The land between is dark.
Empty.
Maddening to mortals.
But the dark clouds part for me, and they hum, because they know who I am, and they know to move.
There are screams inside the clouds.
Screams no one but me can hear.
Screams that I cannot silence, no one can silence.
And I pass the screams, a hollowed ache still pounding. No one can make it past the screams. All break down, refuse to move, get swallowed up until it's their screams harmonizing with the others.
Poor souls.
But there are openings, too, sparkling with a light only I can see.
There are people inside the openings.
The dead.
Most are alone. Some are in groups, curled up with those who passed with them.
One touch. That's all the need.
Not to live.
Not to die.
To live in death.
Their eyes will be empty, their minds drained away, but they will be there. They won't be lost and screaming.
No one knows where they are.
Outside of the beyond, I hide myself.
Because the dead are empty, and I feel responsible. Even though I didn't kill them; Life did.
I took them.
But they're empty.
The dead look familiar. They always do.
Because they are.
I see them twice in the beyond.
Before Life fills their body, and after Life has left them behind. And the image freezes itself in my memory, and never lets it go.
I don't know them. I don't know any of them. But I have to remember them.
Have to.
Always.
It's raining right now.
I can feel it, though I can't see it, and the wetness doesn't reach my head.
Haven't seen it. Ever.
But I know it's happening, for surely the wetness that covers the bodies aren't tears.
Either way, I know the world has darkened. That's obvious from the starved bodies, the mauled limbs, the windpipes crushed by ropes hung on a door. The tears that stain the faces of mothers. Father. Aunts. Uncles. Grandparents.
Children.
And I can't look away, because I need to find them. I don't need to see their body, but even if I don't look now, I'll see them again. So it's easier just to get the first look out of the way now.
Some people are terrified. They shrink away and don't know what's happening. The scream and cry and weep for their loved ones that they can't find. Others sit up and reach their arms out for me in anticipation, not afraid of where they are going. Still others don't react, their eyes empty of thought or emotion, and they never do come back right. And the final group of those too young, or too old, to know anything. Unborn children who will never see the world through eyes that will never form.
It's sad, but I have to do it.
I take their arms, or feet, or torso, if that's what I can find. I pull them from their abyss where they float, waiting. None will remember this; in their minds, there's no gap of nothingness between their lives. Usually I will look them in the eyes briefly and point them in the direction of the after. They stumble towards the door, their movements uncoordinated, slow. But they make it.
Sometimes I whisper to the ones who panic, "It's better there." or some sort of reassurance. Some still panic. Others relax. But it usually works.
Until I'm faced with the knowing eyes of a boy who utters, simply, "How?"
And I know then he has it figured out, all of it, and before I know it I've held out my hand, and he looks down, and his small, young fingers curl around mine.
Black dots fill his eyes, and he stares at me with amazed eyes.
I don't explain.
Not yet.
But soon.
I've seen you before.
I was there before you were born, in those last moments. I stood next to her, the dark figure who took your hand while she did and passed you through, and I smiled. I never smile, but that was different.
And Life glared, because this wasn't supposed to have happened, but it did.
And now a few years later I hold out my hand to you again.
It's just one step further.
One step.
One second.
I hold your hand, and I walk you down the road to eternity.
