I'd been sitting in a chair as stiff as a wood plank for what felt like days. Possibly weeks. Joints I hadn't even been aware of were crying for relief, and the room smelled of Lysol. My tab said "E9732." When I first sat down, they were calling off E27. The clock read 3:30. There had been so many 3:30's since then that I lost count. The ink had deteriorated from all the times I'd bent, crinkled, and straightened the small sheet.

The room was filled with thousands of chairs, lined up neatly like soldiers. I squinted, hoping for a glimpse of a wall. The room, enormous and looming, seemed to be infinite, save for the restricting plaster on the horizon. That distant plaster comforted me. Otherwise, that sea of chairs could've been the size of a universe, and I wouldn't have been the wiser. The frail woman with the large nose to my left was E9731. The grouchy and unkempt man to my right was E9733.

I hadn't eaten, slept, or pissed since I got there, nor did I feel any need to. I hadn't spoken a single word. From time to time, a nauseatingly saccharine recording would announce, "Welcome to the Purgatory Orientation waiting room. Please remain silent. Any speaking will result in a revocation of your purgatory visa status, and deportation to the underworld. We do appreciate your patience."

Some did fuss about the wait, complain about the chairs, or even try to make small talk with a neighbor... They disappeared. Literally. They vanished, like a power outage offs a lightbulb. One can only imagine where to. Yet no one seemed to care.

At last, they called the three of us: the woman on my left, myself, and the man on my right. The lot of us almost fell down when we stood, knees weak from disuse. We walked into the proper room, and I began to feel something similar to what I'd felt that day I was shot. Bubbling dread, anxiety, fear... What waited for us behind that door? How could the others look so calm?

We took three chairs. The room was white, with a white tile floor to match and fluorescent lights which conjured up migraines with their piercing light. A woman with a rippling double chin and grey garb looked up at us flatly.

"Sorry about the slight wait. We've been understaffed lately. You're free to talk now."

"Where am I?"

It was a simple question, but it had consumed me for days. The turkey behind the desk grinned knowingly.

"This is purgatory. You're a soul to be tested."

"Purgatory? I...don't understand. Why didn't I go to heaven?"

"You didn't believe in God."

"But I did believe in God. That's why I belong in heaven!"

One caterpillar brow arched. I wasn't normally so hot-blooded, but this was a special occasion.

"Then you must have believed in the wrong one."

My veins pumped ice as I shouted at the woman, wanting to grab her blubbery neck in my hands and shake the life out of it.

"So what is this, a guessing game? I've lived my entire life in dedication! This is bullshit!"

"Sir, I am not speaking to you if you're going to use that tone of voice."

I stared at her, fuming, until I gathered the willpower to calm myself. I spoke through clenched teeth.

"Well then, if I'm going to purgatory for getting God's name wrong, who was the correct god?"

"God."

"I'm asking you which god."

She leaned forward, speaking slowly to me as if I were just ignorant.

"God."

I stared back incredulously.

"But I believed in God!"

"The real God is a little like your own. He created everything in the physical world and is omniscient and omnipotent. But that's where the similarities stop. We're through discussing this."

"No. Absolutely not. Who had it right? The Muslims? The Jews? ...The Mormons?"

"That's enough, sir."

Her voice menaced, and I then remembered clearly what had happened in the waiting room. I became quiet.

"For identification purposes, please state your name and cause of death."

The clerk nodded at E9731.

"Marjory Stewart Baxter. I had a fainting spell and woke up here."

The worker indifferently checked a box on a long white form. Moving to the next, she awaited my response.

"Troy Jonathan Fisher. I was shot in the head."

Check.

"Yancy Jacob Strobel. I was mowed down by the cops."

The voice was deep, familiar, and notably Irish.

"You son of a bitch!"

My chair crashed into the wall as I charged at E9733, who only smirked.

"You killed me, you smug piece of shit! I'll rip your jaw off!"

I no longer saw the room around me, felt the chill in the air, or noticed the reek of disinfectant. The only thing I saw was his ruddy and satisfied face.

"You hadn't realized that the man sitting next to you for weeks was your murderer? You Americans... So slow."

"Sir! I will tell you this third and last time to calm down. I will not warn you again. You will be deported."

"What are you going to do, send me to hell? I don't give a shit. I want to kill this punk!"

I'd always been an even-tempered sort of guy, but this... This had me all but undone. E9731 jabbed me.

"Don't be an idiot. Kill him? Do you realize where you are? Don't you remember what you saw in the waiting room? "

Still facing my murderer, my mouth opened in a silent roar. But the woman was right. She had become my voice of reason. I righted my seat, body numbed in shock. I had spent days, no, weeks, beside the man who murdered me, without a clue. And what's worse, I was killed by a man named Yancy. What kind of name is Yancy?

My breathing threatened to become either rapid, shallow pants or deep gasps at any moment. My fingers were tingling and clumsy. What was this nightmare? The turkey spoke again.

"I need to see each of your visas."

The woman to the left of me and the piece of shit to my right both handed over a small, gold card with their photograph on it. The turkey was impatient.

"Mr. Fisher, please hand me your visa."

"What? What visa are you talking about?"

"Your Purgatory visa."

"I don't have one."

The woman to my left gasped as dread crept up my throat.

The clerk responded in the same unsympathetic tone, "Without a visa, you will be deported."

"Deported? You mean... Sent to hell?"

"You could say that."

"You're sending me to hell for missing a damned piece of paper? No one ever told me about this! How was I supposed to know?"

I felt cold, slimy things entwining, squirming inside my stomach as panic flooded my thoughts. My voice of reason spoke again.

"No one ever told you? Everyone knows about this."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone knows it. They just never talk about it."

I stared, unable to believe the horrible sounds from those strange mouths. My murderer spoke snidely.

"You'd think, if you knew you were going to go somewhere your whole life, you'd at least be prepared."

"You. You shut the hell up!"

"Yeah, you're screwed."

I was going to hell, but my murderer's soul was saved. And this was supposed to be the justice of the universe?

"Sir, you have a five day grace period."

"So... There's hope?"

"Yes. You can apply for a visa there, but you better hurry. They close at 5, and the paperwork can take a while. You're done here."

I nodded as my body moved towards the door. I had become overwhelmed, and conscious thought stagnated. My hair had become unkempt, as tended to happen when I was upset.

"You'd better run."