling its eyes, though Brendan couldn't see them. "You're supposed to feel like that here," the figure said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's part of the punishment. It makes for quite the entrance. And then you have to deal with that while going through the other consequences of your failures. One of my better creations, if you ask me."

The words made little sense to Brendan. Punishment? Consequences? This felt like little more than torment without reason. "Where am I?"

The figure scoffed. "You can't tell?" It cast its hood aside to reveal a skeletal head with empty eyesockets. Brendan gasped sharply, sending another stab of pain throughout his system. "This is hell, moron. And you are not supposed to be here. You're not dead yet. I don't even know how that's possible. And if the big man upstairs finds out, I'm gonna be in deep shit, even though this isn't my damn fault."

Brendan blinked, not really understanding what he was being told. "How is that even possible?"

"Damned if I know!" Death responded, throwing his hands up into the air. "All I know is either you have to die, or I have to get you back to the surface, pronto. And I'm not actually allowed to do the killing. I just harvest." Death sighed and stood up, lifting his scythe from behind him and using it almost as a crutch to do so. "How the hell am I going to get you back to the surface?"

"I really don't think I can move."

Death grabbed Brendan roughly by the arm, cold bones wrapping around skin, and lifted Brendan to his feet effortlessly. Pain seared through Brendan's body, ripping forth a wail from his lungs, but to his surprise he was able to stay on his feet. "I told you," Death said. "I can't kill people. I can't even hurt them. Just disembodied souls. Now come on. We gotta get you out of here before any of the damned try and use you as a vessel. I swear, that man must be messing with me. It's the only explanation."

"What man?" Brendan asked meekly.

Death looked at him, and Brendan could sense that if he had eyes, Death would be giving him a look of contempt. "God," he responded dryly. "How stupid are you?"