An orange, transparent bottle full of pills now lay uncapped on the beside Booker and his chair. He hunched over in his scarlet armchair. He thought about the past, and what led to this moment. He remembered his mother and father, now dead and forgotten by the rest of the world. He thought about his old friends who had tried to help him get past his disease. He thought about his neighbors who were never kind nor supporting, and his birds, who silently carried him past the droning days and nights of solitude. He thanked them, for helping realize something: Life was never worth living. What was the point of going to college if he was only going to be stuck in a dead-end job in a failing bookstore? What was the point of having friends if they would all just give up on you in your most difficult hour? What was the goddamned point of finding love if it was only destined to leave you behind..? That’s just it, though. There is no point. There is no reason to live.

Booker counted out the insomnia pills he now had cupped in his right hand. Thirty seven. Thirty seven martyrs willing to put an old soul to rest. He put them back in the bottle, and reached for a slip of paper. He wrote a goodbye letter, and left it on the end table.

He counted out the pills once more he had in his hand. There were thirty eight now, one more had joined the cause. Booker took a deep breath, and swallowed the pills. He felt them, slowly gliding down his throat, and felt relief. He had finally done it. He smiled, knowing that his fate was sealed, and he could finally rest. He felt the room slowly fall into mush, and he stood up in the confusion. They were working.

Booker stumbled over to the window and looked outside. He rest his head upon the glass, tears of rain now rolling down it. “Take a good look, world,” he mumbled. “Take a look at what you’ve done. Yet you still continue to function. Congratulations.” The cars on the street below were now a simple blur of light, along with overturned lamp posts and traffic cones. He stood up straight and walked back over to his chair. He sat down, and smiled again. “Thanks for nothing.”

The apartment, with its small archive and pea green walls was now slowly blackening blur. He didn't mind, though. He never really liked his apartment.


***


He woke up in front of a field of corn. He sat up and groaned, “What now?!” he cried. He stood up and watched the field in front of him. It was unnaturally sepia, and Booker felt lighter than he should. He was One hundred and fifty pounds before, but now he weighed much like a house cat did. He looked around him. In front was a never ending field, and behind was a grey forest. He heard disconcerting rustling and whispers in that dark forest, so he decided against walking through it and headed into the field. The corn stalks were old and unfit for a harvest now. Booker jabbed one with his pointer finger and it fell back in astonishment. It fell back an knocked over another stalk and another, but the dominoes took took a turn in the path. After the collapsing of six or seven stalks, the path turned left. He followed the predetermined path of corn.

The newly defeated corn now lay under his feet. The path was thin and winding, along with being hard to follow at points. Ahead of him, Booker could hear the corn still falling, still leading him somewhere. He thought about where, and whether it would be dangerous or not, but it didn’t matter, you can’t kill a ghost. That word rang in his skull, ghost. Was he really dead, or was he just left in a field to be buried and simply didn’t die yet?

The falling of old corn had ceased; Booker was near the end. He ran through the remaining path and found a meadow. It was monotone and grey. Had he run a complete circle? A Grey tree with blue leaves stood in front of him, as large and wide as a house, littered with birds of all kinds. Green vines crawled up the trunk and lay on the branches, where more birds pecked at the fruit it yielded. A blue jay flew down and perched on Booker’s shoulder. “New here, eh?” It inquired. Booker jumped, letting out a cry, and plucked the bird off of his shoulder in confusion. “Hey! Hey! lemme down, guy! I was only trying to help!” I squirmed in between Booker’s hand and became free. Booker’s eyes were still wide from confusion.

“Birds... can’t talk.”

“Hmph, we can here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Limbo, you nincompoop! Remember? You swallowed a bunch of pills and died? Death an’ friends need to calculate your life before you can truly die, yet. Your body is just in serious comatose right now!”
Booker chuckled. “So I actually did it, huh?” The blue-jay chirped and flew back into the tree. Booker looked around the meadow once more, and at the humongous tree that lay before him. Flocks of birds swirled around it, while plants and leaves whistled through the wind in a natural and magical harmony. He could stay here forever. “I wouldn’t say that,” The bird called as it returned with something in between its talons. “You have to go as soon as you can to Death’s cabin.”
“Death?”
“Yea, Death. He’s the big cheese around here. You have to report to him immediately. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Booker replied. “He’s probably busy with some other dead people, I’ll just give him a little break, yeah?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, guy!” The blue bird soared back to the tree to rejoin his brother and sisters in the mother tree. Booker scoffed, he wasn’t about to start taking advice from a bird, even if it did speak to him. He took another moment to recognize the melancholy black and white grass and wood, up to the vibrant, almost blinding leaves and vines that drape the branches and trunk. He wandered closer to the tree and sat underneath its canopy. He listened to the harmonious chirps and flutters of the awe striking specimens that flew over head. He remembered his blue jays from his apartment, and how they would flock around his windows every day when he would refill their feeder. The mother had just laid her eggs a few days prior, and he never got a chance to see them. He felt a small pang of remorse, but that soon passed. His eyelids became thick and heavy, his vision becoming impaired. He laughed lightly as he fell asleep.

“Hey,” cried a small voice shortly above his head. “Didn’t I tell you to hurry?” It was the blue bird. It now stood on Booker’s head, leaning directly into his ear. Booker picked the bird and placed him upon his forearm. The bird now clicked its tongue in contempt. “If you’re unsure of where to go, I can direct you.” Realizing the this bird was persistent in its cause, Booker stood up and stretched. “Lead the way chatterbox.” The bird claimed their destination was only a few kilometers north of where Booker had been sleeping, directly opposite of the corn fields.

Booker thought silently for a few moments. “So- this is Limbo?”

“Uh-huh. Why, confused?” The bird asked, as it preened, sending muffled words.

“A little bit, I mean, I know what Limbo is, but- Why don’t I just go straight to heaven or hell?”

The bird nodded at the question proposed. “Lots of people ask that, it’s simple, really. The action of dying is a lot more complicated than you think.”

“How so?”

“Well, when a human soul is sent out from Heaven, Death calculates how much time that human will take to live and make a name for himself. Lots of calculation and deep thought. When a person commits suicide, it throws more than half of those calculations out of whack. Then Death has to recalculated everything he had done at least decades ago, and start all over. The only reason the Bible says that suicide is a sin is because of all the extra work that goes into it.”

“You can’t be serious...”

“No,” he laughed. “I’m not, that’s a joke around here.”

“Death just sits in his office now, with all these suicides running rampant. Earth has really went downhill after Eden, so now Death is swamped in work, birth and death, its all he ever thinks about anymore. He used to be a really fun guy, y’know.”

“I always pictured Death to be brooding and silent actually. With a black cloak and all.”

“You’re certainly in for a surprise then.”

An old colonial house came over the horizon. It was broken down, bricks missing, moss creeping over the sides of the roof, windows left open and unattended. And old iron gate secluded the lot, leaving a sense of danger in its wake. An old well could be seen behind the house, also old and dilapidated. The blue bird ruffled its wings, “We’re here.” Booker walked up the old, whitewash steps to the manor. He knocked twice on the door. “Hello?” he called. “You wanted to see me?” A faint rustling and complaining could be heard through the ancient wooden door. Booker knocked again, only to replied with yelling from inside: “I’m coming! Stop knocking, you old haggard!” He was astonished at the crude behavior of such a powerful being. The door opened and a young man with brazen hair stood in view. He wore a dark suit, his coat had the top three buttons undone.

His brow furrowed at the sight of Booker. Booker immediately felt uncomfortable, and sweated underneath his calm demeanor. “I’m surprised, but, come on in. Let’s see if I can’t find your papers, eh?” Death’s voice was slightly nasal, high pitched, and he had a slight lisp, just enough for one to notice it. Booker followed him inside the rickety old house, being careful not to disturb any loose floorboards, or shingles, fallen from the walls above the small patio. Through the door was a long, dingy hallway with two rooms on each side. Death topped at the intersection between portals and ambled through the curtain of beads protect the right door. There were portraits of assorted people, advancing in age. Through the door was an office-like room. An exhausted ebony desk and green armchair, fit with bay windows behind it. Large stacks of paper towered over the various pens and office supplies upon the desk. Death pointed to a chair facing the desk. “Sit.” Booker gulped and took a seat, Death staring directly at him, with interlocked hands covering his mouth.

“Booker Moss, male, age 42, lives alone in an apartment on the coast of the Atlantic in southern Maine, bird lover... single. I’m gonna be straight with you here, Booker. You irritate me. When you were born more than forty years ago, I had figured my work with you was done, but, here you are, and you’re not 73. What’s the deal?” Death’s eyes were blank and difficult to read. “What was so difficult about living that you just had to end it, and put all these papers on my desk. You know what these are? Opportunities you never got to see. I got these letters from the big boss saying he wanted you to do all this, and now you can’t, so I have to fill out the cancellation forms. Thank you, Mr. Moss, thank you so much.” He put his hands back on the desk and stood up. He walked around the room and stood behind the chair where Booker was sitting. “Do you know what the penalty for all this is..?” Booker cleared his throat. “I’m being damned to Hell?” Death let out a shrill cry of short, repetitive laughter. “You’re kidding right?” he managed to say in between fits of laughter. “No, you have to do a job for me, a long job, a difficult job. That’ll give me enough time to fill out these forms so you can go back.”

“Go back?!” Booker cried. “You can’t send me back! Why do think I left in the first place? I’m not doing you job, Death, you’re a nut if you think I will.” Death chuckled at Booker's outcry. “Follow me.” He stood up from his dressy chair, and beckoned Booker as he left the room. He sat there, confused as to how he should proceed. Carefully, he stood up and followed Death to the room opposite the corridor. The space inside was merely stacks of paper, as tall as he was. Parchment spilled over the desks and boxes that littered the stuffy, dim room.

Death grumbled as he dug and sifted through documents that made their territory over the room. “Ah,” he sighed as he lifted a note in his hands. “Here’s what I was looking for. This is for you.” He handed the small piece of paper too booker, and turned back out the door. Booker read the note, it had three addresses scattered across it in hasty font. Booker quickly accompanied Death as he walked back towards the front door, while also stuffing the note into his back pocket. Death opened the door for Booker and quickly pushed him out. “Good luck, tough guy!” he cried, slamming the door behind him. The blue bird rejoined Booker upon his shoulder once more. “How’d it go?”
“I’m not sure.”

“What do you think he’s doing now?” Booker inquired, a cold shiver running down his spine. The bird furrowed his feathers in response, “Probably something with a calculator. Did he give you something to do?” Booker nodded, and took the note from his back pocket. When held to the birds view, it tilted its head, dumbfounded. Booker shook his head, “I don’t suppose you know what to do with it then?” Booker started down the front walkway, towards the dark gate. “I guess you should visit these? I can’t hurt.” Booker laughed, “Of course it can hurt! Death told me right to my face that I ‘irritated him’. Anything I do now is fair game!”

“Death doesn’t work like that, besides, I think he has a crush on you.”

Booker stopped walking and look at the bluebird, who stared back with a smug air about him. “Don’t joke like that.” Booker’s tone of voice suddenly turned grim, and disturbed, while the bird tweeted jovially.

Booker met the tall, black gate, and turned the latch to leave. As he stepped outside, though, he turned back to the house. As old and beaten down as it was, it seemed homely enough. Maybe Death wasn’t so bad, he was just judged because he takes loved ones from their homes. He looked up towards the marmalade skies that still hung over the forests and valleys. Its milky, orange strokes of clouds and rays of light that shone through, draping its bewitching sunset glow over the monotonous fauna. As Booker returned the note to his eyes, he couldn’t help but think of the legend of Faust. A story of a man who sold his soul for knowledge and earthly goods. He sighed in discomfort. He didn’t even know what to do with these numbers and letters. He crumpled the note in his fists, and continued through the grey cluster of trees.

He pined after the atypical atmosphere that shrouded the lands here, and dread the thought of returning home. Worthless, was the word most appropriate, he thought. He couldn’t even cross over without making a mistake. Now he was going back, to complete an unclear task, sent from a man who “thought he was cute.” Another cold shock went through Booker’s brain, the thought of it made his health decline further.

“So, uh,” Booker asked awkwardly, scratching his forehead is discomfort. “How am I getting back to Earth?” The bluebird chuckled, “From your attitude, I’d’ve figured you’ve been here before. But, I’ show you.”

“Do I have to do anything?” Booker needled, to which the bird did not reply. “We just have to go back to where you plopped in.”


***


“You sure you’ll be okay, champ?” The bird asked. “You didn’t do so well the first time, y’know!” Booker smiled and began to lay on the grass. “I’ll be fine.” He lay in the fields, staring up into the sky. Still as a stone, he began to close his eyes, and focus on the black inside his head. His hands, restless, began to twitch. He grabbed his wrist, and held it still. He began to feel lighter. His arms and legs became numb, and his head was empty. He was aware of his transition, however his body was not. He fell a sharp thud, and woke up in his apartment. He stood up and looked around the room. Light now spilled inside through shut blinds, and dust circumnavigated the air. The room was untouched. Booker sighed as he wandered to the window. He wasn’t sure if what had happened was just a dream or not.
As the blinds on the window were drawn, the merciless rays of the sun blasted inside, forcing Booker to step back. When his eye adjusted to the brightness, he opened the window and peeked out. The birds nest that had been resting underneath his window was gone. Blown away in the wind, leaving a small family homeless. He sighed, not expecting any different, and closed the window. The pill bottle that laid on the end table before, was still there. He picked it up and tossed it in the trash bin, near the kitchen door. Thinking of refuse, he dug in his back pocket to see if the note was there. A crumpled, yellow slip of paper unfolded in his hand, revealing the same message as it did before. He rested the note upon the table where the bottle had been and sat in his chair.
He tried to think of what the note meant, but he was distracted by a knocking on his door. Loud, hard raps on the door came through with calls of Booker’s name. He moaned and stood up to answer it. Booker spied through the keyhole, and spotted a short man, with a rough beard and a small group of people, all wearing orange, reflective vests. The door swung open, revealing the people in their entirety. The short one cleared his throat: “Hello, sir. I’m Dennis Bamber, of the Neighborhood Watch. I’m came here to ask you: is your power on?”
“I’m not sure, I haven’t checked.” Booker replied, flicking the light switch near the door. No reaction came from any lights. “Guess not.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” He said with conviction. “Our government has not responded to our power outage in over eight hours, thus showing Maine that it doesn’t care about any of-” Booker interrupted the man, clearing his throat. “Listen, Mr. Bamber, was it? I’m a busy man, and I have things to do. So instead of listening to you ramble about a government you probably read all about this morning, I’d like to hear your point. Unless you don’t have one.” Dennis stood in the corridor, dumbfounded by Booker’s remark. “Guess not, then.” Booker mumbled as he reached for the doorknob to close it. The door nearly shut until a small, wide foot caught the door between it and the wall. “There’s something else I wanted to ask you,” He called. Booker reopened the door to hear the man’s plea. “I was, uh, wondering if you could look after my son. You see, I’m heading to Washington to protest against the slow storm response team, and... Well, he needs someone to medicate him, and I don’t trust him to do it.”
“No, medicate your own damn kid.” Booker remarked as he reached to shut the door once again. Again a stubby foot halted the door before it could rest. “Please, Mr. Moss, you’re the only man I can trust with a child. You have experience with kids! I’ll never ask you for anything else again, I promise. Piper won’t be much trouble, he’s a quiet kid, who likes to read. You two’ll get along, won’t you? You have so many books!” He pleaded from behind the door. Booker became annoyed, I’m not taking care of your brat, Bamber. Leave it at that!” Booker roared from inside his apartment. Booker slammed the door, not caring if Mr. Bamber’s foot remained in its path. The other neighborhood watch members watched in awe, as the great battle between Bookers door and Dennis’ feet commenced. Pleas for Moss to take his child for the weekend mixed with tears of pain as he swung back and forth from the sheer power of Booker’s thick door. “Take care of your own, I’m not watching after him!”
“Please, Mr. Moss! Please!”
“Absolutely not, you cretin!” Slam. Slam.

A voice came from behind the crowd of Neighborhood Watch members and others tenants “Dad? What’re you doing?!”

Mr. Bamber looked back and saw his son, with a book in his arm. His face blank. “I’m trying to get Mr. Moss to look after you.”

“... Is that it? Is it worth possibly losing your foot to the rage of the vampyre who lives in flat four?” He remarked, satirically. “Listen, if he doesn’t want to look after me, that’s fine. He’s entitled to his solitude, I can understand that. You can’t force a man his age to do anything against his will.” He walked up to the door, and knocked upon it. “Mr. Moss? Hello?” Booker opened the door, breathing heavily. “Would you be willing to look after me, for my father’s sake? I personally don’t need you, but Dad doesn’t trust me to take care of the house while he’s gone making a mess in Washington.”

Booker looked into the grey eyes of the adolescent who stood before him. A silent, yet willful disposition, reeking of indifference. He quickly recognized the boy as the same boy from the shelter. Then, his eyes were nearly engulfed in grey from sickness, yet now, his face was as lively as it should be. Booker sighed, and complied with his offer. Cheers came from the small settlement of spectators. The boy reached out his hand to shake Booker’s. “I’m Piper Bamber, though I would prefer you call me Pip.”

“Booker Moss, call me MR. Moss.”