Death School

By Michael Irvine

About the book:
Follow the adventure of Brayden Quin as she traverses through life, death, and back again.

Death School Preface. You die, then you wake. The question is where? Well, let us just say that death is a claustrophobic person's worst nightmares. Provided you go to death school. You wake in your locker or coffin, it functions as both. Your death date is the combination. My locker combination is July 4th at 4:13 am. I died in my sleep. It's July 3rd of 2020, my birthday is in six hours. The time is 6:00 pm. I've just finished work. Time to embark on my twenty-minute walk home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pencil
• Release date: Dec 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9789355591784

Book preview

Death School

BY

Michael Irvine

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ISBN 9789355591784

© Michael Irvine 2021

Published in India 2021 by Pencil

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One Point Six Technologies Pvt. Ltd.

123, Building J2, Shram Seva Premises,

Wadala Truck Terminal, Wadala (E)

Mumbai 400037, Maharashtra, INDIA

E [e-mail]

W www.thepencilapp.com

All rights reserved worldwide

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the Publisher. Any person who commits an unauthorized act in relation to this publication can be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. The opinions expressed in this book do not seek to reflect the views of the Publisher.

Author biography

Michael Irvine. 

Contents

Introduction

Introduction

Death School

Death School

Preface.

You die, then you wake. The question is where? Well, let us just say that death is a claustrophobic person's worst nightmares. Provided you go to death school. You wake in your locker or coffin, it functions as both. Your death date is the combination. My locker combination is July 4th at 4:13 am. I died in my sleep. It's July 3rd of 2020, my birthday is in six hours. The time is 6:00 pm. I've just finished work. Time to embark on my twenty-minute walk home.

My name is Brayden Quin. I'm 24 years old, living in Toronto, Ontario. And have no idea I'll be dead in ten hours. Living at home or at least what passes for mine, which is an apartment complex that stands three stories tall. My humble abode. The door doesn't latch right but I'm about the last person you'd want to rob. I have got a vicious terror named Earl. Who stands watch at the door. Or more accurately lies watching the door. Bark..bark..bark.. that'd be Earl. He's my sweet state-of-the-art home invasion defense system. I'm climbing the steps of the apartment complex now, with my left foot as a sacrificial offering to Earl, I push the door inward. Entering with caution as the would-be terror catches my scent. He dashes to and fro, then toward the kitchen. Pawing at his stainless steel kibble bowl. Time: 6:23 pm. I'm drinking a brisk peach iced tea from an extra-large tin can. Earl is by my feet and I've just lit a cigarette.

 I'm in the process of re-watching Game of Thrones tonight. My favorite episode is where Arya Stark  clashes with Bree Anne of Tarth. In my opinion, it is the best scene in the whole series. You may have guessed by now that I'm a woman. Standing 5'6 with shoulder-length naturally blonde hair. Slender and to some degree, maybe a bit lanky. Lanky by the way, is my least favorite word. I have severe OCD and an anxiety disorder. Sometimes I do these weird rituals. For instance, clicking the kettle off and on twelve times. Or even as many as twenty-four if my anxiety is bad. I carry a ballpoint pen with me at all times, just to sate my clicking urges. It is laundry time now, 7:34 pm, doing a load of whites. Earl’s laying in front of the dryer on his bed, chewing apart his favorite toy, that's been stitched back together more times than I care to count. He's laying in wait for stray socks. He loves socks. Who knows why? I'm standing at the side of the machine now waiting for the load to finish, only a few minutes left. Taking my laundry basket down from the cupboard,  I go to the front and open the machine before it has time to go off. I'm taking laundry out now and knelt in front of Earl who's all too aware of what transpires next.

 I have an array of socks and t-shirts before me, ready to be folded and put away. Dropped laundry is Earl's specialty. As a sock hurdles toward the linoleum of the laundry room floor, he descends upon it fiercely, so with manic glee, Give it! I half shout at him. Tail wagging, he leaves with his catch, toward the middle of the living room where my square oak table is the centerpiece. This table has become the bane of my existence. I go right, he goes left, and vice versa. Eventually, I outfoxed him. Taking his bear I pelt it down the hallway he drops the sock and goes in pursuit. Victory! Then as I'm walking back toward the laundry room Earl darts past bounding effortlessly over the leg I raise with yet another sock in his jaws. This time I just let him take it. My sister Rachel calls me at 9:30 PM. After I'm done with the laundry and just before I'd had time to shower. She's telling me about her day, saying how she met this man, and that his name is Oswald. And they hit it off.

Where did you meet him?

At the gas station just off the motorway Rachel lives in Ireland. She rarely makes it home except for holidays.

What does he do? I ask.

We have been texting a bit but I haven't asked yet."

Well, shouldn't you? I question

Nope, it doesn't matter that much." Then she goes on that he was well dressed and drives a white Toyota Tacoma. That he is a bit taller than her and his jaw structure is perfect.

 So he's handsome?

Gorgeous. She says back.

We talk for another forty minutes, then I tell her I have work in the morning and still need a shower before bed. She tells me she loves me and says she will call me in the morning before I leave the apartment.

Love you, too, I say.  I showered and then curled up on the couch. Then, I died in my sleep at 4:13am. I'm in my coffin half a day later. Rachel travels from Ireland down to Toronto for the funeral. Our mom agrees to take care of my dog, Earl.

The funeral goes as you would expect. Lots of sad people are surrounded by other sad people. Most of them are strangers to me aside from immediate family. (Our cousins.) My brother Brennen Quin isn't able to make it. He too lives in Ireland. He's my half-brother. Brennen's always been distant though not a very social butterfly. Brennen has a different father than Rachel or me, his dad's name is Pete Williamson. Our father is Doug Quin, or better known as Douglas. He uses either name but we just call him dad.

Mom is Beth Quin, she took his surname after marriage. My dad is there at the funeral. If I'm being honest it's the first time I've ever seen him cry. I watch as my casket is lowered downward beneath ground level. The ceremony comes to an end everybody but dad leaves shortly after. He kneels to the grave and whispers my name. Brayden. Then whispers, Be well. Then standing walking away he looks back once from where I'm sitting. I don't quite catch what he says next. It sounds like Talk to you soon fellow.  I must have misheard him.

Rule #1 Don't be late for class.

After this, getting here, in my locker,  well, it's all a blur. There was no going toward the light. All I remember is feeling tired then (poof) I'm here trapped in this rusty steel trap. Four walls it's dark and tiny. Confined and alone, this is it. I'm damned to spend the rest of my days like this, near as I can tell it's been about four hours, nothing changed. Panics setting in. Questions on my mind like Where the hell am I? And Is this how I'm going to spend the rest of my existence? There are six horizontal slits by the front of my enclosure. All I can see through them is a cream-colored brick wall and the ceiling. As far as I can tell I'm in a locker. This experience reminds me vaguely of high school, only I didn't spend any time inside lockers back then.

An hour later a bell rings. And the door to my hold wrenches open. There are audible clicks as more doors open in a series. Stepping out into the unknown I'm aware that I'm being watched. There's a taller man with a clipboard who has his eyes on me. The next thing I notice is that there are speakers one every forty feet or so mounted higher up on the walls. Close to the ceiling but not quite touching. Many people are here around me, all of them seem to be in a rush. The locker next to mine opens and I find myself startled not by who or what emerges but by the rate of how quickly the door snaps open. Then she comes out, taking me by the hand, with no introduction we're off. Down a hallway, take a left then down another, another left followed by a flight of stairs that we descend to who knows where. All sorts of questions are on my mind.

With apparently no time for introductions, she and I walk on at a brisk pace. She looks back at me frowning. I'm falling a bit behind even though I'm slightly taller than her. She says hurry opening a grey metal door. Rushing us down another flight of stairs. We proceed in this manner through the doorway and hall. All the while I'm wondering where the hell we're going in such a rush. After all, we're dead right? Why rush?

Okay, she says, prepare yourself.

Wait! Who are you? I ask putting the brakes on and stopping until I get the answer. 

Names Beck Sharp, she says back. Later in death, I find out that's not her real last name. It's actually… We enter another grey door only this time we are under fire. Volleys of scrunched-up paper balls cascade down from above falling on both of us. But there's nobody to be seen. And there doesn't appear to be any sort of roof. Still, they fall. This is madness, I think to myself. Beck leading the way steers us toward our right, through the shallow sea of scrunched papers. What was that place?

Those were death certificates, says Beck.

All crumpled up? Yeah! Cool, right? I wouldn't say that I replied. Were approaching a double set of doors, the same grey tone as the others.

Beck turns to me and says, Be polite. And never be truant. Then reaching into her backpack which I had not noticed she was wearing hands me a binder and a green folder. Then, a booklet of lined paper which only had the label, 80 Pages, upon its surface. And you'll need this. She reaches back into her bag and then hands me a pen saying These are stylized for Chinese writing, What's the brand? Fudenosuke Calligraphy pen. Says Beck.

What? I exclaim. 

"This is an art class, friend. Sorry, but it's all I have for you at the moment. We'll hit the mall tonight.

Mall? I was confused. 

Nevermind she says and shoves open the right-side door. I can't help but be taken aback. It's a theatre setting or lecture hall, fitted with a stage at the front, and  row after row of cushioned seats. At the forefront of the room, sits a man, he's using pastels to draw upon a canvas that's suspended from the ceiling tethered off by white twine. The canvas moves away from him the longer he draws then swings back when he stops. Then noticing we've arrived he says Welcome Brayden, you are late! he grumbles. 

It's her first day, Beck shouts back.

I understand, he replies. And, furthering with Don't let it happen again he turns back to his canvas.

Beck's voice is shaking and she says We won't. Looking at me with her eyes wide she says Right?

Right, I echo. No, seriously there's an actual echo here.

Beck and I sit next to a scrawny man. Again scrawny is another of my least favorite words.

What's the assignment? Beck asks him.

Just watching, he answers.   So we sit and watch quietly and motionless as the professor goes about his work.

We exit the class about twenty minutes later. Proceeding down a corridor toward the cafeteria, or so Beck tells me. We exited the corridor and were in a large cafeteria surrounded by our peers. There are circular tables with five seats around each of them. Beck takes my hand leading me like a toddler toward a line of strangers. I got a red flat pan tray. As we move along in line I add chocolate milk and a grilled chicken caesar wrap to the tray. Then, we go toward what I presume to be our lunch table.

Two younger men are sitting beside each other at it already. There's a clock to the south side of them that reads 12:05 pm.

We have about an hour, says Beck. This is Brady. She taps the pointer finger of her left hand on his shoulder. And this is Thomas, pointing toward the other guy.   My friends, she says to them, this is Brayden.

Hi Brayden, says Thomas.

Hey, I say back to both of them. Then sitting we slowly start to get to know each other. What is this place? I ask.

This is Death School, says Thomas between bites of his tuna fish sandwich.

Brady adds dryly, It's our second chance. And looking at me over the rim of his glass of orange juice he inquired The first day?

Yes, I say back.

Welcome, both Brady and Thomas say at the same time.

So what brings you here? asks Brady.

Death I guess, I say with a shrug.

No, but I mean what happened to you in life for you to be here, how did you die? Brady asks.  

Don't know, I say.  

You died and you don't know how? Thomas laughs. I shrug, Beck says We have to go back to our lockers for the night at 9:00.

I ask Beck  ``Where's history class?" 

Just through those doors, then down the hall to the second set of doors after our first left turn. Beck says pointing to a random door exiting the cafeteria. 

Is anyone going to explain where the heck we are or how we got here? I was puzzled. 

No one knows where exactly here is, and nobody knows how we got here, says Beck.

But we do know what sort of place this is, Brady pips up. We all know we died and most of us know-how. Though it's pure speculation on my part, he says, then adds, We’re in what's known as the ether. A place that exists between death and new life.

New life? Could you explain that to me?

Okay, says Brady.Basically second-year students he then points to Thomas and Thomas gestures back to Brady to indicate they are both second year, are pitted against each other as a sort of tryout to get to the third year.  When the third year is done you're either sent to roam or given a vessel assignment.

Vessel assignment? Explain. I asked.

Thomas takes the lead, explaining that vessel assignments are a grace period to study a person back on Earth who has been in a coma. Upon completion, there's a test to see if you could function as this person.

So what you're saying is we get another chance at life to become another person in the second go-around?

Bingo! they say in uni-sync. To second chances! They toast Brady and Thomas toast clinking glasses. Beck just tilts her bottle of water to the side slightly. They all drink. Then, the bell rings and it's immediate chaos. People clambering running this way and that way, all of them with a common goal, not being late.

We, Beck and I, make it to history with only seventeen seconds to spare. Good thing it wasn't any farther away I thought to myself. All I could think about through history was, how did I die? And then my thoughts turned to the people and the life I had left behind. Mom, Dad, Rachel, Brennen, and even my little dog, Earl, the sock thief that he was.   I still found myself sad knowing I probably wouldn't ever see any of them again. I'm almost crying in the middle of class when I remember that overthinking is the leading cause of depression. The dead have mental health issues too, cause I can't stop twitching. Without my ballpoint pen to click I'm getting weird, and feeling downright irritable.

Sooooo?  I ask after history.

So what? says Beck.

Well, how long is each term?

A full year, she replies then adds, from the time of arrival.

Do we have any time off? I ask.  

"The date is july 4th, the time