Day four:

Part two:

"Was Sarah one of you?" I abruptly spat.

Tilting his head slightly to the question. "No... she is a one of the 'others' we 'suits' (a jab at me) like to enlist them as."

I furrowed my brow in protest. "'Others' "I reiterated with a shrug.

"She and a few hundred 'others' are of another entity... catapulting themselves onto naïve victims."

My brain rushed to the scene of her materializing from practically nowhere, the first time I had had coffee with him. Come to think of it, she had been quit vigilante on getting me to that house; that room. I shuttered thinking about the room again.

Does having them so interested in me, make me 'evil,' or a horrible person for an 'other' to be so visibly amped to claw their way on me? The hysterics were climbing up my back again, reaching higher and higher until just kissing the nip of my neck.

The calming effect shooed them away yet again. Releasing breath, I had not known was being held; my eyes traveling down my forearm to the limb pressed upon it. It startled me how quickly every time I was spiraling that once he had touched me, I miraculously recovered in seconds rather than hours or even days it would take my own self alone to recuperate from.
I snapped my arm from his grip. Reluctant to place it again on the wood surface.

He must have caught on to the accusations brewing behind my eyes, as I daggered him.

"The first time we met..." he pushed back against the chair.

"...I was aware you were not a candidate for their kind..." he began as he creased his brow.

"...you seemed sweet... kind... a good natured being... someone..." He paused in sentence, appearing to contemplate his next words.

His eyes lifted to fetch onto mine; stricken by a fraction of grief; somber and glistening under the domes natural light.

"...someone I would've easily fallen in love with prior to a deeper knowledge of myself."

I choked on that sentence; the thought; the vagueness of being prepared for the words whipped at my core.

"When I placed my hand on your wrist the first time, there wasn't anything that could be thrown at you, to damn you to a death-time of leniency... err... a devotion to the darkness approaching you."

The lovey dovey's I inhaled from the lovelier words splattered against a brick wall, as I carefully examined the latest sentence; as if I didn't quit here correctly; or perhaps had misinterpreted it by meaning something entirely different – still, slaps you right in the jaw with a full fledge force of a hammer.

I cackled not internally as planned but exuding outwards loudly; the acoustics of the building had seized every hiccup of enjoyment I had unknowingly and nervously had been storing up.

He, himself was not amused. "I understand your frustration..."

I had hooted till my stomach felt it had crunched from a million core exercises.
"Frustration... no..." I wheezed out.

"... no... I'm no... frustrated..." I pushed out an exhausted breath.

Catching two or three great inhales of breath. "...no, I am completely... one-hundred percent sure I am not frustrated... this is just inappropriate laughter to cover up the fact that this is the most insane... vividly morbid dream I have ever been a part of in my life, and I've been to a mental institution!"

He smirked. Ah, so he does have a bit of humanity left in him. He hides it well ninety-nine percent of the time that I've spent with him.

"Are you one of other types?" I demanded.

Smushing his medium lips together "No."

The discerning face I made surely suggested I thought otherwise.

"I'm more of a buffer... err ... an interviewer that perceives which way those who come to this lovely establishment should be shuffled off to... and you... err... you were no exception."

"Are you meaning Sarah?" I instinctively murmured.

He nodded in approval.

"When I touched you... I intentionally do those types of gestures to seemingly scan those who are, whether by force or chance, are given to me... it's my own unique talent of looking into the person... well soul... and sending to whatever direction that is appropriate for the individual." He finished his statement just as he slurped back a sip of his coffee.

"So, you knew what she was? And you let me go off and be essentially tormented like that?" I huffed.

"No... that is not what I do... you have less than stellar qualifications for what could be an ultimate torture, what you probably seen was a little poke in the ass, rather than full throttle into a fiery pit..." He coughed. "Believe me, it could have been so much worse than your imagination could possibly conjure up."

"You have no idea what I saw." I mumbled.

"On the contrary boobette, I do, or at least by some degree of the same – I had been there myself... we all have... its part of getting to the final stage." He clarified.

I assumed the stage in reference was either a pillowy cloud-like surface or prancing around barefoot on hot coals beneath your soles; much like that horrible sensation you can get when walking across a sun-kissed deck; of course the later is much less painful, I would imagine to the real scenario.

I tilted my head in consolidating what purpose the black dressed figure had been in that train car at the exact moment I fell 'asleep.'
Then possibly by some unfettering way, I understood what he was... and by the exact same fraction of thought, knew what the white robed skeleton female was as well; yet, in most cases stories where souls are teetering between life and demise, rarely mention what type of gender; only referring to a 'death reaper' as an assumingly cloaked man... funny how that can work.

The picture on the slender dresser came to mind; how she resembled – come to think of it – could've been my dead grandmother of five years' doppelganger.

Then as if I had given in to trusting the instincts taking over every morsel bread crumb to the answers my mind was desperately piecing together; it all came to one spectacular head: the skeleton like woman in the white elongated robe was Sarah!

The 'others' that my gentlemen friend sitting in front of me, cared not to mention himself are what most religions... folklore... demonologists deem a Smierc', or in laymen's terms a Grim Reaper; or (ironically, now that I'm remembering) the way my Grandmother always warned me when I was less than the perfectly well-behaved child – 'the angel of death is always watching.'

At least those few months of Mythology Among Us class did sink in before I came to my resulting of leaving college all together: at least for the foreseeable future – little could I predict that that path had been barricaded and set to a fire of a behemoth level.

He soft tone hammered through the frantic questions swatting my head, as if he was prepared to answer, as abruptly as the inquiry manifested. "She and those like her use weaknesses to lure you into a type of false security... once they got that wall down, they move in quite hastily in hopes to seal the deal... to move on quickly to a next assignment."

Could he read my thoughts... err... was he doing the identical tricks as Sarah had played on me earlier?

Then a thought suddenly hit me like a ton of brick being flung down on top of me. The reason I am here; the reason why I'm not virtually allowed to leave apparently, I slightly teared with the end idea railing to forethought, "Did I die on the train?" I hoarsely whispered.

His eyes shot towards another 'assessor,' exchanging a wary glance as he returnedto my own.
From the grimace, the words weren't needed to be spared.
The answer was written all over his scruffy square jaw.

I pushed away the empty cup of Joe from me; partially pondering if thecardboard would be repurposed as a bucket for my sudden urge to upchuckwhatever was in my belly – come to think of it, when the hell was the last timeI ate – well, suppose that tub of ice cream that came to the rescue of mysanity for every occasion that included emotional responses wasn't going to berequired now or ever again... what do 'deceased people' eat... do they eat? Probably feasting on bits of soft brains and soulsrushing in and out of this place