IN BETWEEN

I’m in a queue; there are too many blank faces before and behind me. I think they feel the way I do. Lost. Where am I? I am naked, but for some reason I am not bothered by my nakedness. Maybe because everyone is naked. Nakedness feels as natural as it must have been for Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Yet we are a grotesque display in a lifeless place that feels far from home. There is nothing save for a solitary door that seems to lead nowhere, and yet we are all headed toward it. Everyone who enters never returns.

A woman is panicking, nudging everyone and asking, “Where am I?” Nobody answers. We are all clueless. The blankness on every face should be answer enough, but she keeps asking, on the brink of tears, desperate for someone to explain. I feel the same way, but I am not willing to make a scene of it. The queue is moving painfully slowly. I’ve moved an inch in what feels like an hour. I do not remember how I got here. I only remember arriving at the back of the line, but now I look behind, and the queue is endless. That bothers me less than not knowing what is behind that door. Another panic breaks behind me; there’s always that one.

There’s a thin pale woman in front of me, hip and collar bones surging their way through her skin. I can count her ribs and the joints along her spine; it makes me cringe. She looks behind, past me, to the new sound of a man panicking a few paces from me. She has dark circles under her eyes, and her lips are dry and cracked. Do I look anything like her? My hand goes involuntarily to my lips. I trace a finger, and they are dry.

My throat tightens; I swallow, and nothing moves.

I touch my face and pinch myself. I feel everything. I am not dead. Wait, why am I checking? I turn my whole body, so I am facing away from the queue, searching with my eyes for a way back home. Home. Why does it sound so far away? The queue shifts once after thirty minutes. I know because I started counting the seconds from the last time it shifted. I keep counting as we move to the unknown. There are at least ten people in front of me. The door opens, and I look intently, trying to see even a flicker of light from the other side, but all I see is the same grey we are standing on, yet the person who just went through is no longer here. There is no sign of whoever opens and closes the door. It opens and closes itself.

It closes without a sound, and we continue to wait, moving along like nothing is amiss. Even the ones who panic still move with the queue.

The queue shifts, and it suddenly feels like it’s moving faster as I draw closer. Before I know it, I am one person away from the door. The woman in front of me turns to look at me before she steps into the frame. There is horror in her eyes; a kind of fear that is contagious. My heart sinks and starts beating too fast as she moves. It’s oddly comforting to know I have a heartbeat. She steps in, and like a haunted house, the door shuts her in. I am panting. I am next, and nobody comes out of there. 30 minutes later, it startles me when it opens for me. I still cannot see anything on the inside. It is like I am about to go around an empty frame. Slowly I push myself forward, and one step in, a magnetic pull sucks me into the unknown in one gasp.

I am in a booth, the size of a telephone booth. There is a screen above my eyes and a phone hangs on the wall below the screen. On the screen is written ‘choose a language’ and there is a line-up of too many languages, some I have never heard of before. I pick English.

‘Pick up the phone.’

The screen types on its own. I do as I am told and, out of habit, automatically place the phone to my ear.

“Hello, Nia.” It’s a male voice that sounds AI.

“Hello.” My voice sounds clipped.

“In case you are wondering why you are here, I will explain, and then you will proceed to the next stage. You are here because you did not finish your assignment, and depending on the score on your next test, you will either be given a chance to go back and finish it or pass it to the one born the day you got here. Do you understand?”

“What assignment?”

I am hauled down with a speed that makes my head spin, and when it stops, the booth opens, almost spitting me out into a massive windowless hall with a high ceiling. Something familiar for a change, but it is empty save for a desk, a black A4 book, and pens- lots of pens- and a chair. I walk towards it and sit down. I leaf through the pages, and they are blank. I look at the pens, and they are inkless. I rummage through the pile of pens looking for one with ink, but there is none. I pick up one and test it at the corner of a page in the blank book, and it does not write; it just makes messy invisible lines. I am trying to figure out what this means, but I remain as clueless as I was out there. It is all starting to feel like a dream. Am I dreaming? Where am I? I lean back on the chair, waiting for…I have no idea what I am waiting for. It is quiet. I am changing positions and walking around, trying not to panic. For some reason, I cannot convince my brain to find a door and walk away from this hall. I am bound to it somehow. I always end up back on the chair. No wonder nobody ever comes out. I open the book again, pick up one of the inkless pens, and begin to brainstorm this place.

Blank book

Inkless pens

Unfinished assignment

Either be given a chance to finish your assignment or pass it to the one born the day you got here.

How do all these connect? Think, Nia. I am beginning to think the only way out of here is for me to figure this out. It’s been hours, and nobody has come to save me. I read the invisible words over and over, trying to figure out my assignment. 

Blank book, "Why is it blank?"

Inkless pens, "Who used all the ink?" Nothing.

Unfinished assignment, "What’s the assignment?" Blank.

"Second chance? Pass it to who? What am I missing?"

My mind is like a high, solid wall. I dump the pen and pace around. I cannot see anything beyond this place. No window, no door, and I get the feeling that walking away from this table would be a waste of time if I have any time. I sit back down and pick up another inkless pen.

Who are you? The question appears in my mind so suddenly it feels planted there. I lower the pen to the page.

Accountant

Entrepreneur

Friend

Wife

The pen scratches invisible lines into the paper. I stare at the words until they blur, then write the first thing that comes to mind.

Travel.

Dark ink blooms across the page. I freeze. Slowly, I write another.

Learn a new language. Ink.

My pulse quickens.

Write.

Dance.

I grab another pen.

Forgive.

Share the gospel.

The page begins filling with words I have never done, words I postponed, words I promised myself would happen someday. Someday. The ink spreads through that word too.

I stare at the page. The inked words seem brighter somehow. Regrets and promises, pieces of myself left waiting while I convinced myself there would always be more time. The blank book lies open before me, and for the first time, I think I understand why it is blank.

The pen on the book suddenly smudges the page with black ink. I check another pen. It has Ink. Then another. One by one, every pen comes alive.

Without warning, I am back in the booth with a screen and a phone. I do not feel myself being transported here. It’s like I blink and appear here. It makes me think about how I get to the queue in the first place. I don’t remember how it happens, and I don’t seem to have lost my memory. It’s like I just do not know. I take the phone and place it to my ear.

“Hello, Nia. Welcome back. It took you 120 hours to find your assignment. Congratulations. You have been granted a second chance if you will have it. You can ask me anything before you go. Do you have any questions?”

Oh, I have questions.

“Am I dead?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Where am I?”

“In between life and death.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

The line goes silent, for so long that I think the call has ended, then:

“You already know,” the voice says.

“How long have I been here?”

“Earth time, three minutes. You made good time by the way; they are still trying to bring you back. Go back now.”

"What happened to me?"

"Goodbye, Nia."

“Wait! One more thing…what is it about the assignment, does everybody have one?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why else would you be born at all? You have to go now. Goodbye.”

“She’s back, we got her back!” shouts a male voice.

I can’t open my eyes, but I hear muffled voices around me. The universal hospital smell hits my nostrils before cool air hits my lungs. There is laughter and applause around me. Are they applauding for me?