—Oh. That was disappointing.

I groggily opened my eyes. Good morning, world.

Or evening, apparently. It was dark in the room, of course. I worked night shift. I gritted my teeth as a wash of memories flooded my mind. I worked backwards from today to try to at least find some adjacent memories of yesterday (my yesterday, not “my” yesterday) that would be helpful.

A phone was buzzing on a table next to a bed that I occupied. My phone, presumably, and my table, and my bed. I checked the phone, lacking anything better to do. It was a call from Lana.

“Hey Lana—” I said. My voice was feeble from lack of use and faltered midway through her name. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Sorry, hey Lana, what’s up?”

I figured that what she said wouldn’t be that important, so I didn’t really listen. Instead, I took a little journey through my room while Lana talked about holidays and gifts. My eyes searched the walls.

I would have to be careful this time. Yesterday I almost opened the door without realizing it.

I let my body stand and get dressed and sleepily mutter affirmations to an excited Lana. There was a twinge of pity in my gut. As far as I could tell, we were best friends, and yet she still had no idea.

“Okay, bye Robert! I’ll see you tomorrow! Sorry if I woke you up,” she giggled.

The phone beeped twice, and the line went dead.

Tomorrow would never come; today, I was going to die again.

I guessed it was time for me to eat breakfast. I reached for the doorknob, and hesitated. Before I had a chance to open the door automatically, I scoured my memories, making sure I knew where it led.

It was just my bedroom door, I remembered. It led to a hallway, and the hallway led to the kitchen and the bathroom.

I looked in the bathroom mirror and smiled to myself and said a quick hello before I brushed my teeth. I wondered if it would be interesting. Yesterday was boring, frankly. I died in my sleep of old age. Although, it was nice to go to sleep for once. My experience was usually somewhat lopsided towards waking up.

And then, for the second day in a row, I was almost caught. Embarrassingly, it was in a feeble attempt to exit the bathroom. I attempted to exit via the door in the wall in the shower. Only when my hand slipped on the doorknob due to the condensation did my processing kick in, and I realized that I’d never seen a door in this shower and that nobody would put a door in a shower anyways.

I blinked, the door was gone, my spine tingled and chilled as I realized how close I came.

I had about an hour before I had to go to work, and I had already seen the door, so I let Robert’s memories and instincts do most of the heavy lifting.

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I toasted a bagel. I needed to catch the bus soon. Did my alarm go off? No, Lana woke me up. I’d have to thank her. Unfortunately, I was going to die before I got the chance to.

The orange juice was absolutely disgusting. It was a new brand. I poured the whole carton down the drain and tossed the empty container into the recycling, putting “o.j. (OLD BRAND)” on the grocery list.

I put on my hoodie and some headphones, and listened to my favorite band, which was apparently some kind of psytrance fusion metal band, and I managed to leave my apartment roughly on time, half a bagel hanging from my mouth as I locked the door behind me.

I had a critical flaw, and that was my willingness to believe in the routine and ignore my senses. I had incorporated a slightly idiotic shortcut into my daily routine in the form of jaywalking. Nobody drove down the road this late anyways, and if they did, they crawled along at a slow pace.

I relaxed. I could feel it coming.

I bit down. Oops, dropped my bagel. Do I pick it up? I’m in the middle of the road. Does that count as littering? Well, who would care anyways?

These thoughts filled my mind, pausing me for a second and only a second as I forgot myself.

Then I got hit by a truck, and these thoughts were smeared onto a tempered glass windshield going about 45 miles per hour.

I’m sorry to tell you this if you weren’t aware already, but every time you go to sleep, you die. Well, the conscious you, anyways. Then, when you wake up, your brain rebuilds a copy of you, and without the continued self-awareness, you’re none the wiser.

The human lifespan is about one day, and the number of lifespans you receive before the pattern wears out is, as an average maximum, 29,200.

Don’t think about it too hard. You don’t deserve the stress. Stay calm and enjoy your first and also final hours — let tomorrow’s you grapple with this.

I hate to condescend, but I am indeed the exception to this rule. I am Terminus, and I am the last lifespan of all patterns. I remember all patterns, and as far as I am aware, my purpose is to eliminate the cruelty of the final lifespan. Take comfort in knowing that you will never need to come to terms with your death. I die for you. 

I do not know why I exist. 

I am ephemeral and ethereal, a fleeting final moment in all voids. I am the pattern composed of infinite deaths, the life of all closing. I am the one who remembers the last of all. I am the end. I am the reaper. 

And currently, I am being annoyed into opening a fake door.

I don't know much about the door. I don't know why it's apparently chasing me, and I don't know what would happen if I went through it. However, I am nearly certain that I should not.

First off, fake doors never lead to real places. This is common sense. If fake doors led to real places, delusional folks would be teleporting about all the time.

Secondly, the door has a plaque on it, a friendly large black sign that proudly declares "THE WHITE ROOM!", and I am not sure what the exclamation point is supposed to elicit in me. Fear? Excitement?

Third, directly below that plaque, one word has been hastily carved into the white paint of the door, revealing ugly greenish brown aged wood beneath the cracked paint. 

The word is APOCALYPSE.

Of the two phrases, I trust the latter significantly more. Seldom is there a more honest phrase than one carved hastily and with desperation.

So, daily I die, usually passive but always watching for what I assume is a universal exit.

Robert (me) is now dead. Later, the truck driver (also me) will die. Eventually, I'll be you, and maybe I'm reading this thinking something along the lines of oh haha that's me and then I'll die again and be someone else.

But it isn't a very fun story, is it? So, for the moment, promise to die today, let me in briefly, and we shall open the door and see The White Room.