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Every Soul Will Taste Death


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Gray Taylor

The Jewish community had never bought into the idea of Hell, and it had been the same for Gray Taylor. Until meeting the devil himself, and selling his soul, he'd never been put stock into such a Christian notion. Even after death, he never really bought into it. If Hell is sitting in a hotel room with no way out, no way to connect, and a certain amount of toxic restlessness.. so be it. It certainly is not much different from how he had lived his life.

Gray is cagey. He is mouthy, moody, and dark. Ever the pessimist, he had held many people at arm's length. Only a special few ever made the cut, and he had done his very best to be a better person for them.

And then he died. Finally, painfully, he died. He sold his soul twice over to the devil to save the life of another, and that had been it. That is how he found himself here. Sat in the uncomfortable, lumpy chair, Gray would watch and endless reel of the people he cared for in real time.


As it turns out, there really are not that many.

When they slept, he slept. When they ate... he didn't. He did nothing aside from watch and sleep. But even when he slept, his dreams were of their sleep. He would live their nightmares, and cast a shadow over their wildest dreams. They became predictable, incapable of surprising or entertaining him. Eat, sleep, drink, repeat. No one did anything differently. They simply continued on with their lives.

It doesn't even phase him that they had moved on without him. For as much as Gray takes pride in himself and allows his ego to rule all, he never thought himself worthy of stopping the world.

And then, as Spring woke up in her normal fit of rage, Gray Taylor woke to pure blackness.

He blinks several times over, trying to make sense of it, but it's correct. And then, his pocket vibrates and chimes repeatedly. Instinctively, he reaches, becoming suddenly aware of his confined space. Extracting the phone, he struggles to bring it to his ear.

"This is Gray," his voice raspy from disuse.

'Get up.'

"Wh-" the click and beep prompts the end of the call, and Gray finds himself looking at the screen before turning the light onto the interior of the space he finds himself in. It is cushioned, the fabric a soft silk. He becomes acutely aware of the musk in the air around him, and he chokes back a cough as he continues to look about the space.

The next several minutes would be spent cursing everything. The scarecrow. The pain of peeling dinosaur bandaids from his cheeks. The fact that he is so obviously in a coffin. Profanities expel from his lips like water from a tap, and Gray Taylor finds himself screaming them into the warm, blackened pit. There is barely enough room to move.

A phone call would be made, angry and demanding, full of threats and promises. And, after several hours, he would hear the ding of metal upon the top of his casket. He would demand freedom as those outside worked to release him from his containment, and refuse a helping hand as he pulled himself up and out of his deep grave.

Disheveled, furious, Gray Taylor would once more walk into the Realm with nothing but the clothes on his back.
February 11, 2018 08:03 pm
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W_Kat, -Midori-, Spring Taylor, Cristina Scabbia, Yuri, Atticus Hammond, Lesprit, Diego Kravenoff, Mallory Quarters, Orangesrlife  Atem   
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