You Are Already Dead

By Rishika Tipparti

You were already dead by the time you noticed.

One moment, you were laughing. Your daughter in the passenger seat, cheeks flushed from

giggles. She’d just said something – a joke, something about her wedding (your baby was already getting

married? How time passes!) – and you’d laughed so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes at the red

light.

And then the truck.

Metal crumpling like paper. Glass spraying bright as stars. That impossible sound: too loud to be

real, too final to take back.

Then – nothing.

No pain. No weight.

Just this.

An empty place. Pale, but not white. Quiet, but not silent. The sort of place where even your own

thoughts feel like echoes.

And standing there was the being.

Tall, and somehow... smudged. Like your eyes couldn’t quite focus on it. The edges of it kept

slipping away when you tried to pin them down. Its face shifted — sometimes kind, sometimes blank,

sometimes flickering like static on an old TV.

It watched you for a while. As though giving you time to realize.

Then, in a voice that put neutrality itself to shame, it said: “You’re here.”

And now, you were here.

You aren’t quite sure what “here” is. It wasn’t much of a place. No golden gates, no fire pits. Just

an endless blankness, like someone forgot to load the background. And standing in front of you – or

possibly hovering – was it.

Tall. Vague. Wearing what might have been a bathrobe if reality worked like that here. Its face

flickered between familiarity and strangeness: sometimes your third-grade math teacher, sometimes your

childhood dog, sometimes nobody at all.

It smiled. “Ah. You’re here. Right on time.”

You swallowed. Or you thought you did. Hard to tell without a throat. “Are you God?”

The being blinked. “No.”

“Who are you?”

It scratched its not-head with a not-hand. “I’m not quite sure yet.”

There was a long silence. The sort that doesn’t tick by, just stretches thin like over-chewed gum.

Then the being clapped. “Well! Welcome, welcome. You’ve died. Nothing to be ashamed of.

Everyone gets there sooner or later. Even the stubborn ones." It looked at you. “Tea?”

You glanced around at the nothing. “Is that... an option?”

The being shrugged. “Not really. No body, no mouth, no tea. But it’s polite to offer.”

You nodded stiffly. “No tea, then.”

“Suit yourself.”

Another pause.

The being gestured vaguely. “Look, I get it. You’ve got questions. Everyone does. I’m allowed to

answer a few. Keeps things running smooth. Eases the transition.”

Your mouth felt dry, even though technically that wasn’t possible. Allowed.

“My wife. What about her?”

The being’s face flickered through three shapes before settling on neutral. “She will grieve,” it

said lightly. “Deeply, as loved ones do. She will get over it, in the practical sense. She will learn to make

coffee for one. To drive without glancing at the passenger seat. To sign papers that say ‘widow.’”

Its mouth twitched wider. Not a smile, exactly – more like a fissure.

“But she’ll never be the same. You have made marks on each other, and when you are pulled

away, those marks stay. Like footprints where the body has already vanished.”

The words settled around you. Heavy and soft at once. Like wet wool.

You winced. “My son?”

“Ah.” The being’s hand flickered again. Too many fingers this time – and then not enough. “He

will wonder. He will chew on words unsaid. He will think: I should have told him I loved him more often.

And that thought will gnaw quietly at the corners of his days, like mice in the walls. He’ll spend years

wondering over what-ifs. Until he turns eighteen and goes to college. Then he’ll worry about making you

proud. He’ll replay your last conversation like a broken record. The one about the lawnmower.”

You don’t even remember what you had said to him about the lawnmower. You realize with a

start that you don’t remember anyone’s voice. Suddenly, the disjointedness of yours and the being’s

voices – or lack thereof – felt suffocating.

And then you remembered. If you had a body, you would have dropped to your knees.

You swallowed again. “And my daughter? She was in the car with me–”

The being raised a hand – or the idea of a hand. It was there, and then it wasn’t, like a shadow

cast by a light that didn’t exist. “Ah,” it murmured, voice thin as paper sliding under a door. “That one’s

tricky.”

You felt it then – a strange coldness that started in the hollow of your not-there chest and

stretched outward. Not a chill like wind, but like something pulling away from you. As though absence

itself had teeth, and they were gently closing in.

“She’s in between,” the being said. Its smile flickered like an old film reel, frame by frame.

“Balanced right on the crack. I live inside the walls of life and death – sturdy, painted, well-defined. But I

can’t see through the cracks. Anyone still on the brink is outside my jurisdiction, you might say.”

Your mouth worked soundlessly. Your hands – if they were still hands – flickered like candle

flames about to gutter out.

“She was right there with me,” you whispered. “Laughing.”

The being’s smile widened, then thinned again. “Yes. That’s often how it goes.”

You shuddered, though nothing around you moved. The space stayed the same: pale, blank, too

still. The sort of stillness that starts to hum if you notice it too long.

The being’s head tilted, thoughtful. The gesture looked normal at first – then kept going, a little

too far, until it was almost upside-down.

“You are not the only one to ask that,” it mused. “Though, I suppose you very well could be,

given that you are the only one truly there.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m dead, though.”

“Yes,” the being said brightly, as if you’d pointed out a fun fact at a dinner party. “But that

doesn’t change what I mean.”

It let that hang there. No explanation. No elaboration. Just the hum of the not-space around you,

pressing in.

You blinked. Or thought you did. “What does that even mean?”

The being’s face shifted – polite smile still frozen in place, but the eyes (were they eyes? You saw

them in a split second and cannot see them now) shimmered like oil on water. “It means you’re here.

Fully. Cleanly. Singularly. That makes you realer than most, in this moment.”

You swallowed again. That phantom cold gnawed deeper. “And her?”

The being gave a soft, breathless laugh. “She’s complicated. She’s still tethered to breath and

pulse and chance. Tethered things are hard to see from here. Like trying to look at a moving fish through

frosted glass.”

It flicked its hand – the almost-hand – and little cracks spiderwebbed through the empty air before

smoothing over again.

“Your daughter is neither mine nor theirs yet. She’s in the hallway, you might say.”

Your knees buckled again, though there was nothing to fall on. Your whole self felt thin,

stretched, like a word repeated until it lost meaning.

“She was just laughing,” you whispered.

“Yes,” the being said softly. “And then she wasn’t. That’s the space I live in. The half-second

after. The breath not taken. The laugh that doesn’t finish.”

Its smile faded then, just a little. Enough to make you feel more alone.

“But you,” it said, tapping a finger against where your forehead would be. You felt the suggestion

of pressure – cool and distant, like memory – but nothing more.

“You are here. Fully filed. Categorized. Stamped and processed. Which means I can answer you.

The silence thickened between you. You could feel the hum now, low and steady, like a lightbulb

about to burn out.

Then, casually, the being added, “I like to think about you as all of them, you know.”

Your head jerked up. “What?”

It smiled again – that thin, papery curve.

“It makes it easier. For you. For me. For everyone who comes through here. To know that you are

everyone who wronged you, and everyone you have wronged. That you are your wife’s grief, and your

son’s regret, and even–” it paused, eyes gleaming like oil slicks, “the truck driver.”

Your breath hitched.

“Yes,” it went on, with a strange, gentle fondness. “You are him, too. It gives balance, you see.

Comfort. All accounts settled, all weights countered. That’s what makes the pattern hold, for humans at

least. You are an unnatural lot.”

Its many-fingered and no-fingered hand curled in the air. “I am him too, in a way. And your

daughter. And you.”

Your stomach turned – or the ghost of it did.

“That’s... comforting?” you managed, though your voice sounded thin and far away.

The being’s smile faltered. Just for a moment.

“It is, to me. To us. It helps with the... arithmetic.”

It let out a soft breath. “But I’ve never thought about kindness.”

You blinked at it. “What?”

“That’s never been part of the balance.” Its head righted itself with a soft pop, like a joint sliding

back into place. “No one ever asks about kindness. Only debts. Only injuries. Only what was taken and

what was paid.”

Its eyes shimmered again – or maybe they rippled.

“I suppose kindness doesn’t leave a mark the same way. It doesn’t weigh as much on the scale.”

It chuckled then. Dry as old paper.

“Funny, isn’t it? You humans obsess over kindness when you live. But here, in this place – it’s all

about harm. That’s what makes the doors open and close.”

It leaned in, close enough that you felt that cold absence gnawing deeper into your ribs.

“Would you like to ask another?” Back to that thin, papery smile.

The silence crept back in, soft but heavy. Like dust settling in a room no one visits anymore.

“I’ve got time. Well – no, that’s inaccurate. I am time. Sort of. But you get the idea.”

The being let you sit in that silence. It didn’t rush you. The only sound was your own breathing,

faint and distant. Or maybe imagined. You shook your head. The questions you really wanted to ask – the

ones about meaning, about why any of this was allowed to happen – felt too big to say out loud. So you

reached for something simpler.

Finally, you lifted your head. “Do I get a say in this? Do I get... a wish?”

“Can I make a wish?”

The being’s face lit up, like you’d just handed it a party balloon. “Oho! You’re an enterprising

one. A wish! That’s always a fun turn.” It tapped its chin, then nodded. “Technically, I shouldn’t.

Wishing’s not really part of the protocol, given that it’s never mentioned. I’m not quite sure what I look

like, but I doubt I look like a... ah, what do you all call them? The ones that live in teapots?”

“A genie?”

“Ah, yes! A genie. I am not one of them, I’m sure. But I have... some latitude. Call it a courtesy.

Go ahead.”

You took a breath you didn’t have. “I want immortality. I want to live forever. At least until the

end of time.”

The being’s smile withered. “Oh. That one.”

You nodded, firm now. “Yes.”

The being’s face flickered again. For a second it looked tired. Ancient in a way even erasing

eternity couldn’t fix. “You humans. Always assuming that more life solves the problem of death.

Loneliness is older than the first atom, you know.”

You glared at it. “Is that so wrong?”

It chuckled – dry and brittle. “Not wrong. Just... familiar. Every time I meet one of you, it’s the

same. ‘Let me be the exception,’ you say. ‘Let me stand at the end and watch it all fade.’”

You lifted your chin. “I still want it.”

The being stepped closer. You could almost feel its presence now – like standing too near to

something vast and patient.

It made a noise like someone stepping in something wet. “Look. I get it. Death is scary. Oblivion,

scarier. But immortality?” It laughed, high and sharp. “You really think that’s the upgrade? You’d outlive

everyone. Your wife. Your son. Your maybe-daughter. Every person you’ve ever known, gone. You’d

watch languages die out like sick pets. Cities crumble. Planets freeze. I will die one day. Stars blink out

one by one until it’s just you and silence so deep it starts sounding like screaming. And the silence will

one day fizzle out too.”

You crossed your arms. Or felt like you did. “I don’t care. I still want it. I want to see how it ends.

I still want to live. To the end. Even if I’m the last thing left. I can’t be done now.”

The being stared at you. And then it did something unsettling: it laughed softly. Not mockingly.

More like a parent watching a child insist that touching the stove again will be different this time.

“Do not laugh at me,” you said, with a fierceness that surprised you, even. “I would trade a

lifetime of cosmic misery just for one more hour with my family.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Here’s the thing,” it said. “I can’t grant that. End of time’s union-locked.

Contracts, cosmic zoning laws, entropy clauses – real bureaucratic nightmare. Nobody gets to stand at the

edge and clap as the curtains fall. That’d be cheating. Everything collapses together, by design.”

You felt heat rise in your chest – anger, or fear, or maybe both. “So what, then? I just disappear?”

The being grinned. “Oh no, not quite. Best I can do? Send you along. Next life. Roll the dice

again. New body, new timeline. Maybe a little further down the road this time, if you’re lucky. I don’t

quite see the difference it would make, but it is your choice, not mine.”

You scowled. “But I won’t remember this, will I?”

“Not a bit. Clean slate every time. That’s the rule.”

“That’s not the same,” you snapped.

The being leaned in close. Its breath (did it have one? Or was it the taste of your own

assumptions?) smelled like static and old libraries. “No. But it’s the best you’re gonna get. No front-row

seats to the apocalypse. No eternal observer perks. You go back in like everyone else. Nobody gets out

early, and nobody gets to hover around at the end to gloat. The universe plays fair, even when it’s eating

itself like the barbarian it is. Like we all are.”

You clenched your hands, though they were already flickering at the edges. “Send me.”

The being beamed, clapped its hands, and suddenly it wasn’t there anymore. Or maybe you

weren’t.

As your vision dimmed, you thought you heard its voice one last time, distant and smug:

“Good luck, friend. Try not to wish for immortality next time. Of course, you always do, And I’m

always there to have this conversation with you for all of the rest of time.”

Then: darkness. Or maybe light. Or maybe just the beginning again.

By Rishika Tipparti