Suicide in Heaven
By Nekro
Heaven had a welcome desk, white marble, soft harp music, and a woman with no eyelids smiling like policy.
She handed me a robe and said, “Desire is no longer necessary.”
I asked where to put yours.
She pointed to a golden bin marked earthly attachmenrs. Inside were wedding rings, baby teeth, old perfume bottles, and a lipstick print still trying to be a mouth.
I asked for a knife to cut your name out of my breathing.
“Sharp objects are not permitted in paradise,” she said.
I asked about blunt ones.
She did not enter that into the system.
The angels wore name tags that said blessed to assist you. One offered harp lessons. Another invited me to a gratitude circle. I asked if there was a smoking section.
They looked at me like I had invented sin again.
Then your ghost found me by the fountain, because of course it did. You were never holy, but you always knew which door my ruin used.
“I’m saved now,” I said.
You laughed without a throat.
I filed a complaint.
Reason? too much light, not enough blood in the truth.
The clerk asked if I wanted reassignment. I asked for the department where prayers don’t connect, pleasure comes back damaged, and your hand still knows the back of my neck.
“That sounds like suffering,” she said.
“Correct.”
“This may void your coverage.”
“I read the terms.”
She slid me the form. I signed where a soul goes.
Denied.
I said, “That’s fine.”
I brought my own.