Design Flaws

When they said that you see a bright light when you die, you did not realise that it was actually a 60 watt desk-lamp.

You also did not know just how fast cars could go round that bend, or how easily shopping can get broken when it is hit. Like bottles, boxes of eggs...human bodies.

“Am I dead?” you ask. Although you are fairly certain of the answer, you are surprised that you can even voice the question. The desk-lamp is, quite conveniently on a desk in a very ordinary looking cubicle. If you are dead, the major religions have vastly over-exaggerated the afterlife.

“That's all anyone ever asks,” a reply comes in to the office, followed by a man. At least, you think he is a man...since he looks like one, a John you'd say. He wears his shirt half-untucked, a pen in the chest pocket, a faint air of extreme boredom. “Never “how are you?” or “what's the weather like out there?” It's all me, me, me. And yes, by the way – you are dead.”

You gulp hard. Your partner. Your friends. You will never see them again. You turn to John, “Is this Heaven?” A thought dawns on you and you gulp harder, “or is this Hell?"

“Everyone always asks that as well.” John rolls his eyes. He sighs, before shrugging – might as well get on with it, “This is neither Heaven nor Hell...for you at least. Your final destination is currently in design. We would have had it ready on time but we didn't know you'd be joining us so soon. While you wait, you can help us by designing the afterlife for your worst enemy.”

“What? Why? Why me? Why my worst enemy?” your mind floods with questions and the dam of your mouth cannot hold them back. You did not even know you had a worst enemy but that thought remains unvoiced.

“We like to personalise eternity, to provide custom-fit endlessness the discerning consciousness.” John explains. You see now the group manager pin on his collar and the precise architect's creases around his eyes and forehead. “As for your worst enemy, they died recently as well and we can't think of anyone who knows what they deserve.”

"The most blinding orgasm on earth will be like a faint tickle in this Heaven"

“What do I have to do?” you ask, rapidly acclimatising to the rather bizarre next chapter of your existence. The revelation that there is an afterlife is eclipsed by the revelation that your long-forgotten GCSE in Design and Materials will actually be of some use at last.

“We will provide you with pens and paper.” John the manager explains as he lays down rolls of blue schematic paper on your desk. You did not see them when he came in but your mind seems very at ease with spatial abnormalities at the moment. “Take as long as you want. Call me when you're finished or if you have any questions.”

With that, he exits the cubicle and leaves you to it. At first, the task seems overwhelming. An entire afterlife? To treat or torture someone for an eternity? How is one mind as small as yours supposed to envisage all that? And how can you design a Nirvana or Pandemonium for your worst enemy if you do not even know who they are? John was unhelpfully brief on names.

Hesitantly, you put pen to paper. The first attempts are a few ginger strokes before you crumple up the sketch in frustration. A series of idle doodles follow. The first serious work involves a lot of clouds, harp and white people with wings. It is beautific but horrendously clichéd and it is not long before it too is binned.

You rub your jaw and ponder what Heaven should really be like. Freedom. Pleasure. Beauty. You begin to see, and your hand loyally scribes, vast halls of Ionic white marble set in awe-inspiring verdant vistas. The most spectacular of wildlife will populate the land, seas and skies but will not harm a single person. Meanwhile, people will be free to engage in deep philosophy, charismatic sports-play and, a weakness of your own, a library with all the books there ever was and ever will be – with no late fines. This creation will be populated by all your, no, their loved ones and there will be no ageing, pain or death.

It is a good start, you admit, but, if it were you, you might be a bit disappointed. It still feels a bit uptight, a bit stuffy, for Paradise. You bite your lip and add a few footnotes. Women will be irresistibly hot, with none of their earthly inhibitions or preferences – the men too! And while pain will be gone, pleasure will be multiplied a thousand-fold. The most blinding orgasm on earth will be like a faint tickle in this Heaven. As your grip on morality loosens further, you decree that people will be able to do what they like with absolutely no consequences. All the things they wanted to do on Earth but were too scared to, and much more besides.

You are not struck by a thought but two at once. First, if Heaven grants people true freedom and they use that freedom to do bad things, is that really Heaven? Or merely some ghastly parody? Secondly, this bliss is supposed to be for your worst enemy. You have no idea what you yourself might be getting – there is no guarantee you will get anything anywhere near this nice. Why should he get a better afterlife than you, you argue jealously. Your vision of Utopia is consigned to the bin and you begin again.

You are not certain who your worst enemy is but there is no way he deserves better than you, so you begin to rein in your largesse. You imagine something a lot like Earth but only a bit nicer. Traffic lights will go his way, and people will generally like him. He will not win the lottery but he will not catch any nasty diseases either. You think of a particularly good day you had when you were alive. He shall have an eternity of them.

But that is not fair, you realise. Clearly, your worst enemy is a bit of a prick – otherwise, he would not be your enemy. Is it Bartridge from the office who had never liked you since your first day? That guy at the pub who always resents your help on the quiz machines? The playground bully who probably lived the rest of his life in nameless frustration? It could be any one of them and none of them deserve a good day, let alone a lifetime of them if they are just going to be mean and ornery to everyone they meet. Another potential hereafter scrapped.

You are a good person, or so you believe, so your worst enemy must be bad. So, if they did not receive any justice for their crimes on Earth, you will make sure they get it now. You grin malevolently as thunder rolls and lightning strikes over jagged mountain-scapes. Sulphurous fumes billow into the black air from raging fires that will never die. These will be bonfires, funeral pyres for everyone and everything your enemy has ever loved. Even his memories will burn. His family will burn last, just after the last of his favourite books has turned to ash (you hope he can appreciate the horror of book-burning – to you, it is an abomination). But that is only the start; mental, emotional, physical – he will be tortured without limit. Flesh stripped from bone, haunted by monsters grotesque and barbarous, every feeling he ever felt twisted and betrayed – he will suffer without end, you declare with no small amount of glee. And here is the best part, you note down, when he is finished, completely spent, dried up to the husk with pain and anguish, it will start all over again, repeating until time itself dies.

"If Heaven grants people true freedom and they use that freedom to do bad things, is that really Heaven?"

You sit back with a feeling of satisfaction. It is cruel, yes, maleficent, definitely, but you convince yourself that this is what your worst enemy deserves. Though their nature and identity still remain a mystery to you, he must be your enemy for a reason. Confident that this is the final draft, you rise and search for John.

He is standing by a door – a fire escape? – in the corner of the room. It is filled with a myriad of cubicles much like your own, unending, with people beavering away at a thousand different versions of Elysium and Gehenna. As he sees you, John checks his watch.

“I didn't expect you to finish so soon.” he remarks, faintly impressed, “well, let's have a look at it, shall we?”

You hand him the finished blueprint and he examines it. He frowns to begin with but says nothing as his eyes scan over it. You feel the seconds tick by intolerably as he silently critiques your work. He pauses once or twice for clarification on some of the finer points. You sigh, relieved, when he finally nods and rolls it up.

“Very good. It's not my cup of tea but it will do. Are you sure this is what your own worst enemy deserves?” he asks. You nod with not a trace of doubt. “Fair enough. You finished at a good time – they've just finished work on your own afterlife.” He places a hand on the bar of the fire door, “are you ready?”

“Yes.”

He nods and pushes open the door, letting you step through. Immediately you see something is wrong. There is fire and darkness and...pain. Already, you feel it gnawing at your extremities. Then, with a chill, you recognise the hellish vista in background and the towering infernos in front of them. They are familiar, all too familiar, because you designed all of them. Panicking, you turn to your guide.

“But wasn't this for my worst enemy?!” you cry.

“Yes, that's right.” John nods calmly, “Just who did you think your own worst enemy was?”