Can officially confirm; BEYOND THE GRAVE LETTER WRITING! I’m hoping that you’re as excited as I am, because that is what I’m trying to convey here. Excitement. There’s so much that has happened that I need to explain to you, so much that I need to explain about all of this, and now I can, and there’s time, and I don’t know where to even begin. Nothing is like we expected. Nothing is like ANYONE is going to expect. I… shit. I suppose I should start at the beginning. This part will be hard, and I’m sorry that you’re going to have to relive some painful things. Understand, though. I am good now. Like, really good. Everything will make sense later, I promise, but for now, just bear through this part.

If life worked like the dark comedies we love so much, my suicide would have been a darkly funny montage in a movie. Something showing me going through different outfits, writing letters and scrapping them to find the perfect words, researching or trying different methods and passing on all of them. Something set to comically perfect music like, I don’t know, Killing Moon by Echo and the Bunnymen. Something completely cliche. The truth of the matter is I truly did try to keep it as clean, tidy, and convenient to clean as possible. A cocktail of medications that never worked and were never collected or disposed of, a couple of puppy pads under me for the inevitable, and otherwise everything all wrapped up in a neat and tidy bow.

I knew I succeeded when I stood up from the bed and was looking over my corpse. I reached out to touch myself, and while there was no physical contact, I was able to feel a general warmth emitted from my remains that was beginning to fade. That was that, then. Done was done. Not sure what else to do now that I was severed from my mortal coil, I looked around the room and scratched at my head. Clearly I didn’t “ascend” to anywhere, but I didn’t immediately get sent to hellfire and damnation either. So, that ruled that out. If hell was a place that suicide victims were damned to, either it looked exactly like my bedroom or it didn’t exist. Further analysis was required, so I left the room.

Nothing happened. I was still in my apartment, only now I was standing in the same darkened hallway I’d walked down hours before I’d taken my final dose. Wandering around the apartment I found I could still interact with everything that was there as if I were still physically solid and present, and further roaming and curiosity proved I could still eat food, breathe, and drink if I wanted to. So, it was almost like still being alive, just not in that body anymore and I still couldn’t touch my physical remains. I went back and checked. By that time a few hours had gone by and I was most definitely a few degrees colder and beyond any attempt at saving if there had been anyone to find me. We both know that took many hours and it was only after I didn’t show up for work without calling in that someone came to check. Anyway.

Running out of things to occupy myself with in the apartment I decided I should try to venture outside. I grabbed a coat from near the door and headed out. The halls and stairs were empty as I made my way down to street level, but there was a decent bustle of midday foot traffic as I stepped out of the building. Mainly people out and about getting lunch, or moms meeting other moms for coffee between whatever things moms do when the kids are in school or with sitters for a few hours. I stood in front of the building for a few minutes, just watching people pass while deciding where to go, when I felt as if I were being watched. Glancing to my right I thought I saw someone across the street watching me, but if I tried to look at them more directly, they vanished. Odd.

Tucking my hands into the pocket of my coat, I stepped away from the building and headed off to my left. I had no place in mind, there were a few small boutique type shops and a coffee shop in the general direction I walked, and I figured I could test how much I could interact with and if I could be seen or not in one of those places, all the while aware of the feeling of being watched. Other people walking didn’t seem to be able to see me, but it was kind of like they could feel “something” there. They’d make minor adjustments when walking like they were trying to avoid bumping into whatever wasn’t there, not knowing the something was me. I reached out once and tried to grab a guy by the arm, yelling, “Hey”, as I did so. He didn’t even blink as my hand passed right through him, though he did brush at his arm absently. Almost like when you brush at a stray hair when it’s faintly tickling your arm. So there was that. I existed, just not the same way they did. Ok, so now we were onto some kind of planar, dimensional type of deal. All my nerding out over the years was beginning to come in handy.

It did not save me from jump scares. I was still watching the man walk away when a voice spoke directly to me.

“Helena Louise Beckett.” The voice was matter of fact in tone and belonged to a no nonsense redhead that decided to block my path. She reminded me very, very loosely of Scully from X-Files, but more ethereal and fae. I found out later that’s because that was what I’d understand easiest at the time, but we’ll get to that. She had a notebook in her hands, much like a detective would have, and a manila folder tucked under her arm. Interesting. This was not what I was expecting, but she knew who I was, what else could I do? I answered her.

“I’m Helena. Who are you and how can I help you?” I asked, trying not to fidget and falling back into years of customer service experience. I’m not sure exactly what I thought that would do, but I also didn’t know how else to answer. Someone could see me, talk to me, and she seemed to exist the same way I did because no one else was aware we were here besides the occasional small sidestep. It was also safe to assume she’s whoever was following me and then was able to get in front of me in literally seconds, so it’s not like running away from her was an option. I’m not a runner in life or death.

Flipping closed her notebook, she smiled briefly and gestured towards an empty table outside of the coffee shop. Apparently teleportation was a thing, too. I don’t know when she had time to move us, but we were down the street and in the outdoor seating area of the coffee house. Given it was October and fairly breezy, they were mostly unoccupied, but I don’t think she was especially worried about privacy either way with the whole… other plane of existence thing. “Have a seat. I’m Judith, your Afterlife coach. We have much to discuss.” Not seeing any other option, I joined her at the table. As I sat down, she tapped the table. I was mildly impressed as a rather fancy looking latte appeared in front of her just as she settled in and began to open her folder.

“Let’s see…” she muttered, tapping the table a second time and repeating the same bit of, let’s call it magic for now, to set a mocha mint frappe in front of me. As she continued to go through my file and mutter things, I poked at the frappe, looking at it from every angle I could as if I could figure out both if it was real and where it came from. “I promise, it’s real and not going to disappear, nor will it make you fat. You can have as many of them as you like, though eating and drinking isn’t necessary now. Call it a luxury.” Her voice pulled me away from my poking, and I sat up and grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry, I’ve never died before that I know of. This is all new to me…” Yes. I told her that. I am that awkweirdo. Thankfully, Judith is pretty much the best Afterlife coach I could ask for and is incredibly patient when I have a case of the stupid.

“About that…” she laughed, closing the folder and setting it aside. Grabbing her latte, she took a sip and studied me for a few minutes. “Right. You seem very intelligent and to have a very good grasp on the world around you this go ’round, so I’ll level with you.” With the latte back on the table, she crossed her hands across her stomach as she made herself comfortable. The action reminded me of the one therapist I truly enjoyed working with, and I felt myself warming to her. “This is your eighth death, but your first self inflicted. Where you are now is not Heaven, nor Hell. Neither of those as you understood them in this life exist. Not exactly. This is just… a halfway point. You can call it Limbo… or Purgatory if those work better for you, but even those aren’t ‘quite’ right. Think of it more as… a lobby, or a waiting room. Everyone who has ever existed dies. We understand that, it’s a fundamental principle of life. We live, we die.” Here, she paused and took another sip.

“What happens after is where the difference lies. Firstly, it depends on how you die. Natural causes have their own waiting room. Those who die at the hands of others have their own waiting room. Those who are self inflicted have their own. From there, we take things case by case and assess how well you accomplished your purpose and learned your lessons. Are you following along so far?” she asked, although I could tell by the way she looked at me she knew I was taking in every word. I nodded anyway and sipped away at my frappe. Seemingly pleased with my nod, she continued. “Every lifespan you’re given a purpose and lessons to learn. If you’ve learned your lessons and fulfilled your purpose satisfactorily, you get a bit of a respite and can choose your next life and when you go back. Easy peasy. If you’ve made a good effort, but didn’t quite make the mark, you get to do things over until you get things right. New life, same lessons and purpose until you get it right. Most people fall into this category. You have free will to do as you choose, and part of learning is making mistakes.”

“Free will is a wonderful tool, and when you’re assessed after one of these lives, we will discuss where there could be improvement in the future or other decisions could have been made differently, but ultimately it’s still your choice. Obviously we want you to choose to live a good life, live many good lives, and enjoy your respites and such, but think of this as an experiment.” Sitting up again, she rested her forearms on the table and crossed them. “Sometimes things go wrong, anomalies occur. There are some among you who will choose to do the wrong thing, every time, no matter how they’re guided and how we work with them. You can see evidence of this in your genocidal maniacs, tyrants, serial killers… I don’t need to go on.”

Setting my frappe down I looked down at my hands, running all of this through my head. It was a lot of information to take in. People were sorted, reincarnation and multiple lives, people choosing to be terrible on purpose was a given… we’ve seen that. I still had questions, though, but only one felt especially pressing. Looking up at her and doing my best not to pick at the skin around my thumbnail, a nervous habit I apparently hadn’t lost in death, I asked her; “Where do I fit in with all of this?”