Phil opened his eyes, waking from the previous night’s restful slumber.

It was a beautiful
Sunday morning, and he had a lovely breakfast of jelly on toast to look forward to. However, as
the blurry masses shifted before his eyes, he quickly retrieved his glasses from his breast
pocket - a sensible man always keeps his valuables on him during sleep - and fitted them along
his face to reveal that he was not emerging into a sunny Sunday morning in the shoddy
apartment he called home. In fact, he didn’t seem to be anywhere at all; Phil Smith was floating
in a vast endless space, darker than dark and colder than cold. It seemed slightly damp, and
smelled as if a tinge of mildew and wet towel had wafted over from the unfathomable darkness
just five feet to the right. Phil paused for a moment before speaking,

“Am I in the bathroom?”, he questioned aloud.

A deep, imposing voice boomed throughout the void.

No. You are dead.

“Ah,” he said, “That is certainly inconvenient.”

Phil looked down at his torso, inspecting his body for any wounds and finding none. No
slashes along his black shirt, no signs of damage to his Superman-spotted pajama pants. He
raised his palm three or four inches from his mouth and exhaled. No changes to the morning
breath he had endured every morning for the past twenty-six years. He lowered his hand to his
chin, his brow furrowing in confusion as he attempted to solve the mystery of his own death.

“How did I die?”, he quietly muttered to the omnipresent voice.

You choked on a spider in your sleep.

“I knew it.”, he whispered, “Benny always made fun of me for believing that, but look at
me now!”

Vindication of childhood beliefs aside, Phil paused for a moment. If he was dead, he
would miss his lovely breakfast. It was imperative to have a lovely breakfast, he thought, as
without one it is simply impossible to have a lovely day.

“Can I be revived? I’d like to go back to my Sunday morning and have my breakfast.”

You cannot.

“Oh, excuse me, MAY I be revived?”

You may not.

Drats.
 “Why not?”

Because you are dead.

“That’s awfully rude, killing a man just before his breakfast. It’s not like you can kill a man
whenever you want!”

Actually, I can.

“Oh. Right.”

“So, do you have like, board games or something?”

No.

“Magazines?”

No.

“Books?”

No.

Phil huffed. “Being dead is way more boring than I thought it was going to be.”

I do have a complete broadcast of your entire life.

A sudden bright light forced Phil’s hand up to his eyes, shielding them as they tried to
adjust. As he lowered it, he found a screen no bigger than his home television in front of him.
The screen seemed to be playing home videos, the kind that your mother would create of you
when you were a baby… only he wasn’t a baby in these videos, he was a teenager.

“Hey! That’s me!”, Phil blurted out excitedly.

 He watched as his teenage self went about his life day by day at P.S 213. He watched
him eat the same jelly on toast every morning, take the same classes each year, eat the same
peanut butter and banana sandwich for lunch, go home, eat the same chicken stew for dinner,
and go to sleep to repeat the cycle. He watched his teenage self turn down opportunity after
opportunity, skipping over all four of his homecomings, prom, high school reunion, job
promotion. He watched as he made the same mistakes over and over, completely missing the
chance to change. Day by day. Month by month. Year by year. For twenty-six years. It didn’t feel
like twenty-six years, he thought.

As Phil watched, he realized just how incredibly boring his life had been. He hadn’t made
any changes throughout the entire course of his life, and never took any risks. It was a safe life,
sure, but what was the point of being safe if one wasn’t having any fun? It might have been safe
to not go near any dangerous rides at theme parks, but he’d now never know the thrill of hurtling
through the tracks with friends. It might have been safe not to try for a job promotion, but he’d
never have a life of luxury and comfort as a result of his extra pay. It might have been safe not to
ask his crush out, but he’d never have known if she would have said yes.

Phil silently stared at the screen, which had been as black as the void for a while now.
He had watched his entire life. Three times, in fact. All twenty-six years, back to back. And still,
he struggled to find a single exciting or special thing he did.

Phil closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’ve made mistakes. My life was boring, and I was to blame. Please, if you’ll
just give me another chance, I’ll make things right. I’ll have as much fun as possible in the time
that I have left. I’ll ask out Beatrice. I’ll ask Mr. Pendragon for that pay raise. Please, just let me
back to life!”

Phil opened his eyes.

There he was. It was a sunny Sunday morning. He felt the soft caress of his bedsheets
as he sat upright in his bed. His apartment. His dirty, stinky apartment that smelled slightly of
mold and mildew. He chuckled for a second, touching his face, ruffling his fingers through his
soft hair. “I think I’ll have my jelly on toast now. After an incredibly ridiculous dream like that, it’s
important to start one’s day off with a jelly on toast.”

Far away, in a void beyond comprehension, a lone voice chuckles. They never learn, the voice
mutters quietly to itself. It knows that Phil Smith has betrayed the agreement, and will spend the
rest of his life living it out in the most boring way possible. Because it knows that all humans
hate risk. After all, why would anyone take risks and have fun in life when they could stay safe in
their home, eat jelly on toast, and be like Phil?