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Larry always thought that everything went black upon death. He believes - or had believed - in a heaven, a Better afterlife brought from purity and ascension, but… that’s not where his destiny lies.
He was always meant for eternal suffering, so he imagined death like this: eyes rolling back, a shroud of darkness as a blindfold, cold air, an empty “room” and then
falling
falling
falling
downwards
still in the darkness, still without control, still accepting of his deserved fate. Fire, charred skin, being ripped apart - over and over - a finger-snap to put him back together and the cycle repeats, Larry’s body everywhere that it should not be, Larry’s body in a way that condemns him to hell, Larry’s body in the wreckage of a plane.
Yes, there is fire. Yes, this is hell. Death, however, seems to be nothing like Larry’s imagination.
(He had imagined death - too often, hoped for it too often. Part of him is disappointed; he deserves the punishment, knows that he deserves it, has an intuitive feeling that there’s something More to this.)
He’s floating above himself, watching his body burn up, exhaling out pain as his hair singes off in his own eyes. This is it. He - he never believed in spirits, an afterlife in limbo, stuck in this world with unfinished business, but it’s a fitting fate; Larry’s life is perpetually unfinished. He will never be satisfied, he will never be satiated, he will never ascend. He’s stuck and the ground is cracking underneath him.
At least now he won’t have to choose. It’s better this way. He cannot hurt John anymore, cannot hurt Sheryl, can’t taint his children. They’ll get over him, eventually. In the future that he was never going to have, even if he survived.
Larry also thought he would die differently. He never thought it would be in a jet crash; he was too skilled at flying for that kind of death. He pictured it at either his own hands, or at someone else’s hands. Someone finds out the truth, and - it’s over, everything would be over for him.
No one has empathy. No one feels things like Larry does.
He watches his own skin turn red and red and redder. It’s oddly comforting. He doesn’t feel the burns, but he’s experiencing something - it’s like being in the sun’s warmth, under its rays, being lit up by a heat source or a controlled fire in the winter. It’s as if there’s light, touching his shoulders.
Larry looks up. The light is blue-tinted. The light has hands, and a body, and eyes, and. The light’s hands are on Larry’s shoulders, his back, his neck.
“What the hell…”
His voice sounds harsh, raspy. It isn’t his voice. There’s a noise, like: shh. Like the being is telling him: be quiet.
Is it—
It couldn’t be an angel. Larry doesn’t deserve that. It looks like an angel. It looks like something from the correct afterlife. Larry does not deserve it.
It’s time to go, chimes through his mind like wind. This voice is also not his; it’s deep, edging monstrous. He feels it touch his forehead—
Larry wakes up on fire. Larry’s new skin will glow without fire, soon. Larry will glow again, soon. He just has to wait.