For Better or Worse

He was definitely dead.  That much could be gathered.  He was standing over

his own body, sixty feet away from the car.  fifty-nine feet away from  the

telephone pole.  The pool of blood on the blacktop was rippling from the

sheets of rain that were piercing it.  The rain bounced off of his lifeless eyes,

staring on into the cloudy sky.   His shocked expression was forever frozen on

his face.  He walked around the corpse, both fearful and excited.  He was dead.

...He was DEAD!  He was on the other side!  He looked around, searching

for the 'white light',  but all he found  was a man dressed in a ratty  trench coat

staring directly at him.  Rotting teeth smiled at him under a grungy  Fedora in

a way that reminded him of a jack-o-lantern carved into the likeness of Indiana 

Jones that had been left out past Thanksgiving.  A withered hand beckoned him.

He was not hesitant.  He was not fearful.  

Those were emotions controlled by a brain that was currently about as useful as a 

bag full of gelatin.  He strode forward and took the man's hand.  It was neither hot

nor cold.  They were no longer in the rain.  They were in a room with a large monitor

sitting in front of a station of various knobs, buttons, and switches.  A large leather 

chair apathetically awaited use .  He was aware that none of these objects  actually

existed, because they were in the place where things don't exist.  Still, he sat down

and turned on the monitor.  He looked at the labels.  Some were obvious, such as

P L A Y,   P A U S E,  and  S T O P.  Others were strange and confusing like two 

labeled F I R S T S  and  L A S T S.  He pressed the former.  A list appeared with 

items as simple as "Kiss" to ones as specific as "Sprained Left Ankle in November".

He chose the former.

The screen went blank, then a video appeared.  It was a boy and a girl lying on a

hill on a blanket at the onset of dusk.  The boy he instantly recognized as himself.

The boy brushed his hand against hers.  She let him.  Fingers now entwined as 

they stared at each other.  At the time it had felt like hours, but it was less than a 

minute before lips pushed apart to make way for tongues.  His first kiss.  It didn't

take him long to figure out how the machine worked from that point on.  He spent

years going through every second of his life and reliving it from a new perspective.

It didn't matter, he had all the time that never was and never would be.  He saw his

mistakes and his triumphs, his loves and his heartbreaks.  Finally, he decided he was

finished.  It was time to go.  The man in the Fedora smiled.  Smiled that Cheshire smile

They were in a hallway.  It seemed to stretch for miles.  Every twenty paces or so, there

was a person, standing on a platform, obscured in darkness.  He walked to the first one.

A light flickered on.  It was his mother.  She looked like she did when he was a boy,

vibrant and full of life.  She never lost that, even as her body aged and her health declined,

she always had something to smile about.  He talked to this apparition of his mother.  

They talked for hours about his life, of random topics.  Things they had never had time

to talk about when they were both alive.  After some time, she gave him one of her wry

smiles.  He nodded and made his way to the next person.  His father.  He continued this

for quite some time.  He talked to everyone from his brother to a guy he used to get high

with in college.  Years passed as he said his final goodbyes to all the people in his life

that he had ever known.  All of them were happy for him.  All of them had something

to tell him that he had never known about them in life.  None of them were real.  When

he was done, he turned to the man in the fedora.  A smile.  A smile that had a personality 

all its own, a smile that simultaneously showed compassion and seething hatred.

The last room.  No one said it was the last room, but it had that feeling of finality to it.

It was spartan, nothing in it except a marble floor that seemed to stretch for eternity in

every direction.  It probably did.  In front of him were two pedestals.  On each of those

pedestals was himself.  The one on the left was wearing a fine tailored suit, had radiating

skin and a smile that cameras feasted on.  The one on the right was a stark contrast.  The

teeth he had left were hanging lazily from the roots.  His hair that he had left was thin,

oily, and ridden with lice.  His mouth turned upwards in an insane grin that was only

matched by his thirsty, bloodshot eyes that seemed to bulge from his pockmarked skin

  They both spoke at once. 

You were born on                         Y­ou were born on 

July 3, 1985.  Your                 ­         July 3, 1985.  Your

parents fed your                        ­  mother died when you

curiosity at a young                      were 4.  Your father

age.  Your passion                     ­   turned to alcohol.  He

was art.  You painted                   to­ok his pain out on you.

your first work when                    You dropped out of    

you were nine.  By the                  high school and moved

time you were 16, you                   as far away from this 

were renowned as a                       life­ as you could.  You

artistic prodigy.  You               ­    quickly discovered a bad crowd.

attended the Art                         ­ You met a girl, Cindy.

Institute of Chicago                     ­ You got her pregnant.

on a full scholarship.                ­      You started selling drugs

It was there that you                        to make ends meet

would meet Claire,                     ­     for your accidental family

your future wife. By                          It wasn't long before

the time you completed                   ­   You made a mistake

your school, every                       ­      and ended up in jail.

museum wanted a                           ­ years later, when you

piece of your work                        ­  were released

hanging in their gallery                   yo­u found that Cindy       

Your work would be                          had killed herself

remembered for                         ­      and your son.

hundreds of years after                You had no job          

your death.  You had                     no skills

a wonderful family,                     ­     You spent your days

fame, fortune, and                         ­  doing odd jobs for

everything that came                        money.  Money that

with it.  You lived                       ­   You spent on drugs

until 89, where you                         ­Until the age of 45

died peacefully in                          Where you froze on a

your bed, surrounded                  ­   street corner, surrounded

by loved ones.  This                 ­         by human excrement.  This

is your life's best                        ­    is your life's worst

possible outcome                     ­     possible outcome

He nodded, then looked at the man in the fedora.  That smile crept up.  A smile like a hyena.

He snapped his fingers.  Two doors appeared.  One was Oaken and battered.  The grains

of wood barely visible over years of neglect.  The other door was new and had just been 

painted with a fresh coat of sky blue paint.  

The man spoke for the first time.

This is the last decision you shall ever make.  The door on your left will lead you to the 

afterlife, and the judgement that awaits you.  Whatever is decided, that is where you will

spend eternity.  The door on the right will allow you to be reborn as a new soul.  This one

will no longer exist.

He gave it a good long ponder.  Had he been good enough in life to pass the judgement? 

What if he ended up in a hellish nightmare for the rest of eternity?  Could he do better 

if he started fresh?  The thoughts swirled about him like a whirlwind until finally.

Years later

He chose.

The man in the fedora smiled.

Author's Note

Started out as a poem, ended up as a mini short story