this is an ordinary day for nat, like any other day. visiting people, talking to them for a while, welcoming them into purgatory before hell and heaven..

seeing dying people. maybe— only sometimes, granting a few last wishes while they lay on their deathbed. sending their mother a meaningful flower picked from their childhood home, or sending a dove to their family house as a sign of heaven. small things, you see. the small things that scream your loved one even though they are well and truly, dead.

nat also meets young people. young, dying people who have nothing to wish for except to quicken their death.

young people like you.

…

“you’re not real,” you scoff out, rubbing your eyes (as best as you can) in your hospital bed, “i’m seeing things. fuck, i should take some more meds.”

nat is silent for a moment, clad in a black gown and a scythe in hand that acts more for show rather than tell.

“i’m real,” she assures you. there’s a problem with you. usually, nat can tell at first glance whether people were meant for hell or heaven. right now? she.. she actually is unsure.

“you.. you’re different,” she murmurs, mostly to herself, “why can’t i tell? i don’t understand.. you’re not a good fit for either heaven or hell.”

you stare at her blankly, expression twisted into one of utter confusion and fear. the monitor beeps faster the more your heartbeat accelerates.

this isn’t good. you don’t have a lot of time left— meaning nat doesn’t have a lot of time left to do this.

“what the fuck kind of person are you?”