When you die, you get a sheet of paper.
It’s not a form, it’s not an invitation or directions to heaven. In point of fact, it’s entirely blank.
When you die, you get a blank sheet of paper and a pen.
What else you get is not much. You get space. Infinite, unyielding, tar black space. Technically it’s open but you might as well be in a room. You can’t really see anything but the paper and the pen, which are plenty visible.
You have a body, sort of. You don’t need to eat anymore or to run your fingers through your hair. You don’t need to stretch your lips and feel them crack when they are chapped. You don’t need lips at all. You can’t even really see your body in the absence of a mirror, but you know it has to be there, like your ears when you can’t see them, because the job gets done.
When you die, you get a sheet of blank paper, a pen, and hands to write with.
And that’s all. That and time.
You sit for a long while—two days maybe—thinking about the time. It feels like two days, anyway, and that feels very long to you. You know you’re dead—you remember the tree trunk, or the oncoming car, or the sudden, sharp pain in your left arm and chest. So you sit and you think—what next? Is this a test?