A Glimpse of the Works and Wonders of a Dead-People-Processing Teller

T/W: Mention of Rape.

You type away on your keyboard, your eyes barely seeing the screen. Working for years in the same office in the same job post looking at the same form that’s barely changed for decades, it becomes as familiar as the back of your hand. 

You continue to type away on the keyboard, unhearing and hearing the wail and complaints of the person on the other side of the glass pane in front of you.

“Yes, yes,” you push enter. “You’re done. Get your ticket on the next window.” You block the person off your sight although you can still see the person still seething, irritated, eyes cursing the life out of you. They would have cursed you with the curse of the gods if they could. You don’t care though. You’ve gone past care. You’ve been immune.

You yell, “Next!”

A young lady in a maroon sweatshirt scramble in front of you.

“Name?” You ask, the usual flow.

“I--I don’t know,” the young lady pulled at the tip of her red hair.

You paused to gaze at her. One of those poor girls. You cluck your tongue, “What do you remember?”

“Ah,” she pauses to think. Her eyes travel everywhere then stops at you, “I don’t remember.”

You sigh. You pull a vial from your first drawer. Inside it was a needle. “Listen carefully, girl,” you say, “Prick yourself with the needle and let the blood run in the vial. Make sure to fill it until the line.” You slip the vial on the small opening of the glass pane. 

The girl takes it, “Won’t I faint?”

“No. The line is not that high, and you won’t faint here even if you suffer blood loss.”

You notice there is confusion in the girl’s face but she does not speak and does as she’s told. You watch her do everything you said. The girl caps the vial and slips it back to you. You place it in a small box full of bubble wrap. You call someone and order them to bring it to the lab.

When you are done, the girl clears her throat, “What was it for?”

“To know your identity seeing as you don’t remember anything.”

“Will it be long?”

“No,” you reply.

A beat. “Can I ask questions then?” 

Seeing as you don’t have anything to do, might as well take a break. You lean on your high stool chair, “Sure.” Besides, every person in a similar case as her asks questions anyway. No use in avoiding them and treating her with the cold treatment. It was the least you could do. But, you would have appreciated the silence though.

“Where am I?”

“In purgatory.”

“Am I really dead?”

“Seeing as you’re here and this is only for dead people, yes.”

“But why… Why is purgatory like this? Is it like this? What do you do? What do I do?”

“Purgatory is not like the purgatory you were taught on Earth. Purgatory is like… a drabby bank,” you splayed your hands around you for emphasis. Everything was gray; there was no trace of any other color. 

The place was small. On the other side of the glass pane that separates you and the dead, there were no windows or doors save for the two elevators that served as their entrance. Beside it was a ticketing machine that gives the person their waiting number. Two rows of aluminum alloy waiting chairs are lined up in front of the six glass windows, one of which is your cubicle. The room is small though, and with the number of dead people coming in every second, some had to stand to wait for their turn, or for any vacant seats. On your side, each counter is separated by cubicles, a small office with a high stool chair, office table, a computer, and a ton of folders lying around. 

“So, what do you do?” The girl asked.

“I process the lives of dead people. I give them a ticket on which place they belong, heaven or hell, and they process it on the last window.”

The girl craned her head but turned back to you, “which window?”

“The sixth one.”

She cracks into a fit of giggles, “Is that some sort of joke?”

“Everything’s a joke.” 

“Oh, okay,” her laugh subsides. “No offense, but you sound so lifeless.”

“I’ve been working in this job for years, meeting dead people. It can make you lifeless.”

“Are you dead too?”

“No, I’m somewhere in between.” 

“What does that mean?”

The computer screen pings, giving you no chance to elaborate, much to your relief. A new email has been sent. You open the attached file and you see a document, a two-by-two picture of the girl in front of you clipped on the left upper corner of the document.

“Katherine Reed,” you say. You notice the girl shows no reaction, you add, “That’s your name.”

“Oh,” she ponders, “I don’t remember anything.”

“Everything is here,” you say, “Just received the result of your blood that was analyzed. All details of your living life is recorded here.”

“Tell me more about it,” you told her her personal information, from birth until the day she died. “Of course, this does not say about your relationship with them or the specific events in your life, or how you felt, your emotions, thoughts.” 

“Why did I forget everything? Are you supposed to forget everything when you come here?”

“No,” you explain, “Only those who met a traumatic death will forget their memories. The brain does this in order for them to have a pleasant transition to their final destination.”

“Does it say how I died?”

You may have worked in this job post for thousands of years but one of the moments, and they can only be counted in one human hand, that always never fails to surprise you, is this one. “Yes,” you pause, “Rape.”

You can see the girl’s lips forming into a small ‘o’ but nothing escapes from her mouth. You silently work on her paper. She never asks any questions..

After a few minutes you are done and her ticket is printed. Heaven. 

You slip it in the small window on the glass, “Take it to the sixth counter. They know what to do.”

The girl nods, “Thank you.”

She turns to leave but you stop her, “Hey,” she turns to you, “It's not your fault. It will never be your fault. You deserved a much longer life but in the time you had, you did very well.”

She gives you a smile before walking away.

You close the current window and yell, “Next!”