Isaiah never thought he'd die in his bedroom.
Certainly not alone, in a nest of waste and rot illuminated by dim computer monitors. Alas, there he was. Choking down air through a throat no wider than a blood vessel.
He'd assumed he would be able to sleep it off like he always could. That was the one thing Isaiah was good at— putting things off. But this time, every breath would elicit a painful, high-pitched wheeze. His lungs felt suffocated, buried alive, clawing helplessly in a coffin called inflammation.
He lurched from his bed, feet sinking into the soft crunch of trash and dirty laundry. As soon as he stood, a weighty dread hit him— God, this asthma attack was different.
I… fuck… Isaiah thought, I need my inhaler.
He stumbled through the darkness of his room, kicking through garbage until he found the bathroom door. Sickly yellow lights flickered to life as he spilled inside, paired disgustingly by the odor of mold.
The counter was littered with even more garbage: discarded razors, deodorant bottles, and everything he'd forgotten to throw away. He staggered up to it, clearing spaces in search of that miraculous little rescue inhaler.
Something about the situation hurt worse than the tightness in his chest. Isaiah scanned over the countertop, again and again, but all he could find was filth. He leaned into the counter and looked at himself through the grime on the mirror.
A round, uneven face. His beard had grown patchy and adolescent. Brown, greasy hair framed his foggy glasses and acne-scarred nose.
I'm fucking disgusting. I can't die living like this.
A painful, insufficient breath scared away the lump threatening to grow in his throat.
Then just don't die, Isaiah.
He tore through the cabinets and drawers, newly invigorated even as his breathing strained. Each was stuffed with ancient toiletries, but none contained the inhaler. Hope that he'd find it extinguished pitifully with every dead end.
Isaiah's body screamed for air. The instinct to draw a full breath was overwhelming, all-consuming, but he just couldn't. All the panicked micro-thoughts that were running through his mind faded. His fingers went numb. And then, his head dropped like a dead weight.
Ah…
Isaiah's vision faded into darkness.
And death came like a good night. It was said, and then everything settled in for a while. He no longer felt a thing, no longer was a machine of thought chugging along.
It was only sleep, after all— for eventually, his eyes fluttered awake, sore and crusted over.
But when he awoke, there was nothing.
No ceiling, floor, or bathroom counter. No sound, instead a silence so profoundly quiet it was as if there had never been any sound at all.
Isaiah tried to draw a breath, but none came. His lungs refused to inflate; the air refused to move. Yet, he didn't feel like he was suffocating. There lacked even the idea of sensation at all—he felt he existed only as a suggestion, a formless stream of thought swimming in the abyss.
"Welcome, human."
The words hit Isaiah like a slap. He spun—if there was such a thing here—but the void followed.
"Wha-?" he spat.
"I said 'Welcome'. You have... entered my realm. Regrettably."
Isaiah's eyes darted to and fro, trying to find any source of the voice. With another spin, he glimpsed something. But it was wrong. He shut his eyes, clenched them shut.
I'm dreaming. This is a very bad fucking dream.
"Let us get through this, Isaiah. Reincarnation is a smooth process, though it relies on the level-headedness of the reincarnee."
The voice was louder in his head than it was in his ears. Isaiah's eyes peeked.
An eye stared back.
His eyes shot closed. "No. No, I couldn't- I- I..."
"You did. Suicide, it appears."
Suicide?
Isaiah opened his eyes. Surrounded by the void, a figure stood in front of him. It wore the clothes of a shepherd: a long, tattered woolen cloak that flapped without wind and an ancient white tunic. In his hands, he held a gnarled, hooked wooden staff. Those features were what Isaiah forced himself to focus on— for he didn't want to look at the hand the figure had for a head.
Its neck was flatter than a neck should be, more akin to a wrist. But its head was indeed a human hand, if not four times the size. It was pale, carved with deep creases and bark-like palm prints, with five long, spindly fingers.
The worst part, however, was the massive eye set in the middle of the hand's palm.
Its single pupil dilated and scanned, as if the figure was trying to discern something about Isaiah. And in this endless, dead quiet expanse, Isaiah swore he could hear the eye move wetly in its socket.
"Does my form bother you?" it said, mouthless.
A beat.
"N-no, no sir. I'm- I'm taken aback, sir."
Isaiah didn't know why he called the thing 'sir'. He knew not if it was even a man, but it spoke with a man's cadence, and royal brevity.
"It's quite alright. I am the Hand of God. I believe most can presuppose such a title—" the figure gestured to its head, "—by my appearance alone."
"But... 'fear not', 'do not be frightened', or 'be not afraid', as said frequently in your Human Bible. I am here as a shepherd to assist in the departure of your old life and arrival into the next. You may call me The Hand."
Wait. Wait. Reincarnation?
Isaiah shut his eyes again and focused on his breathing, letting the void act as an isolation chamber. Slowly, the panic written in trafficked thoughts ebbed into the understanding he'd forgotten to look for.
So this is like... an isekai? Am I about to be the protagonist of my own LitRPG?
But... suicide? I didn't commit 'suicide'.
"I mean, I-I'd be happy to be reincarnated, but... do you have the right guy? I didn't exactly commit suicide; I had an asthma attack."
The Hand bent two fingers, as if furrowing an eyebrow.
"The way humans process the inevitability of death is strange. I, as an Aspect of God, witness all from an inscrutable eye. Yes, you died from asphyxiation, but the rope was tied by your own hand, Declan."
Stop.
Declan. Who the hell is Declan?
Isaiah felt the understanding split from the molecules in his mind. Declan. Declan. Though he'd said it, the probability of a god making a mistake—getting the wrong guy—that was...
Ridiculous. No way.
But there was a temptation.
"I guess I must've hallucinated the asthma attack. It was a pretty difficult time for me, you know. Probably just wanted to imagine a less grim way to go."
The Hand's eye scrutinized for a long, horrifying second. It darted up and down Isaiah like the grubby hands of a TSA agent searching for drugs. His blood ran cool, and for a moment, Isaiah's gut soared.
"Well, to be honest—"
"For the sake of our time, let us move on. As the Hand of God, I operate under His will to ensure that the universe operates in fairness and equivalence. Thus, those who breach the boundary of death upon their own discretion—under the belief the life they were given was wretched and miserable—are given another chance to welcome the gift of God with arms open and reverent."
"Do you accept these terms as ordained by His will, happily and without concern, to be reincarnated into the Holy Realm of 'Adergost'?"
Isaiah swallowed.
"I... I do."
"Then you are Declan Holliday no longer."
The Hand of God waved his staff, and the void gave way. Threads of light sparked from black, weaving into a canvas of autumn orange, windswept valleys, and whispering winds.
Isaiah's feet nestled into a cradle of warm grass.
"Welcome to your new life, Eldracht of Adergost—"
"—And prepare to suffer the punishment for your crimes against God."