Dead Men Walking: Awake

The afterlife was very brightly lit.

That was the first and most prominent impression Eric had as he came to in what first looked like a void of pure white. But as his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out more detail. What looked like a void was actually walls, ceiling, and floor. The room was fill with strange, smooth furnishings that all held rounded, flowing shapes to them. Orbs of white light embedded in the ceiling illuminated the space with uniform consistency. There wasn't a dark corner in sight.

He was lying in what he could only guess was a bed. It was long and narrow, and its surface was at once dense and cushioning, conforming to his body but still supporting it. When he lifted his arm off it, the distinct impression of where it had been remained for a moment before slowly expanding back out.

His head was throbbing, the lights hurt to look at, and his entire chest felt sore. His muscles felt weak, and lighter than they should. A sickly, sterile taste lined the inside of his throat, though it diminished with every breath. When he sat up, the room spun.

A shred of logic forced its way through the haze of discomfort and disorientation. He was breathing. He could still feel things. Either several priests and holy books had grossly misrepresented what happened after death, or he wasn't dead at all.

But that just left more questions.

A portion of one of the white walls parted open, allowing in even more light and someone clad in form fitting grey and white robes and a narrow skirt that reached to the floor. The figure was hooded, and their face was obscured by a solid, shale white mask. Simple engravings decorate the otherwise smooth face, evoking the vague shape of a face without depicting one. 

It was unsettling, and yet vaguely familiar. Memories of icy water and jagged rocks floated through his mind, but the more he tried to place them, the fuzzier they became. It was like his brain was steeped in a thick sludge.

"Welcome home, Eric. How are you feeling?" 

The voice matched person's feminine frame, but Eric didn't recognize it. He certainly didn't recognize this place.

"Where am I?" he asked, looking around at the all white room. "Who are you? Where—"

"Shh."

With a gentle hand and steady voice, the woman eased Eric back until he was lying down on the unnaturally soft bed again. She rested two fingers on his forehead.

"You're safe here," the woman assured him. She removed her fingers. "I'm your doctor, just checking to make sure you're recovering."

"Recovering from what?"

"Your surgery."

She said the word "surgery" as if it answered all of his questions. He had no idea what it meant.

"In addition to normal prep all applicants undergo, your body suffered severe injuries that needed to be repaired," the woman explained. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

Eric strained to make sense of the fragments in his mind. The cold. The rocks. Arrows. Blades. A voice screaming his name. Falling.

"My head…"

"A perfectly normal side effect," she said. "Your body is adjusting to its new normal and working through the last of the anesthetic. Everything should feel fine in a few hours."

The permanent smile was audible in her voice, but it didn't make Eric feel any better. She kept using words he didn't understand. She knew his name. Called a place he had never seen his home. Nothing made sense, everything hurt, and his heart ached.

She asked more questions about how he was feeling. If he could move his toes. What his stomach felt like.

"What happened to me?"

"Oh Eric," the smile in her voice faltered, overtaken by pity. "You died."