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WHERE’S JESUS?

My client murdering me was not how I expected my day to go. But I really did not expect to be sitting in front of the Grim Reaper. In a moment like this, I should be full of concerns, but my mind begins to flood with thoughts that I have no control over.

First of all, where are they going to take my body? I know it will go to a morgue, but which one? I don’t have a specific reason for why I want to know. I’m just curious.

Who is going to plan my funeral? Am I going to have a funeral? I only had one friend—the old Jamaican lady who lived next to me. She cooked me food and informed me that I looked tired every time she saw me. I didn’t mind it though, her food was the truth.

I wonder if someone is going to tow my car. Wouldn’t it be weird to drive a dead person’s car? My car and I have been through so much and I didn’t even get a proper goodbye.

Finally, I wonder why the afterlife looks like an office. I expected, at the very least, fluffy clouds and a golden palace of some sort. Disappointed is an understatement for how unimpressed I am feeling right now.

“You know,” I say as I look around the room, then to the Grim Reaper sitting across the desk wearing an all black suit, “I expected a lot more from the afterlife.”

His eyes narrow. “And what did you expect?”

Maybe I shouldn’t offend the Grim Reaper. But then again, I’m dead. What’s the worst that can happen?

I should probably be way more upset about dying. However, it was for the best. I’m now free from the shackles of my mundane life. I woke up, went to a job I hated, came home, and did it all over again the next day.

Every. Single. Day.

I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. Jesus, maybe? Mimosas? Wine? A garden? Food?” I place an emphasis on food because I can just imagine how divine heavenly food must taste. Especially, considering I don’t have to worry about what I eat anymore. Like I said—I’m dead. Eating a bunch of fried food won’t give me a heart attack.

I should be relaxing by Jesus with a mimosa in one hand and a cheesecake in the other. Instead, I’m in a gloomy office consisting of all black furniture. Black desk and chair, black couch with black throw pillows, and a black rug. The only thing that is not black are the walls, but they are a dark gray. That’s not any better. He could really use a window and color to liven up the place a little bit. I’m thinking he should have gone with some pastel neutral colors like beige, white, or green.

Oh yes!

Green. That would really brighten up the place, since—

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but you’re in Eden,” he explains, interrupting my train of thought about his office décor.

I’m in a place called Eden, but there’s no Jesus. How does that even make any sense? This is not how any religion described the afterlife. Even the atheists got it wrong. I expected my physical form to be ghost-like. Shouldn’t I have angel wings? A halo? Instead, I have a physical body and am wearing the same suit I had on when I died. Correction: when I was murdered.

“What exactly is Eden? Because it seems different than the Eden I’ve heard of,” I ask, gardens with fruit trees coming to mind.

He sighs. “Eden handles all afterlife affairs. It is made up of Grim Reapers who manage human lifespans, collect souls, and determine soul placement after death. There are seven departments: Heaven, Hell, Soul Directory, Reaper’s Resources, Collection, IT and—most recently formed—Reaper’s Court. I work for the Collection department. One of our responsibilities is to collect souls.”

Not only is life depressing, but the afterlife is no better. I thought I was supposed to be in an eternal paradise, or at least something close to that, but here I find myself in a place that handles 'all afterlife affairs'. Is existence just an endless cycle of working for the man?

“That sounds great and all, but why am I here? You just said you all determine soul placement…so can you, you know, place me?”

He grins and clasps his hands on his desk. “Not yet. I brought you here because I need you to do something for me.”

My face scrunches in confusion at his statement. “I’m dead. What could I possibly do for you?”

I have always been concerned about the stigma surrounding Grim Reapers. Most books described them as mysterious, black cloak wearing, entities that prey on mortal souls. But what if their favorite color is yellow? What if they enjoy a warm apple pie from McDonald’s rather than feasting on human souls? What if they smile all the time?

I’m glad the stories are false. The Grim Reaper sitting in front of me has a captivating smile. But, I mean, everything about him is captivating. His dark black hair is neatly fixed with a few strands laying across his forehead and his features reflect Asian heritage. He is wearing an all-black suit with silver accessories including a lapel chain, rings, and an expensive watch. As physically attractive as he is, the way he carries himself is more so. He has a controlled, but relaxing air about him.

I wouldn’t mind helping him. In exchange, I may be able to get some extra stuff for Heaven. Maybe he will let me share it with Michael Jackson, because I have a lot of questions for him. I also want to show him the dance moves I learned from the Michael Jackson Experience game. That’s assuming he went to Heaven, of course, but a girl can hope.

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “I’m glad you asked.” His grin widens. “I need you to be my lawyer.”

Except that. I will not be doing that.

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