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It hurts.
A single thought invades your mind, repeating over and over as the blood drains from your body. The cold air in your tomb makes you shiver, your body clinging onto whatever heat it has left.
You know that this isn't something humane. To die of old age sounds better than being a live fuel source for a machine. Muffled gunshots are surrounding you and the Gutterman, seemingly in the midst of war. Screams are heard, making you dizzy and causing your breathing to be unsteady. Perhaps it was the blood loss starting to take its toll.
It shouldn't have to be this way, but you desperately want this to be over. Your mouth hangs open, voice hoarse from screaming and cursing out those who put you here. You curse your own body for not giving up in this situation, one where you will never escape from.
You hold a coin in the palm of your bloodied hand, the cold metal becoming more apparent as your grip tightens. It was pure luck thaf you were able to sneak this in, you though to yourself. In some twisted way, it was a sign of life for you. Something to help get by in the life that waits for you after everything. You knew it was going to be your end, but nothing could've prepared you for how it would play out.
It's finally close to the end. You can feel your energy being seeped out more and more as your blood is sucked away from its rightful place. Unsurprisingly it all still hurts, but you can't bring yourself to make a single sound. Your throat burns, your skin is cold, and your heart is starting to come to a stop. Your grip loosens, the coins almost slipping through your shriveled fingers.
Your mind drifts to happier times in your life. You remember the anxiety you felt when war was on the horizon. The sun was blazing on your skin, the warmth bringing a comfort to you. Yes, perhaps things would turn out bad, yet you can't help but see the size of it all compared to whatever else lies in the universe. A sad thing, to see humanity take out itself and attempt to make machines for the assistance.
It's dark in your coffin, but you can still see a bright light peering through the cracks. With whatever energy you can muster, you try reach out for the light in the confined space in your deathbed. Your hand gently hits the lid with a pathetic thud, blood staining the metal walls.
This wasn't your plan to go out, but maybe it was never your choice to make. Someone else just had to make it for you. In your last moments, you feel anger in your weak heart. You curse those who started this war, built this machine, and placed you and who knows how many others in here in some twisted game of "who can kill each other first". It's all too cruel, what have you done to deserve this?
The light fades out as your vision starts to black out. The humming of the Gutterman and distant bombs are the last thing you hear as you let out your final breath.
The pain is gone.
---
A memory plays in your mind, faded and blurry like it's trying so hard to manifest once again. The ocean is in front of you with the wonderful sight of a sunset accompanied with it. You see the sun's stretched out reflection across the water, like some sort of invitation for you to join the waves.
It's not often you went to the beach, so why was this memory so important to come out of hiding? Waves crash at your bloodied feet, the stains oddly never washing off. Seems like not even the ocean can undo what has already been done. What you wouldn't give to experience your life again, in hopes that something could change even in the middle of war and bloodshed.
Unfortunately, that chance would never shine that light onto anyone. What was once a calm ocean is now a violent one, hands clawing at the surface before the waves pull them back to the sea. You can hear people shuffling all around you, sobbing to themselves and huddling together in a feeble attempt to stay warm from the harsh winds.
You never even notice the cold. The lingering pain you've felt before you ended up here still haunts you. It hurts; your skin burns and boils in pain and anger as you wonder why you had to die like this. The cries make you want to tear out your ears so you can never hear again. Your eyes are best to be gone too so you may never have to lay your eyes on the countless bodies trying to grasp at your legs.
Before you can sink any lower into your ocean of a mind, a ship starts to appear in the distant horizon. You start to get pushed forward before you can even take in the sights as the others start to get restless. They reach their hands out and cry out to the ship, begging and pleading for a safe passage.
It only starts to dawn on you now where you ended up. Styx didn't seem like a river now; the violent waves and floating bodies proved you right. You never even noticed how hard you were clutching your hand, opening them slightly to show off the glimmer of the coin you held during your last moments. Tears start to build up as you cling onto the last reminder of your life once lived, pushing back against the desperate crowd.
By now the ship has already made its stop, wooden steps leading up to the stop. A figure stands at the top with an oar in hand, bells chiming as they stare down at the pleading crowd below with a covered face. You stare back, eyes glistening with tears as hands start to rip and tear at your skin in order to scramble up to the boat. Those without payment were left behind clutching their bodies, falling to the floor as the sea starts to overcome them. You make shaky steps up to the top as others meekly follow behind. The wind picks up as lighting cracks in the sky, giving you a clearer look of your savior.
When you don't see holy cloth and gold, you see blue bones peeking from beneath. A bony hand reaches out for you, hushed whispers being drowned out by the violent seas. You try to put your coin onto their palm for payment, but they grab your hand instead. Now that you've gotten closer, you can see a skull from beneath the cloth with the help of the storm's lightning. Empty sockets stare at you, yet you feel nothing but comfort. They help you up on the ship, floorboards creaking under your weight. The storm doesn't cover their voice this time.
"Welcome aboard."
--
You don't recall feeling this out of place during your times of life. There's people roaming around the halls of the ship, some human and some not. Thankfully, you don't find yourself being too caught off-guard by this. The more you think about it, the less human you feel.
Or perhaps that was the case. Your body feels lighter now, like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Maybe the skin off of your entire body, more like. You were almost bare bones now, organs threatening to spill out any second. Whatever rags you had on left became soaked in blood, feeling uncomfortable against your exposed muscles and nerves. Never in your afterlife have you wanted to not move at all more than this moment.
As you start to sink deeper into discomfort, you hear the chimes again.
Quickly turning your head to look behind you, it's the same figure that lead you onto the boat. In their hands is a neatly folded stack of bedsheets and blankets. They're accompanied by...angels? The broken chains confuse you, but the halo and wings speak for themselves. They don't have any eyes, yet you can't help but feel like their attention is placed entirely onto you. You wouldn't be surprised if you started sinking into the floor with how much you want to leave.
They extend out a hand and crouch down, asking silently if you needed help back up. It takes you a bit to register the silence before you scramble to turn around and carefully grasp at their hand. It's cold and it feels weird against your own, but you fight the urge to shiver from the texture.
When you stand, they offer you a blanket (thankfully not commenting on how quiet your "thank you" was). As they walk past you, they tug at your blanket to ask you to follow them down the hall. You quietly begin to follow, watching as they give the rest of the pile to the angels by gently placing a small stack onto their bodies. They fly away towards different rooms to help out with the passengers.
It's almost quiet now, everyone is in their rooms and the only sounds is the waves from outside with distant thunder. You wish to say something, but what? There's so much and you don't know where to start. Names seem to be the first thing that comes to mind. Before you can even speak a single word, they already answer for you.
"I am the Ferryman, you may call me Charon," they say as they continue walking. Their voice is almost strained, like they're not used to using it. It sounds echoey as if they were speaking into an empty room.
Charon...you recall the times you used to research the name in Greek mythology. You were so fascinated, always carrying around a coin as some sort of sign for good luck and admiration. It felt silly at the time, but you have never been more glad to make that choice.
You give out a small hum, repeating the name and smiling to yourself. It hurts to speak for you as well, your throat still burning from your screaming and curses. You would feel embarrassed about it, but Charon seems to pay no mind as they stop in front of a room.
They tap at the door with their oar, opening it and gesturing to come inside. You enter and take in the scenery, a nice room with a comfortable bed and a writing desk. A bedside table with a lamp and a few books, along with a small window above the desk that reveals the ongoing storm and busy seas.
Charon speaks again, "This is your room. You will stay here until you are at your destination." Despite how painful it sounds for them to speak, they still make you feel accommodated. You smile warmly at the fact and mutter out your appreciations, turning to them with a fond look. Even without the cloth covering their head, you doubt that you would be able to read an expression at all. They nod anyway with a content hum, hand still gripping at their oar.
As they turn to leave, you suddenly feel...out of place again. Something in your mind wishes for them to stay, but you know that might not be possible. It's obvious how much they need to work around here, making sure everyone and everything is in place. Yet, you don't want to be alone. Not after everything you had to experience. Still, you bite back your words and keep quiet. You look at the floor in silence, bidding them a quiet thanks and goodbye.
They stop in the doorway, hand placed on the doorknob. God, did your tone of voice set them off? Looking back, your disappointment may have bled into your words. The window looks real nice to crash through, but that would make more of a mess for them.
They turn around once more to speak, "I will see you again. I'm sorry for the pain you had to endure to get here. Please, get comfortable and do not worry."
It takes everything not to cry on the spot. You clutch at your blanket, ignoring the stinging in your hands.
"...thank you so much," you muster. There's more words lingering on your tongue. You hold back.
It feels like Charon is smiling back at you. They close the door, leaving you alone to stand awkwardly in your room. You sigh to yourself, letting tears spill down your face. It burns, but you can't stop it anymore. You shuffle over to your bed and immediately crash down onto it, burying your face into the pillow. It's soft, and the texture is just right enough to set aside the stinging pain your entire body is going through.
You decide that it's best to dwell on everything later as you yawn, sleep slowly starting to take over. It was evident that you were in Hell, and you don't know when's the next time you'll be able to rest. God knows you weren't able to do so during your last moments. In the end, you were glad to meet someone as kind as the Ferryman. You're already anticipating your next meeting with them.
Everything goes dark, your body slowly succumbing to rest. Instead of gunshots and screams of damned, you sleep to the sounds of waves and distant chimes.
Tomorrow is another day, and you look forward to seeing a familiar face.