The Messengers

The first thing they always say is, "Is this heaven?"

Well, child, it's a lot more complicated than heaven and hell. It wouldn't be quite as fair if there were only two options for the newly deceased, now would it?

And then they stare at me, with that wonderfully amusing human face, one that only homo sapiens such as them could acquire: an expression of confusion.

Yes, young soul, you could say that you're in a waiting room. It's quite possible that your future as a soul lies in prosperity, and it's equally possible that your future as a soul lies in torture.

And then they say, "So this is hell?!"

I always think to myself that only a human could give such an idiotic answer. No, child, you are awaiting judgement at the moment - the waiting room, as I said.

And then they look around, and one even asked me where the magazines were. To this day I do not understand the connection.

You are one of the Undecided, a human who's just died, but the universe is unsure of your morals at the moment.

And after I say that, I count to three. Fresh souls are still quite disoriented, still quite in their human state, and on average, it takes them about three counts to process what I say. And then the memories come flooding back, as they all tell me. . .

Every one of their stories is unique - and I suppose that is the only unique part of the species of humanity - so I cannot format exactly what they say.

But what I can tell you is that I have broken each and every one their hearts in those few minutes it takes them to figure out their death, rolling the terrifying memory around in their fingers, the fact that they are really, truly dead.

And then they all say, "Are you god?"

No, child. I'm a Messenger.

I never really understood the conception of this 'god' personality that all humans seem to share the knowledge of. . . maybe they were taught by elders that this 'god' would appear to them when they die, but I sincerely wonder who had given them such a ghastly idea.

No, in the waiting room, you only see us - the Messengers.

"Messengers?" they ask.

Another weird habit of humanity: I don't really understand the use of repeating what one has said already, what you know one has said - it defeats the purpose of asking.

Yes, child - I am a Messenger.

And then they repeat again, "The waiting room?"

Yes, child - you're in the waiting room.

And then it takes me, on average, about thirteen minutes and thirteen point one three seconds to explain it all.

You see, you are Undecided. At this moment, you have just died, and your morals are quite muddled - you aren't evil, yet you aren't really good either. And since there are many - too many, if you ask me - humans who are like you, in the middle, the Judge is always judging one of you for heaven and hell. Hence, the waiting room. And you are #345,875,987,0967,156,001 in line, by the way.

Many souls get restless, waiting here. They all lie in wait, with nothing to do, so the Judge appointed us to be Messengers. We, in short fulfill the longing that all you new souls have: to speak to the family and friends you left behind when you died.

You call on us, tell us what you want us to tell a human on earth, and we will do it. . . but as you humans say, "there's a catch."

Our program has a 9.999999% possibility of success, because, as angels, we can never reveal ourselves to a human being. It's purely for our own protection, as in the case of a young Messenger I knew named Cupid, human imaginations can make us out to be ghastly young humans with only scraps of clothing on our bodies.

So we are extremely subtle - if the human in question does not notice the message we portrayed due to your wishes, we are not liable. Sign here, child.

And then I give them the contract, and a pen.

But then they hold it in their hand - dumbly, as if they had never seen one before.

And here comes the most exasperatingly aggravating line each and every single one of the new souls utters shamelessly: "What?"

And then, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I explain, once again, all I had just said, and questions like "Can you repeat that?" and "What do you mean by ______?" and "What the f*ck/h*ll/sh*t?!" are asked, and I end up elaborately explaining each and every single word I'd uttered in what I'm absolutely sure was their language. . . I would suggest that humanity expand on their communication terms, but when I influenced the uprise of 'social media' as the humans called it, they didn't use it to expand on their conveyance, but to absolutely rip it to shreds with insane acronyms like LOL and OMG and shortened words like "tho" and "gr8."

I always use this example as one of the reasons our program has a 9.999999% success rate, but I only get blank stares. I always wonder why.

On average, this process takes about thirteen hours and thirteen seconds, and at the end of that, when I'm extremely exhausted and about to cry at the stupidity of humankind, they always ask: "So. . . is it free shipping?"

And then I slap my palm to my forehead, because I cannot do it anymore.

I simply cannot.