The Mirror of Maybe

It was dark, cold, and lonely, but one thing was certain — this was one hell of a nice plane. Soft leather seats hugged my body, gold trimmings shimmered in the dim cabin light, and the hum of the engines was smoother than anything I'd ever known. For a moment, I forgot about the overwhelming confusion gnawing at my mind. The strange luxury, the elegance… it didn't match my life. It didn't match who I am.

'Where the hell am I?' I whispered to myself.

I had never known wealth — not even close. I'd clawed my way through life's filth, scraping and bleeding for a scrap of something meaningful and nothing seemed to make any sense. And now I was here, flying in the lap of luxury, seated in a body that didn't feel like mine. Now it begin to feel like robbery.

Is this heaven? Is this how you travel to the afterlife — in a private jet with silk blankets and chilled champagne? All these questions kept running in my head, and for instant, I paused.

I chuckled weakly… "Then heaven must really be somwhere high up." None of these mattered now.

The bitter taste of irony lingered in my mouth. After a life of hell on Earth, this—this quiet, floating palace—was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing was the peace, and the curse was the mystery. How did I get here? Why am I someone else?

Then I remembered: I had taken my own life just so I could escape the pains that came with living. I had written my final words, a will not of possessions, but of pain and anguish. A letter to my mother, asking for forgiveness, for understanding, and for closure. Because I thought death would end it all.

But I was wrong.

As I sat on that soft leather seat, thinking throughof how I find myself here, there appeared a figure, emerging in the aisle, graceful yet terrifying. She moved with elegance, but her presence stilled the air. Her skin was pale as porcelain, her eyes deep pools of shadow, and her smile… her smile was beautiful, but empty.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

She tilted her head, amused.

"Death is merely a means of ending the pain I'm in," she read aloud.

My blood ran cold, her lips curling into a smile. 

"How poetic."

"That's… that's what I wrote. That was in my letter to my mother." I stood abruptly. "How come you have that?"

"I enjoyed reading it," she said, with a tone far too casual for someone holding my last words.

I wanted to scream. How could she possess something so private and intimate? I pressed my hands against my head. "This has to be a dream."

But it wasn't.

"You are dead," she said, her eyes piercing through me.

"And I am here as proof of that."

I staggered back, shaken by her presence, by her certainty. "So… you're Death?"

She smiled.

"How foolish of you to think I am merely a tool to end your pain. You mock me with your desperation."

"I didn't mean—" I tried to explain, but she silenced me with a raised hand.

"You saw your life as torment, so you sought me. But you'll soon learn that death isn't the end. It's merely the doorway to the truth."

Suddenly, the luxurious jet dissolved around us like smoke in the wind. In a blink, we were standing atop a tower, high and haunting, surrounded by a howling sky of dark clouds and violent lightning. The air was thick with agony — not heard, but felt. And below us, a sea of blood churned and screamed, every wave a cry of pain.

"Are we in hell?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"I brought you here on your way to hell… because you must be punished for making a mockery of me," she said nonchalantly.

Panic surged in my chest. "Punished? For what?"

"For a sin you have committed. And sinners do not go unpunished." She replied.

"That's insane," I spat. "I've suffered enough in life. Isn't that punishment enough?"

She looked at me, her eyes burning now. "You made a mockery of death. A mockery of me. That is your sin."

I stood frozen, unsure whether to fight or plead. Nothing made sense. Who was she to decide what I deserved?

"No one mocks me and walks free," she hissed.

"You hear the screams? They are from others who thought they could cheat death. Your screams will join theirs soon enough."

Before I could speak, she raised her hand — and the ground beneath me vanished.

I plunged into the sea of blood. The thick, crimson liquid burned like fire. I thrashed, gasped, screamed, but there was no escape. The cries of the damned echoed all around, deafening. I felt hands pull at my legs, my arms, my soul.

Then everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, I was back in the plane. Or at least, it looked like the plane. But I knew better now. This wasn't salvation — it was a stage. A dream. A trap.

She was still there, seated opposite me, sipping wine that looked suspiciously like blood.

"What is this punishment you keep talking about?" I demanded.

She set her glass down gently. "God graced humans with a privilege," she said. "And you will be stripped of it."

I scoffed. "What privilege?"

"Humans… only die once."

I blinked. "And you call that a privilege?"

She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "You'll die over… and over… and over again. Each time in a new body. A new life. And each death will be worse than the last."

Her last words hung heavy in the air.

Immortality? No — a curse.

"You'll live a thousand lives. And in each one, death will find you again. Until you learn what death really means. Until you understand the weight of your choice."

I shook my head. "But I don't want to live. Life was my hell, and I ended it for a reason!"

She smiled with terrifying calm. "You thought death was an escape. Now, you'll learn that death — true death — is something you must earn."

Things started to get more terrifying at this point, but I wanted to sound a challenge to her. The challenge of me dying no matter what, and never will her words intimidate me in wahtever ways.

Then, the plane began to shake. The windows darkened, and the walls melted into shadow.

"You don't get to threaten death," she said. "You invoked me. You called me. Now you'll see the price."

"But I'm already dead," I whispered.

"This… is just the beginning," she said. "Let's see how many deaths it takes before you beg to live again."

With that, she vanished — like mist in the morning sun.

And the door to the plane opened.

Wind roared in. I was sucked toward it, screaming, falling into a void of pain, of lives not yet lived, of deaths not yet died.

Now begins the punishment. A thousand deaths. A thousand lives. And one chance to escape.

This wasn't heaven, nor hell.

This was something worse.

This was judgment.

And I had just entered Death's game.