Feb 28, 2025 /Gabriel Jeroschewitz
The Afterlife Processing Center
Given the establishment’s name, the fluorescent lights of the Afterlife Processing Center flickered an ironic touch. Death, or rather, the entity currently inhabiting the corporeal form most associated with Death (a tall, gaunt figure in a perpetually rumpled black robe, though today it sported a coffee stain that looked disturbingly like existential dread), sighed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across cobblestones. The whole scene was so absurd that it was almost comical.
“Another one, Brenda?” Death croaked, gesturing with a bony finger towards a shimmering portal that had just whirred into existence. Brenda, a perky, if slightly translucent, cherub in a neon pink tunic and sensible sandals, bounced over, her clipboard practically vibrating enthusiastically.
“Yup! Mr. Reginald Featherbottom, age 97. Natural causes. Lived a long and happy life. Loved birdwatching and prune juice. Sentimental farewell notes to his prize-winning begonias. Standard package.” Brenda chirped, ticking off items on her clipboard with a pen that floated in mid-air.
Death rubbed bony fingers against her temples, where temples would be if she possessed any anatomical features beneath the robe. “Brenda, darling, are you sure that’s all? Just ‘another one’? Don’t you feel… anything?”
Brenda blinked, her cherubic face creasing in confusion. “Feel? You mean… like empathy? For Mr. Featherbottom’s begonias?” Her innocence was both charming and slightly baffling.
Death groaned. This was precisely the problem. The workload had been relentless lately. Eternity, it turned out, was a surprisingly busy place, predominantly when populated by billions of souls constantly transitioning, usually at the most inconvenient times. And the new interns? Bless their cotton-candy clouds, they didn’t get it.
“No, Brenda, not for the begonias precisely. Though I’m sure they were lovely. I mean… the sheer volume, Brenda. The unending stream. It’s… tiring. Even for me.” Death mumbled, slumping into a surprisingly comfortable, if slightly dusty, armchair that had materialized behind her. It looked suspiciously like it belonged to a recently departed therapist.
Brenda tilted her head, her halo wobbling precariously. “Tiring? But… you’re Death. Isn’t this, like, your whole… thing?”
“Precisely!” Death exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “It’s my ‘whole thing’! And it’s been a lot of ‘thing’ lately. Back-to-back pandemics, unexpected meteorites – honestly, the universe is showing off now. And everyone, everywhere, is grieving. The air is thick with it, like… like overcooked gravy. And I have to… process it. All of it. It’s an overwhelming task, even for Death.
Brenda still looked perplexed. “Process grief? Thought that was… you know… the grieving people’s job.”
Death sighed again, a sound that this time ruffled the paperwork on Brenda’s clipboard. “Oh, Brenda, sweet, oblivious Brenda. Grief isn’t just a human emotion. It’s… a cosmic energy. A byproduct of love, loss, and existential angst seasoned with a dash of ‘why me?’ And it has to go somewhere. And guess where it ends up? Right here, in the cosmic laundry basket of emotions that is… well, me.”
She gestured dramatically at the swirling vortex of souls that was the processing center. It looked a bit like a very sparkly, very depressing washing machine.
“Think of me, Brenda, not just as the Grim Reaper, but as the Cosmic Grief Hoover. I suck it all up. The silent sobs, the tear-stained pillows, the empty chairs at holiday dinners – all of it. Lately, the Hoover bag has been overflowing. It’s heavy, Brenda. Really, heavy.”
Brenda finally seemed to grasp the enormity of Death’s existential fatigue. Her eyes widened, losing a fraction of their usual sparkle. “Wow,” she breathed. “So… you’re like… grief-sick?”
“Grief-sick, soul-weary, existentially exhausted – call it what you will. The point is, I need a break. A cosmic spa day. Or at least, a decent cup of afterlife-strength coffee that isn’t lukewarm and vaguely tastes of despair.”
Just then, a booming voice echoed through the processing center. “DEATH! Get your bony behind in gear! We’ve got a surge in Sector Gamma-Nine! Someone invented a self-folding laundry machine that achieved sentience and promptly exploded, taking out a whole block of suburban homes.”
It was Destiny, Death’s perpetually stressed and caffeine-addicted supervisor. Destiny was a whirlwind of celestial energy, perpetually multi-tasking and sporting a halo that flickered erratically like a faulty neon sign.
Death groaned again, louder this time. “Sentient laundry machines now? Destiny? Is nothing sacred?”
Destiny zipped past, a blur of cosmic static and frantic energy. “Sacred? Death, darling, in this economy? Just get those souls processed! And try to look a little less glum. We don’t want to scare the newbies.”
Death straightened her robe, adjusted her hood (which had slipped rakishly to one side), and sighed dramatically. “Right then,” she muttered, moving towards the shimmering portal. “Let’s get this laundry sorted.”
As she stepped into the portal, Brenda called after her, “Hey, Death? Maybe you should try some cosmic yoga. I hear it’s great for soulaches!”
Death paused, a skeletal hand hovering over the portal’s shimmering edge. “Cosmic yoga, Brenda?” she echoed, a flicker of something akin to amusement in her empty eye sockets. “You know what? Maybe you’re onto something. Though I suspect I’ll need more than downward-facing doom to deal with this backlog.”
With a final weary shrug, Death vanished into the portal, presumably to face the existential fallout of sentient laundry machines. Brenda watched her go, then thoughtfully tapped her pen against her clipboard.
“Cosmic yoga for Death…” she murmured, scribbling down the suggestion. “And maybe a sensitivity training seminar for Destiny. And better coffee. This place could use a morale boost.”
And as the fluorescent lights flickered once more in the vast, slightly chaotic, and perpetually overworked Afterlife Processing Center, even the cherubs began to feel the weight of the universe’s grief, though perhaps, thankfully, just a little bit less than Death herself. After all, someone had to fetch the lukewarm, despair-flavored coffee, and even cosmic entities had their limits. Even Death grieved her duties, sometimes, especially when sentient laundry machines were involved. It was all just a bit too much, even for eternity.
