The day I died

This Story was written as a contest in a magazine a while ago. It was a prompt type contest with the prompt being "Seven days ago I... (story goes here) Now, nobody will talk to me."

I wasn't sure what genre to put it under, so I left that as "other"
I still haven't gotten the hang of formatting on here, so some of the lines are uneven, I apologize and promise to work on it.

                          Seven Days Ago I Died

            Seven days ago, I died. That Monday started as normal as any other; I stopped at the newsstand for a paper and coffee and fought the uptown traffic to my office. I was a junior partner with Adams, Blackwell, and Carlisle, the ABC’s of corporate law.
         
         I was rich, ruthless, and of course…always right. Black tie parties, business dinners, and my pick of gorgeous women, life was perfect and predictable…until last week that is. I raced my Mercedes around slower blue collar stiffs driving Fords and Chevys. I made a bet with myself about how much money I could make that day. Bill an hour here and there for 2-minute phone calls, settle the sale of an electronics store chain for Mr. Yokama and get a nice cut. The old guy that owns it now can take the pittance and move to Florida or something.
              Lost in my fantasy of money, I cut a hard left around a grandpa in a Buick but didn’t see the young punk on his crotch rocket coming my way—fast. Screeching brakes and crunching metal were the last things I heard before waking up in a white hallway.

            A dark-haired teen sat in a chair smirking at me. An old lady walked slowly towards us muttering prayers. “Where am I? I think I had an accident…where’s the doctor?” “Dude…no need for docs now; you died,” Replied the punk.

            “That’s…not possible. I’m talking to you.”
            “Whatever. Go down the hall, and sign in.”
            “Sign in for what? Where am I?”
            “Processing dude. This is where they sort us. Ya know, heaven or hell and all that.”
            Thinking the kid was high or something, I went down the hall to find someone in charge.  I saw signs on several doors; Agnostics, Catholics, Atheists, Baptists, and more.


              “What’s all this about being dead?”
              “Mr. Damon I’m very sorry, but you’ll need to fill out these forms. Someone will be with you shortly.” A plump woman in a grey uniform replied.

                I refused to fill out any forms but waited. Finally, someone called my name, and I stepped through a larger door. A tall man with a long white beard greeted me. “Martin, you’re early. I have you set for appointment on April twenty-third, two thousand twenty-six.”
              “What…I don’t understand…what am I doing here?”
                His long white robe fluttered as he raised his arm and pointed a gnarled staff at a bare wall. “Watch.”

                On the wall, images began to appear. My first girlfriend, whom I dumped for a richer girl, the geeks in high school that I used to beat up. Faster the pictures flew as the years progressed.
                 Finally, I saw a small child in a hospital bed. “Who’s that? I don’t know that kid.”
                “That’s the granddaughter of the man you killed in the Buick. She was in the backseat when the motorcycle you hit slammed into their car. She will join you here soon.”

                 “That idiot on the bike got in my way, it wasn’t my fault.” I said.
                “No... you were in his way. Typically, you’re only thinking of yourself.”
                “How can I fix this? She’s only a little girl…she shouldn’t die.”
                “It’s too late to help her, but I can give you opportunity to help others.
                “What do you mean?”

              The images on the wall changed to show me dirty and sweating surrounded by kids. I began to feel ashamed of who I’d been. I’d done nothing but screw people for most of my life. I couldn’t think of even one kind or decent thing that I’d done for anyone, without some sort of gain for myself.
             “I’ll give you one year to change the lives of one thousand people for the better. If you cannot make up for your ruthlessness, you will suffer the pain of all those you’ve hurt for eternity.
             “I don’t know how to do that!” I cried.
             “Yes, you do…you just have to try.”

                I began to tell my story about how I died, came back, and all the good I was going to do. I gave away every cent I had saved and went to work suing the corporations I’d once worked for; on behalf of the poor they screwed daily.

                The people I once called friends suddenly didn’t want to know my name. No one wanted to hear about the need to help people. They didn’t like me telling them about their own need for change. Now, nobody will talk to me.