Fated to Die

The ground always smells musty when you’re six feet below the surface. As a mortuus actor, or a professional death artist, Tornicasa had grown accustomed to the feeling of being buried alive. The dampness of the mounds of dirt pilled above him were kept at bay by the warmth and protection of a sturdy coffin. The pitch-black grave provided growing clarity of mind. Tornicasa wished that one day he could partake in the final sleep of death but, for the time being, his purgatorial prison allowed him no peace.

Living remained harder than dying. The feeling of being cremated, dissected, and dismembered had become numb and mundane after millennia of truly terrible deaths. Tornicasa couldn’t remember what he had done in his first life to deserve such a punishment. His sole purpose in heaven, hell, Earth, and all the liminal spaces in between was to die and be reborn. He tried to remember his first visit to the afterlife and instead met a wall of black emptiness in his mind.

“It’s the postmortem memory wipe.” He thought despairingly.

Within the days and hours after death, Tornicasa’s mind would shut down as his memory dissolved. He would regain consciousness with a vague recognition of his former life and a growing understanding that he would soon move to his next assignment.

As if on command, Tornicasa felt his soul rise from the corpse of a deceased man with a bullet wound to the neck and a broken leg. His soul rose out of the ground of the Washington D.C. Penitentiary just in time to witness the hanging of men with faces he still recognized. These had been his allies and conspirators in the assassination of an important man by the name of Abraham Lincoln. Tornicasa heard the voice of the man he had inhabited whisper “Sic semper tyranus” as everything faded to a silvery gray.

The gray glass surrounding him soon started to focus and Tornicasa found himself in a waiting room with sparkling white tile walls and floors. He was sitting on an uncomfortable white plastic chair. Identical plastic chairs lined the room in perfectly neat rows. He turned his head nonchalantly to see the front desk. A bright white neon sign read “The Department of Eternal Placements.”

He sighed. The afterlife.

Tornicasa could feel the expanse of his mind filling with memory—mostly emotions. He had worked here since the dawn of human perception and he loathed every second of it. Underneath the loathing and despair he perceived the gut-wrenching feeling of guilt. He placed his head in his hands and closed his eyes, recreating the darkness of the coffin. He prayed that he would be allowed to sleep his final dreamless sleep. His prayer received only silence in response.

Tornicasa opened his eyes once more to the sterile white room. His eyes wandered until he found an elderly man asleep in the corner. A small pouch of coins sat on the chair next to him. A long staff rested against his chest. This was ferryman of the underworld, taking a well deserved nap after ushering souls to the afterlife waiting room.

“Charon.” Tornicasa called softly across the waiting room.

The old man’s eyes flickered open and fixed on him. “Torni, returned from the land of the living. Tell me my friend, did you die a good death this time?” He asked in a low voice.

“No, old friend. I have never known a good death for the wicked.” Tornicasa replied.

Charon gave a knowing nod. “There is no rest for any of us, even the righteous. May peace find you soon.” He said, his voice fading to a whisper as his eyes drifted closed again.

With this farewell, fragments of memory entered Tornicasa’s mind: A flash of white light. Coins laden with blood being dropped into Charon’s hand. The weighing of his heart. A kind voice saying, “You will now be Tornicasa to remind you that you will always return home to us. For you have died and have been reborn.”

“Tornicasa.” A deep familiar voice broke his reverie.

Tornicasa turned to look at the god of the underworld. With the body of an extremely fit man and the head of a jackal with piercing yellow eyes, Anubis would normally be an imposing force for new souls in the afterlife. However, in his black suit and sparkling golden tie, Tornicasa thought he looked tacky. Eons spent as coworkers in the afterlife had revealed that Anubis no longer held the same power over humans as he did in past time.

“Anubis.” Tornicasa said with a nod as he rose from his chair. “Did you acquire any new souls for your department in my absence?”

Anubis only shook his head. “I do not wish to converse in small talk, Tornicasa. The souls are as they have always have been, weak and useless. Not as many commit such a sin as you. Not as many prove to be such an asset to the great cause that enslaves us all.”

Tornicasa rolled his eyes at Anubis’ droll tone. “Lucifer hasn’t decided to let me graduate then?”

Anubis gave him a curious look. “Tornicasa. Do you still sit in the postmortem fog? Lucifer has no say over your sentence.” Anubis’ yellow eyes narrowed as if trying to determine if Tornicasa was playing a practical joke on him.

“To be honest, I haven’t remembered my original sin in hundreds of years. Lucifer continues to sends me on the most ridiculous errands. I have no rest.” Tornicasa said.

Anubis sighed deeply. “Such was your sentence, Tornicasa.”

Anubis glanced at a clock on the wall whose hands spun counterclockwise at an amazing speed. “Quickly, the next predetermined soul is already chosen.” He said, turning on his heel and starting down a long hallway.

Tornicasa trotted beside him. Anubis’ pet leopard had appeared out of thin air, giving Tornicasa a nudge with her nose. He gave her a scratch absentmindedly as he tried to keep up with Anubis’ enormous strides. They turned down another hallway and the white tile transitioned to a smooth dark rock that smelled distinctly of sulfur. At the end stood a single wooden door, painted a dark red. Above the door the soul of Michelangelo had painted the Circles of Hell which, as Anubis constantly reminded Tornicasa, only existed in the feeble minds of humans.

Anubis entered without knocking and Tornicasa found himself in the office of Lucifer. The large room was lined with black cubicles each containing a man or woman in a black suit with a dark red tie. Lucifer’s office, at the far end of the room, had floor to ceiling windows that separated him from his subordinates. Tornicasa could see him playing darts through the glass. As they entered the back office, Lucifer rose to greet them.

Lucifer had pale skin, almost gray looking, with sharp facial features and deeply sunken cheeks. His wavy strawberry blonde hair framed his face effortlessly. His eyes were a maroon color that gleamed a brighter shade of red when he was angry.

“Wonderful work on the Booth job. Really shook up the 1860s in that country…what is it called again?” Lucifer said, snapping his fingers. He flipped through a manila folder on his desk. “Ah yes. The United States of America. Well, we showed them didn’t we?”

“We sure did.” Tornicasa said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Now, on to the next one!” Lucifer exclaimed. He carelessly tossed the folder in his hand over his shoulder and picked up another file.

“What did the Department of Predetermination whip up this time?” Tornicasa asked.

“An old case that we had filed away for some time. The portals are about to align with the year 100 BC. You’ll be a man named Julius Caesar. Rather famous, if I remember correctly.” Lucifer licked his fingers and flipped through the pages of the file. “Looks like you’ll be stabbed in the back by one of your closest friends—literally. I think it could be appropriate given all the good that God had Gabriel do over the last few months.”

“Will it bring balance?” Anubis asked. His voice made the glass walls shake.

“It just might.” Lucifer said, unconvincingly.

“And if it does, will I finally remember why God gave me this lot in the afterlife? Will he let me rest?” Tornicasa said in a desperate voice. He felt his mind reaching to fill the gaps of his memories. It was as if he was falling down a steep hill unable to grasp anything but loose dirt around him.

Lucifer looked up at Tornicasa with a grave expression on his face. He glanced at Anubis who gave another deep sigh.

“Remind him, Lucifer.” Anubis said at last. “Say his true name once more.”

Lucifer held Anubis’ gaze for what seemed like an eternity. He eventually nodded and turned his flaming gaze to Tornicasa.

“Cain.” Lucifer said, grasping Tornicasa’s arm. A mark appeared upon Cain’s skin like a brand.

Cain felt a wave of memories flood his brain. The face of his brother. The flash of blood as it soaked the earth. The warmth of the sun in the field. The fertile earth turning to dust in his hands as God cursed him.

“You will be a restless wanderer on the earth for all eternity.” Lucifer said as he placed the folder into Cain’s hands. His soul was drawn back to the earth.