One month or more later, and I'm finally finishing that one before writing a fable for a friend. It was supposed to be done Christmas Day but what can ya do.
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"Ben," I say, nonplussed.
"Expecting Gabriel?" he smirks, finally breaking out of the calm car-salesman exterior. I give him a small smile and he reaches out to pour a cup of tea, the effortlessness of the preparation only marred by the slight bunching of his suit. Peppermint. A splash of milk (not cream!) and four heaping tablespoons of sugar. He slides it towards me and settles into his chair, letting me sip in silence.
"Where am I going after this?" I say, finally. This feels a bit like a sudden dinner party I wasn't told about until a few hours before or the time Kaitlin had a full presentation on the Battle of Gettysburg (with props!) due the following day; I feel as if I should be making a list or writing a speech or an essay or something. In conclusion, God, I feel that my lack of sincere belief in You for most of my adult life can be at least partially be made up for by the good I did in Your name...
"Wherever you decide," Ben says quietly. "Heaven, Hell, back to Earth, to a new planet, to another world where dragons and damsels and kings actually exist, or to that place filled with centipedes you dreamed about when you were nine. You can go wherever you think you deserve to be."
"...I choose?"
"Why not?" he says. "You choose nearly everything else in life. Your path could have ended a million different ways, but it ended here and like this because of all of the little decisions. Even the way I look and act is a result of the way your life patterned itself."
"So if I'd eaten fewer steaks and more fish, I'd still be alive-"
"And if you'd continued your friendship with Brooke Dillinger your sophomore year of college, you would have died in a drunken car crash at 24," he interjects, matter-of-factly. "Accept that this is what has happened. It's probably the hardest thing you will ever do."
"So I just sit here and accept that I died?"
"Well, that would probably help, but you have a tool at your disposal to help with that," Ben says, sounding so generically soothing that I can't help but smile. I die and my path determines that my personal Death should look and sound like an investment banker? "You chose it, not me," he says, and I start nervously as I'm reminded that he is not what he appears to be. "I'm a personal fan of the avenging angel look, myself, but that's gone out of fashion these days. Now, let's get you to your room."
He takes the cup from my hands, politely but firmly, and places it carefully on a saucer before crossing to the door and opening it into a small living room. He ushers me in, shutting the door behind me and flicking on the light switch in one smooth motion. A pretty lamp with frosted glass in flicks on in the corner, and reveals a battered, cozy-looking armchair sitting in front of an enormous old-fashioned TV set. A thick oval rug sits in between the two, and a couch hovers nearby, slightly out of the pool of lamplight. Ben gestures, and I sit in the chair, kicking my feet slightly like a nervous child. He turns the TV on, and only then do I realize that the glass is in fact a mirror, reflecting my own pinched face back to me.
Looking down at me, he says, "This mirror will show you the life that you lived, in full detail and with nothing left out. You'll find that your memory is much better now, but usually people need to go through a few highlights before they know where they want to go." He places a generic-looking remote in my hand, smiles, and says "Good luck."
When the door slams, I slide off the chair and settle on the rug, far more comfortable facing hard facts on the floor than in a squishy red armchair. I prop my back up against a few pillows, take a few deep breaths, push the 'play' button, and fold my hands. And as I wait for myself to be born, I wonder...
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Not quite the way I'd like it, but generally it gets the point across.
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