On Earth As It Is In Heaven
On Earth As It Is In Heaven
by Emerson
The first thing I notice is how cold it is. Then I notice that it’s dark. And empty. And my wrists hurt. Then I notice how odd these thoughts are. Did I expect any different?
With nothing better to do, I start walking. When my bare feet start slapping against linoleum tile, I suddenly have the wherewithal to wonder what I was walking on before. A second before I wonder how I can see my own body in this pitch blackness, I notice shadows on one side that lead my eyes to a light source on the other: a floating string of circular lights a foot higher than me. An awful, mildewy smell fills my lungs as I start to question what I’m breathing.
Every question and theory shifts and shapes the shadowy world, as if my eyes are adjusting the darkness. Floor, walls, and a door all familiar, solid black, and barely illuminated by the flickering light bulbs above a countertop sink. The bathroom in my house is far too small for all the walking I’ve been doing, but I guess that doesn’t matter here. It’s not like it’s the real bathroom, anyway.
I stare into the mirror above the sink and hate the ugly, fragile, stupid thing I see in the black glass. I hate its bulbous nose and sagging chin and whipped-dog eyes. When I raise my hands and look at the slices on the wrists, I hate those, too. I’m going to spend the rest of eternity in this room relieving my suicide, aren’t I?
“Well, this sucks.”
“The door’s unlocked, idiot!” a raspy voice screams from beyond the door. “And I’ve got plenty more to do today so how about you hurry up!”
After what feels like hours of silence, I startle at the sound of the voice. Even though I’m sure I’ve never heard it before, it feels as familiar, and unwelcome, as the bathroom. It’s like something from the background of my entire life, like–
“No soliloquies, kid! Move your ass!”
A lifetime of doing what I’m told snaps my muscles into action and I go for the door. As promised, it’s unlocked and nothing stops me from leaving the room. The thing on the other side of the door, slouching impatiently in the middle of a solid black version of my high school’s cafeteria, almost makes me turn around.
It’s rotting; even from all the way over here, I can tell it’s rotting. If it pulled itself to its full height, it would be about six feet, but it hunches as if its misshapen, oozing body is too heavy for it. When the fluorescent lights start flickering, I’m terrified that it will disappear in the split seconds of darkness and reappear right in front of me.
But it doesn’t move. It just stands there, staring and waiting for me. I could just stay in the threshold between my home bathroom and school cafeteria. Or, knowing that I’m already dead and have probably nothing to lose, I could move my ass. Maybe I can start my afterlife off on a better note that my life had.
I take a step. Then another. Then another.
“Attaboy,” the rotting thing sneers as I inch closer. “Feel free to move a little quicker. Like I said, you’re not my only job.”
It (or he; the nametag on its moldy, ragged shirt says Michael) looks like an angel dipped in tar and acid. A decaying, pale humanoid body is barely attached to a pair of filthy black bird wings. His wide, cruel smirk is ringed by something more like broken bird beaks than teeth.
“Name?” he rasps.
“What?” It takes me a second to register what he’s asking.
“Whu?” the ugly thing mocks. “What? Is? Your? Name? Moron!”
I’m a little taken aback, but I catch myself before I react. It never pays to let them see you sweat. “Emerson Everson.”
“Ugh, ‘Emerson’,” the creature groans, writing something down with a pencil and clipboard that he pulled from his broken, bug-infested wing. “And alliteration, too? Your parents must have been dicks.”
I know better than to disagree (not that I would), but I still feel the need to correct him. Class tryhard habits, I guess. “Actually, alliteration is for consonant sounds. Assonance is for vowels.”
“Akshully, alliteration’s for consonants!” Michael mocks again. Not the kind of behavior you’d expect from an eldritch nightmare from beyond death, but there you go. He marks something else down and says, “So let’s see. So far I’ve got you as wimpy, annoying, dumb name, and since I doubt anyone misses you back home, I’ll mark that off, too.” Another check. I’m beginning to hate the sound of pencil on paper. “Not an impressive showing so far, Mr. Everson.”
“Showing for what?” For the first time, the coldness of the place makes me shiver.
Michael leans closer and whispers in my ear like a coffin creaking open. “For your evaluation to decide where you go next. How did you think we picked?”
Of course. More judgments, more assholes, more opportunities for failure and humiliation. What else did I expect? I can’t even pretend to be surprised, there’s just a familiar hollow feeling. No wonder I got used to Michael so quickly; he’s the same kind of bastard I’ve dealt with all my life.
For a second, the beast looks at me like he’s waiting for me to say something, maybe to answer his rhetorical question. But I say nothing because I know there’s no point and he sighs in disappointment.
“Let’s get this over with. Why do you think you deserve to go to a ‘better place’?” He punctuated the phrase with sarcastic air quotes.
The only thing I can think to say is, “Because I really want to?” The thing grumbles, rolls his onyx-black eyes, and writes something down. “What I mean is–”
“Too late, kid,” he snaps dismissively. “If you go to the better place, what can you contribute?”
Contribute? You have to contribute in Heaven? They kind of left that part out of the Bible.
“I can cook.” Why did I say that? No, I can’t.
“No, you can’t,” Michael says without missing a beat. “Your drawing and storytelling are also pretty weak and I’ve seen your report cards. Hopefully, they need a C math student up there.” He writes something down and continues. “Now, Mr. Evanson, why should you get a spot up there instead of a woman who died saving her kids from a fire?” My mouth opens and shuts as I try and fail to think up and answer. Michael’s smirk turns even meaner. “Nothing? Well, how about the fellas that cooked up the COVID vaccine? I can give you one of their reserved spots. No? Still no reasons? Okay, how about this factory worker who worked himself to death putting his younger siblings through college? No reason he should be allowed to meet up with his parents up there. You want his spot?” He keeps bringing up names while I flounder. I don’t want anyone else getting cheated out of eternal peace.
“Can’t we all get spots?” I ask. “Doesn’t Heaven have infinite space?”
He chirps with mock delight and slowly writes something down. “‘Expert…in…celestial…affairs’. Oh, they’ll love that, Emerson. I’m sure it’ll give you an extra point.” He winks at me, making me wish a face like that couldn’t wink. He flips through a few pages on the clipboard. “All these guys are a little advanced for you, huh? Well, how about this one? 17 years old, reasonably healthy, smart, and non-hideous. Killed himself because no one at school likes him.” His eyes narrow, making me almost long for the winking. “How about it, Emerson? Does this kid deserve eternal peace?”
My stomach freezes and my brain clenches, a reflex from being alive. Never let them see you sweat. They’ll hurt you no matter what, but the less weakness you show the better. But I don’t know what else to say or do. Should I agree with his implication that I don’t deserve Heaven? He has to already know that I haven’t done anything particularly saintly, so what’s the point of all this?
In the end I just shrug.
Michael rolls his eyes. “Ah, a shrug. The mating call of the common emo. Too pouty and prissy to even try to talk your way out of Hell.” He sounds angrier than I’d heard him sound before. “Seriously, kid, that’s the only other alternative. And this other brat’s meeting with another agnel right now and so are the others. If you want to make your case, now’s the time.”
What is he waiting for? Should I tell him that I’ve suffered enough in life and I’ve earned a bit of peace? He won’t care any more that the suckhumps back on the other side did. And honestly, I don’t think I can listen to the standard excuses from this thing. ‘You’re being too sensitive’, ‘Just ignore everyone’, ‘It’s just high school, it’s not a big deal’, ‘If you tried harder people would like you’; hard no to all of that.
People always talk about death like it’s some mythical, unknowable force or a comfortable rest after a long journey. But it’s just more of the same. The bullies, the rules, the need to impress unimpressible dicks. All of that. For eternity.
“Aw, is my widdle buddy gonna cwy?” the angel sneers at my long silence. “Need a hug, kiddo? Maybe a hanky? I think I’ve got a dead therapy dog somewhere around here.”
“Jesus Christ, can you please just stop?” I hiss with a shaky voice. “What exactly do you gain from being such a dick? If you’re trying to be clever and original, you’ve already failed. I’ve heard all of this before.”
A few sentences really shouldn’t make me so exhausted, especially since I’m dead, but they do. I catch my breath (which I don’t think I should technically need) and wait for Michael to mock me again.
He raises the place that would be an eyebrow on a less rotten face and write-mumbles, “A…little…sensitive.” Then he asks, in the least sarcastic tone so far, “Let’s move on Emerson. What’s the real reason you killed yourself?”
I freeze up again. Like I’ve said, I know better than to let people see me sweat. No emotion, no crying, no asking them to stop or telling the teacher. I endure until the asshole in question loses interest. It’s a policy that has served me well…up to the point where I killed myself.
I guess I can bend that rule a bit.
“I stink,” I say. The angel says nothing, so I continue. “I shower and put on deodorant and wear clean clothes but nothing seems to work. I still have to listen to everyone complaining and ragging on me and patronizingly explaining what soap is. The principal actually held an assembly on personal hygiene because of me.” I think back to the look that bitch gave throughout her whole speech on the importance of washing your genitals. “And it’s not just that. I’m ugly no matter what I do with my hair or clothes. I’m fat no matter how much I diet. I’m stupid no matter how much I study. I’m a bully magnet whether I stand up for myself or lay down and take it. Seriously, Bernie Paxton’s been a dick since third grade and I almost got expelled for pushing him once.” My voice is getting a little shrill, but I don’t care. “And I strongly doubt it’ll get better in adult life; my parents and teachers are strong evidence against that theory.”
“So what did you expect to find here?” Michael asks. No sarcastic or expectant tone, just an honest question.
“Something better. So you can probably add ‘stupid’ to that list.”
“Oh, believe me, I already did. ‘Emo’, ‘pouty’, and ‘sensitive’ are here, too, but I think I can find room for ‘stinky’.” He snickers but there’s less bite to it. “So you realized everything sucks and wanted off the ride. Super original. Must have been a treat to know the ride never really ends. On Earth as it is in Heaven, as they say.”
Yeah, I probably should have–wait. Heaven? Did he say Heaven?
“Does that mean I pass? I get to go to Heaven?”
“Just an expression, Emerson,” the angel snorts. “No, you’re too much of a little bitch to go to Heaven and I somehow doubt Hell will like you much, either.” He taps a chipped talon on his chin as he thinks. “How do you feel about just going back? I’ll lose the paperwork somewhere. It’ll be like this whole thing never happened.”
“What? Go back? Is that even a thing?” Didn’t sound possible.
“Whu-whu-whu? Go back? Is dat against da wules?” His mocking tone is back in full force. “Come on, kid. I don’t have all day and neither do you. Do you want to live or not?”
I think for a second. Life sucked, but apparently so does death. But it sucked a teensy bit less when I told Michael to shut up. And again when I was actually pleading my case. Not that those things ever work back home. Although…Michael said the ride never really stops; life and death are just the same terrible loop. So if the level of suck never changes and it can suck less here…
“Oh, what the hell. I’ll go back.” I square my shoulders and get ready. “What do I have to do?”
The rotting creature smiles and not in a mocking way. “Just open your eyes and stand up.”
The dark room and the dark creature start to blur until it’s all the same color as the back of my eyelids. I open my eyes to the blinding light of my bathroom light bulbs. It really is that simple.
I take a deep, mildewy breath and heave myself to my wobbly feet, prying my wrists from the red stickiness adhering them to the linoleum. The cuts there are a lot more shallow than I thought they were.
“How is this possible?” I ask softly.
“Because you’re a little pussy who’s more interested in getting attention than actually offing yourself!” I turn in the direction of Michael’s harsh voice, but there’s no one in the room but me. “60 or 70 more years, you little moron. Best of luck.”
And that’s that, I guess.
I steady myself and look at the puddles of blood on the floor. I’m not so woozy that I can’t think it’s a little too much blood for superficial cuts. Cuts which look like they’ve recently healed. But I’m not bold enough to question it out loud.
I look from my mostly healed wrists to my ragged reflection. I wish I could say that I learned how amazing and totally worth the trouble life is, but really all I learned is that death is just as bad. Not the best reason not to kill myself but whatevs.
I clean myself up (already knowing it won’t be enough), put on clean clothes (careful to hide the cuts), and head downstairs to eat something (so my family can talk about how fat I am when they see me).
“Well, 60 or 70 more years,” I mutter to myself on my way to the kitchen. I don’t know why I’m smiling a little, but I am. “Think I’ll need some chocolate.”