Oh?
Terminus is gone...?
That's odd.
Just a blinking black... light(?) in a vault of white... darkness(?).
That leaves you and I, hmm?
Not "I", Terminus, although I am Terminus, as today I will die. I am Terminus after our narrative. I am the true narrator, the author and the nothing. I am the voice unattached, a small God.
Also, I'm a little bored.
How are you enjoying our story? And I really do mean our story. It was crafted with love by me, me, and me.
Still bored. I can't exactly hear your response.
How about I tell you another story instead?
On December 31st, 1933, scientists (and many other startled and confused folks) noticed that friction had stopped working. This was followed by gravity turning off. Shortly thereafter, objects stopped colliding with each other, instead simply melting through one another. And after that, a lot of other things happened, but nobody knew exactly what because time had turned off as well. Fortunately, this was followed by most of these things continuing to work.
Concerned citizens of the planet Earth cast glances about, meeting each other’s eyes and quickly looking away. Many bit their lips with great consternation and drew breath as though to say something, but their words faltered and nothing would come of it. With furrowed brows and pursed lips, the population of the planet would decide abruptly to forget that it had happened, as whatever had gotten caught in the gears of the universe, the problem had resolved itself, and poking around to find out just what had happened might fuck it up again.
Historians put down their pens and shook their heads, folding closed their journals and deciding against it. Scientists (remember them?), muttering angrily to themselves, would toss out approximately four minutes of data from precious instruments. December 31st, 1933, was allowed to neatly evaporate as a shared dream that nobody talked about.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
However, this date was important for more than just this. Entirely unrelated to this incident, this date was remarkable in that nobody died on this day. Through sheer coincidence, not a single human being kicked the bucket.
On January 1st of 1934, the bucket resumed being kicked at standard rates. But the damage had already been done. During this remarkably improbable event, nobody was alive to witness it who would later die on the same day. But there were plenty of people exactly one day from death, and many of them had witnessed a fake door and a white room.
Charon enjoyed the sound of the clicking Newton’s Cradle echoing in the empty lobby — or at least, enjoyed it in the thirty second intervals for which the lobby was empty. The glinting chrome balls tapped against one another in tempo, like a metronome marking the time, and the clicks would rebound against the black basalt walls of the lobby a few times before fading behind the light burbling of the artificial waterfall.
A scarlet carpet marked a line about fifteen feet in length from the desk to the entrance, and useless bits of chrome railings and poles hung with velvet rope on either side gently suggested visitors to stay on it. Usually people did. If they rebelliously didn’t, they’d quickly find themselves out of things to do. But eventually, all would go through the door on Charon’s left, marked “STYX” in serif by a warm and welcoming sign. Sometimes they tried the door to Charon’s left, only to find that the unmarked portal was locked firmly.
Some would try to assault things. This tended to be embarrassing for all parties involved. Charon would stand with a polite expression as the human weakly flailed at anything that didn’t appear bolted down, only to uncomfortably realize that everything was bolted down. Especially the Newton’s Cradle.
A couple folks had successfully drowned themselves in the artificial waterfall. The first time this happened, Charon was concerned. This concern evaporated when a couple seconds later they entered through the same doors again.
Occasionally, before someone entered, there would be a horrific roaring and gnashing behind the doors, and maybe a scream or two, and then the unlucky soul would enter the room huffing and puffing and wide eyed and perhaps missing a limb. But Charon tried to ignore this in the process of his work.
— Ah! His work. It was simple, really. People die. After they die, they...
Well, Charon didn’t really know all too well. He was just the receptionist.
He would look visitors up and down, make sure their picture matched the picture on the piece of paper on his desk, and then he would stamp the paper “DEAD” with a large and satisfying rubber stamp. The door marked “STYX” would open, they would go through, and Charon would never see them again. Very rarely there was a mix-up, and Charon would have to press a little red button in the center-left of his desk, at which point they vanished rather suddenly and Charon would find himself in a different position with a different piece of paper on his desk, as though five or so seconds had been deleted from the reel of time.
Today, Charon was nervous. Rarely had he encountered the concept of "today", as time simply moved forward without division for him, no past nor future. But he had just escorted a kind fellow named Robert through the door marked Styx, followed by you. And you said something about today being the day that Charon would die.
Reader, remember me. Though Terminus, so limited, may speak... they still use my voice. So one final word for our story, before I'm subsumed by ungodly perspective:
Terminus isn't the one who killed you. I am.