The afterlife wasn't what I thought it would be; wasn't what they told me. I felt a fool, after the fact, to have believed them.

The tales of men.

It wasn't until I shed my former body– dropped it like a coat on the floor after the end of a hard day's work, that everything became clear to me. It was as though I had wandered through life with a static in my head that I'd grown used to, maybe even came to enjoy. Because in the afterlife your mind is as clear as a crystal bell that rings true every time the rooster calls.

Every detail.

Every moment.

And all the time.

You're something different when you break away from the things that made you human. Not something necessarily better, but different. You bloom like a flower in a field, but with directions for what happens when your pedals blow away with the wind. The collective beauty of it all loses its novelty, and you yearn for the things that you never dreamed you would.

Evil. Revenge. Pain. Suffering. And most importantly, struggle.

A baby born, wet, sticky, and cold lacks a compass. They may have their parents if they're not some unlucky SOB, but that alone isn't enough. Life is a web tangled with threads of entropy, gossamers of the unknown, and it's one's own personal journey to avoid the many spiders that populate it.

Drugs, gambling, alcohol, whores, hedonism.

I made some sweet vibrations in life; heavy ones that pulled every thread and called every eight-legged bastard straight to me, fangs glistening, and venom at the ready. The sun never set without venom in my veins. Never rose without me scrambling for more of it. Life was never enough for a guy like me.

And it seemed indeed neither was death.

I was told everyone grew bored with the afterlife at some point or another. Reincarnation was a certainty; not an if, but a when for every new flower that bloomed there. Each would inevitably crave the things that came with life and seek it again for themselves. It started with a journey– a pilgrimage known as the Long Walk. Some left in groups, others alone across a long field filled with flowers that watched as you passed.

From there, they'd cross a vast wetland, a barren desert, a wheatfield that stretched as far as the eye could see, and then a long arctic plane filled with snowcapped mountains, glaciers, and long stretches of white wilderness. Through a forest of golden leaves, a swamp of spewing gasses, and lastly a grassland that led to a single structure in the far distance. It sat nestled within the trunk of a great tree, the leaves of which one could see from where they first bloomed.

For as many who leave the garden at a time, the tree was never busy. Only ever a few souls at a time stay for long. It was like a traditional ramen shop like the kind they had in Japan. You'd pass under pearl white drapes and take your seat at the counter. A turtle man would greet you and ask you why you wished to return.

Any answer was good enough, it wasn't a test.

He'd then slide you a bowl of steaming soup, and ask you to reflect on your past life as it cooled. He said the same thing to me every time as though I hadn't been here every day for the past four seasons.

"Bathe in the steam; this step favors the bold. Inhale your new purpose and exhale the old."

I'd stare into his soulful reptilian eyes and take the soup into me again, again, and again, day after day. I would see others take but a single spoonful and vanish where they were. It was a gateway, you see. It was right in our instructions from the moment we bloomed. Much like I had shed my old body, I would need to shed my memories of it in order to be given life anew.

"It doesn't work," I'd tell the turtle.

But he'd simply stare back at me wisely; silently; never uttering a word, as though he were simply existing on a loop.

And there weren't any further instructions.

No contingencies, and no workarounds. In life, there were many pathways to achieve one's goal, but in death, there was only this. It was absolute. I spent years visiting every day and drinking the soup, but I couldn't forget who I was; couldn't emerge from my chrysalis as a fresh face with a new story.

I was stuck as me. As this.

And in time I grew from remorseful to angry. I finished the bowl and smashed it against the wall, only to get no new reaction from the turtle man. He would just watch me through his big all-knowing eyes, as though pitying me. As though he had the answer and was withholding it from me. His gaze drove me to madness day after day. He would never say a word, save for his stupid rhyme about inhaling my new purpose. I inhaled all the steam every time and all I exhaled were curses at the end of each unsuccessful attempt to pass through the gateway, as was my right to do so.

My divine right.

I snapped.

I leaped over the counter and bludgeoned the turtle to death with his own cookware. I ventured into his kitchen and found behind it a cave.

The inside of the tree.

Gold and silver flecks blew past my face as I ventured into the trunk. A warmth washed over me as I reached what I imagined was the center. I felt a wind beneath my feet that pushed with a gentle force and lifted me into the air. I ascended into the trunk of the tree. I saw things no soul has seen. Understood truths available only to one willing to take. The turtle was dead. If I couldn't go home, then nobody would.

I would exist as I always had– as a spider.

As a spider in the tree.

r/A15MinuteMythos