Prompt: Upon wakening you find that you are in what seems to be a waiting room. Around your wrist is a hospital tag with your name that states simply "died in sleep".

 

"Back, are you?"

 

What the hells?

 

I slowly, cautiously, open my eyes, and glance down at my wrist. Yes, there it is.

 

"FUCK!"

 

"Really, Mr. Tepes? Such improper language. I had thought better of you."

 

The disapproving tone cuts through my shock and anger, and, if I am indeed capable of embarrassment, that emotion briefly overcomes me. But only briefly, for this situation and that voice are far too familiar for comfort, and I really do not want to be here.

 

I look around at the room in which I unexpectedly find myself. Yes, there the faded couch in the corner, bordered at one end by a small bookshelf and at the other by a lamp that has not worked since 1933. Not that it is really needed here. There, on the other side of the room, a long row of chairs stretching into the distance, the newly dead waiting anxiously for their number to be called.

 

For this is the Waiting Room of the Dead, capitals aptly applied, where the dearly departed gather on their way to their eternal reward, whatever that may be. It is a sight all too familiar to my eyes, and those like me, who are fated never to pass through that door standing alone in one wall, a large black 'M' painted onto the frosted glass pane set into it.

 

I proceed to look up, at my sometime tormentor, the Receptionist, again, capital fitting. Her brown hair is pulled back tightly into a bun, dark eyes covered by small glasses set into her spectacles, thin face severe without cover of any kind. A sight that can cause nightmares, if one is prone to that sort of things. Even I, who have left nightmares centuries in the past, still feel a chill gazing into her pitiless visage.

 

Her name is Tiffany.

 

"Amusing," I drawl, in reply to her observation.

 

"I thought so," she smiles, thin lips briefly turning up at the edges before flattening once more. "What happened this time?"

 

I check my wristband, then hide it, a faint red flush of embarrassment creeping briefly into my cheeks before fading. She bares her teeth in a quick, predatory grin.

 

"This ought to be good," she says, almost happily.

 

Sheepishly, I hold up my wrist. She grabs it, and turns the band around. She reads what is written on it.

 

Several people are startled out of their chairs, and many more jump or cringe or otherwise react in shocked surprised as she tosses her head back and lets out a roar of laughter.

 

I roll my eyes, and wait for it to subside.

 

"How embarrassing," she finally calms down enough to comment. "How absolutely humiliating!" Her eyes dance with good humor.

 

I look back at the wristband. Clearly printed on it, in heavy black letters, is the legend "Died in sleep."

 

"Clearly they found me during the day," I argue. "There's no other way they could have snuck up on me. You know I'm not exactly a pushover."

 

"Berlin, 1742. London, 1814. New York, 1847. Paris, 1902. Need I go on?"

 

I pause a moment. She makes a good point. "I really need to find better hiding spots, don't I?"

 

"Or at least spread out your feeding enough that hunters cannot pinpoint your location so easily," she replies.

 

"Whatever," I say dismissively. "I think it's time I was heading back."

 

"You are probably right," she agrees. "You know the procedure."

 

"Yes. I know the procedure. I know the procedure hurts like a bitch."

 

Her eyes are dancing again. "You were told exactly what would happen when you began this path. You have nobody to blame other than yourself."

 

"Yeah, yeah," I grumble. "Here I go."

 

"Until next time, Mr. Tepes," she nods to me.

 

I grit my teeth, and prepare to pull myself together.

 

---

 

Los Angeles

About noon

 

Dust motes swirl in the midday sun, seeming to form into small clusters, gradually coming together, forming a larger figure, humanoid in appearance, gradually growing larger and more defined, until, finally, he stands there, fully formed, and he looks up at the sun, and cries out, "Son of a bit-!"

 

And he explodes, once more, into gathered motes of dust, briefly flaring before settling gently on the ground once more.

 

He can already hear the mocking laughter when she finds out what happened this time.

 

He hates California.

 

Word Count: 730