Page 60 of Grim
Reassignment
T he weathered beige stack of papers remains a heap on my desk. I pull, verify, stamp, and sort sheet after sheet, yet still, the pile remains. Like Sorites paradox of the heap, I wonder futilely if this task has an end, if this mass of dusty pages will ever stop being a heap.
Pull. Verify. Stamp. Sort.
Pull. Verify. Stamp. Sort.
The air smells stale. The words on every page look as though they were printed on the last dregs of ink in the printer. The only reprieve from the endless mundanity of it all comes in the form of the occasional papercut—an annoyance in life, a welcome distraction in the OtherWorld.
A cool blue fluorescent light emits half of its potential illumination, giving me just enough to see by, if I remain hunched over my nondescript desk. Somehow, this is worse than the days before electricity. Candles at least give off some warmth.
I look up to the wall opposite my desk, where a clock should hang.
But time is nothing more than a loop, an eternal recurrence of the same nothingness.
Moments blur together, much like the pale words on the page I’m currently trying to decipher before applying the appropriate stamp and shuffling it off to its correct outbox stack .
I used to shepherd souls. I used to have a purpose. Now I shepherd paper. And have no raison d’etre .
I reach for the next page in my never-ending pile as the little light I have becomes drenched in shadow. A soft ruffling noise draws my attention away from the monotonous routine, and I look up to see Big D himself standing there.
This is new.
I’ve never seen him in all the time I’ve been here. He looks every bit the absentee boss, reluctantly making the rounds, as he hovers over my desk.
“Well, don’t you look like a pathetic sack?”
“How am I supposed to look, boss ?” I do my best to turn the word into an insult.
“Where did your passion go, Kane? Your joie de vivre ?” When I don’t respond, D fills in the blanks for himself. “Lost somewhere in these stacks, I imagine.” He runs his finger down the side of a stack, causing dust to billow in the air around me.
“My passion died when she did,” I mumble.
“Don’t be dramatic, Kane. You’re so grim.”
D’s use of Rue’s nickname for me, whether intentional or not, sparks the last kindling of rage inside me. I pull my shoulders back and lock eyes with him.
“You made me watch her end, powerless to stop it. Your cruelty knows no bounds. You enjoyed it. You watched her final moments like it was some sick form of entertainment to you. You had fucking popcorn.”
D’s blank expression tells me nothing of how my words impact him. “That might have been a bit crass of me, Kane,” he admits. “I see that now. We’re all works in progress, you know? Molded from clay that never fully dries.”
“You’re molded from something,” I mumble without much feeling behind the jab.
“Your eyes, Kane.” He sighs. “They look like a pair of stars that have burned out. Sad.”
“What are you doing here?” I change the subject, not interested in pursuing this line of interrogation any further.
“Ah, yes. I came to deliver the good news personally.” He smiles, and I do not trust it. “You have been reassigned, Kane.”
“I didn’t put in a transfer request.”
“And I wouldn’t have cared if you did. You go where I tell you to go. And I am telling you that you are the newest member of our newest division. You’re going back in the field, big guy! Now, let’s hurry this along. No time for a going-away party, I’m sorry to say.”
His jocular tone grates on every last nerve I’ve managed to cling to during this nauseous nothingness.
“I thought Clerical was my punishment.”
“It was. It is. And that’s over now.”
“Why?” I ask skeptically.
“Because I’m not wasting the talents of the man who broke all the rules for love. I’m putting him to work for the business.”
“Why?” I ask again like a petulant child.
“Because the most interesting stories have the audacity to believe in redemption, Kane. Mistakes pave the way for greater success and, in our case, an opportunity to build a bigger, better OtherWorld. So, welcome to your new assignment, reaper.”
D tosses a business card on the desk. I see my name embossed in silver against a matte black background and read its inscription aloud. “ Kane Deveraux. Second-in-Command. Lost Souls Division . ‘May those who are lost be found again.’ ”
I look up at D, a thousand questions dancing on the tip of my tongue, but the only one that matters escapes. “Who’s my boss?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Big D smiles and snaps his fingers, instantly transporting us into a conference room, where a single figure stands sentinel at the head of the table.
And I stare directly into the stormy eyes of my orange-and-black-haired eternity. My forever.
Rue stares right back. “There’s my anchor in the infinite. Good to see you handsome. You’re late.”