Ticket to Live?

Photo by Edwin Chen on Unsplash “Please take a number, ma’am.” “Where am I?” I don’t remember coming here. And I certainly wouldn’t be staying here willingly. The waiting room smelled like dirt despite being nothing grey stone. And not a nice grey like the streets of Kaltoren, or the marble steps of the Algoret temple. This was soul suckingly drab, and the people sitting in the equally dull chairs much better with their expressionless faces and muted toned clothing. This is the waiting room of the dead. I cannot be dead. Eldraphem promised. “Ah I see you know where you are now.” The person behind the kiosk said with a voice like an out of tune organ. The black cloak covering their figure the shroud that should cover such a defective instrument. “You’re dead, but the accounting isn’t done, so you take a number and wait. Like everyone else.” They tapped a ticket dispenser. The numbers covering the slip of paper were so small it’d take a magnifying glass to read them. “There is a mistake, I cannot be dead. I was promised, by a god.” A sigh longer than a bagpipe solo came from behind the desk. Clawed hands moved with care through whispering papers and opening an ancient tome. “Just because it’s the waiting room of the afterlife does it need to be so drab? Some flowers, or paintings would liven things up a great deal. And maybe some card tables so people have something to do while they wait.” “It’s calming.” The hefty tome was put away. “You are right. Eldraphem has granted you second life. However, you may wish to reconsider.” “You think I want to stay here?” I spun around in a flourish, the skirts of my cerulean dress flaring, my anklets chiming. Everyone stared at me. A dwarf had their mouth wide open, a tiefling had one hand touching their ear, a trio of humans gapped. It normally takes more than that to get those sorts of reactions. “I’m Cassandra Du’ward, I have songs to sing, audiences to amaze, and love to give. I will have my encoure.” “Ma’am, you died in a fire. You will return, but only as though you survived. Your flesh will not be healed.” Memories flashed. The curtains a falling inferno, a beam heavy and immoveable. Screaming until the smoke stole all my breath. This dress, this dress, the dress I’d just twirled in was ash. “Is there some in-between?” “Ghost is an option.” They tapped another ticker, one that I was certain hadn’t been there before. Above the paper spitting device was a sign. ‘I want to haunt somewhere or something.’ “But if the theatre isn’t rebuilt, then I’ll be stuck haunting a burnt lot with only vermin as an audience? That is unacceptable.” I shook my head and bells rang. I had forgotten about the bell earrings, they were one of my favourites. “There must be something that will heal. What about a vampire?” “Not an option. But, perhaps, well, it might give you what you want.” More pages whispered as they turned. “You’d stop tasting food that isn’t dedicated flesh but ghoul’s heal so long as they aren’t hungry. But you’d be undead, and look it..” “So a diet of jerky, and I stay looking this fabulous forever?” I grinned and gave a happy laugh. The laugh echoed and I was sure more people were staring. The room felt bigger, like this little bit of life had changed it. “That will do just fine. Thank you very much good sir, or is it Ma’am?” The being shrugged. “You will still need to take a number.” A third ticket dispenser appeared. The sign floating above this one read ‘I’m a tricksy little pain in the but.’ The paper was adorned by a jagged 3 with wet ink. I took it without a moment’s hesitation. Being a ghoul will mean I can’t go to some places like temples to anyone but Abdaguar and maybe Saitereum, and I’m sure Eldraphem would still welcome me. It’s certainly better than accepting that my final show would be one that ended in fire. A door opened in the wall with a number three that matched my jaggedly drawn paper. “Good luck.” The kiosk person said. “You will need it.” “Thank you!” I waved then blew a kiss before walking through. I slammed into the lid of my coffin. They buried me already. Or maybe it had been a while. I’ve heard of people digging themselves out of graves, and they didn’t have the advantage of not needing to breath. I sighed, breathing in the stink of embalming fluids. It’s just a pity it’ll ruin the dress.

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