Drifting through

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Will I scream at all, I wonder. Maybe I’ll just drift through it in silence. I’m looking at the chair and my mind goes blank. I didn’t expect leather straps and metal buckles.

“What is that stick for?” I point to the only familiar object on the table.

“We will put it in your mouth, to protect your tongue,” says the spindly looking surgeon in his white cloak.

“Why does my tongue need protection?” I ask, squeaking.

“There’s a slight chance that you could bite your tongue off without it,” the other one says, not looking up from the computer. “The first few minutes will be uncomfortable, but then you won't feel anything.”

My mouth becomes dry from the thought of not having a tongue anymore.

“We are going to put this on your head,” he continues and points to a metal cage with electrical wires hanging all over it. “We’ll stick these electrodes to your head, and these,” he flicks two thicker probes, “will be inserted underneath your skin. One at the back of your head, one on the top.”

“The back of your head is where guilt is located, and the top of your head is the crown chakra. By stimulating the crown, your consciousness opens to the universe in an instant,” says a long-haired, colorfully dressed woman next to me. She talks as if she was singing. That must be the yoga master, I think.

There’s a lot of people in the room. Two surgeons, a psychiatrist, a Buddhist priest, a psychic, I don't remember half of it. It’s a big day for them. And for me?

I have nothing to lose. One way or another, I'm going to die soon anyway.

"Three months, six at the most if you're lucky," said the doctor.

It was the last day of summer, languid, hot, lazy. It didn’t sink in straight away. I recently came back from vacation and although I felt dizzy most of the time, I thought it was normal considering the amount of alcohol I poured in my face. For two weeks I was either hammered or hungover with no gaps in-between.

“But I'm only twenty years old,” I stated, matter-of-factly. I must tell you; a death sentence is not the easiest to swallow.

The doctor watched silently. He must have gone through this unpleasant procedure a thousand times before. He reached into a drawer and handed over a thin booklet printed on cheap paper.

“Here you will find useful phone numbers. There are plenty of groups to help you process.”

“Process what?”

Finally, compassion flashed across his eyes. “Many are in denial until the last moment. But you have a choice. You can think of your remaining time on earth as a gift.”

From the doctor’s office I went home to get my giant backpack that I used for the few travels I had in my twenty short years. Then I walked down to the liqueur shop and filled it up with booze.

I don’t remember much of the next few days. I was laying on the sofa in the living room, with the curtains drawn, in semi-darkness. I inhaled the stale, dusty air and was grateful that I could still breathe. I drank bottle after bottle and was grateful that I could still gulp and vomit.

What will mother say? I can hear her screeching, “how many times did I tell you to stop drinking, and now look at yourself!” Then she would light up a Marlborough flailing it around like a windmill. She would be upset, poor, old mummy.

I’ll tell her tomorrow, I said to myself every day. I needed some time, a currency I was running low on. To be honest, I still couldn’t let go. For a little while longer I wanted to hold on to the person who I wasn’t anymore. To this day I have yet to tell mother that her only daughter is about to die.

It was the cell phone. It buzzed like a thirsty wasp, hundred times a day, or so it felt. Unknown number. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. It was itching my brain. I suddenly picked it up and let out the most satisfying animalistic scream of my life: “What the fuck do you want?”

A very civilized voice answered: “Good day. How are you? Could you spare a moment for us? We’d like to help you.”

“Help yourself motherfucker!” I yelled back and was going to smash the cell phone into the wall, but his next sentence got me.

“We know you're going to die. You don't have much time, but it’s still enough to organize your future.”

“My future? What kind of future? I'm going to die like a dog!”

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he went on in his civilized manner. “We can help.”

“Help how?”

“Open the door and I'll show you.”

If it didn't happen to me, I wouldn't believe it. Like in a scene from a movie, I slowly walked to the door and pushed it ajar. A sweat-laden man stood there, grinning ear-to-ear in his loosely buttoned checkered suit, the pointed nose of his shiny shoes poking straight ahead.

If I wasn’t going to be dead soon, I would have left him standing there in the hallway.

He waddled in and with a slight disgust on his face looked around at the mess. “Where can we sit?” he asked.

I led him into the dark kitchen. As I turned on the light, the cockroaches crawled into the cracks in the wall. We settled down at the table. He began by touching his thumb and index fingers together. They were impressively well manicured.

“I am a representative of a company called Life Planners. To put it simply, the purpose of Life Planners, as the name suggests, is to help people plan their future life.”

“Is it a joke?” I asked, my nostrils flaring up. I couldn’t believe it.

“Oh, no, sorry. I have to work on my pitch,” he muttered to himself, then his face lit up. “Have you ever heard of the company called Two Hundred Years?”

I nodded. Was there anyone who hasn't heard of them? They have developed a special procedure that can extend human life by two hundred years. But not just any person’s life. Several conditions must be met, the most important is having a couple million dollars lying in one’s bank account.

“Our aim is to become their major competition,” he exclaimed proudly.

Hope burst into my heart with a huge bang. It spread in my chest; it rose in my head. I inhaled sharply. Does he mean... does he...

“Can you cure me?” I asked in a halting voice.

“No, not that,” he burst into laughter, but then quickly wiped the grin off his face. “Sorry, no. You are terminally ill, neither Two Hundred Years nor we can cure you. It’s something rather different we can offer you.”

He looked solemnly into my eyes. “But let this little video speak for me.”

With that, he turned his laptop towards me.

Death.

There’s one thing in life you can be sure of. It will come for you. It will come for me. It will come for all of us and has been coming since we existed.

Billions of people have died before us. Where are they now?

Under the ground, rotting away?

In hell, burning until eternity?

Are they no longer?

So many of us tried to find the answer to the final question. What happens to us when we die?

People in the Far East have known for thousands of years that the soul moves from body to body. They say that death is a gateway to a new life.

But what kind of life is it going to be?

Will you see your loved ones again? Will you have a loving family or brutal parents? Will you find the love of your life, or stay lonely?

Are you going to be rich or poor? Beautiful or deformed? Healthy or sick?

Will you live in a rich, safe place, or a country ravaged by wars and famine?

Will you find fulfillment in your work or take your broken dreams with you to the grave?

What if HERE and NOW, in this life, you could plan what will happen in the next one?

Life Planners promises nothing short of this.

Our team consists of the best specialists of body and soul. Top psychiatrists, Harvard professors, world-renowned yoga masters, gurus and reincarnation researchers have come together to help you!

Hear the calling! This is the biggest chance of your (next) life!

The screen went dark.

In retrospect, I should have given it much more thought. And maybe I would have if I hadn’t been so wasted. “I don't have any money,” was all I managed to say.

“That's not a problem. We are in the final stages of the pilot phase. We recruit people who are brave, opened and, well, ahem, arrived at the end of their lives.”

“What do I need to do?”

“First, you will revisit previous lives in the laboratory. It’s totally safe and painless.”

So, here I am standing in front of something like an electric chair. It looks anything but safe and painless.

The expert team is watching me silently; they are in no hurry. I must make the final move.

I take a deep breath and slide into the chair. I stretch out my hands and legs into the straps. I crack my fingers. I close my eyes.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

I don’t scream. I just drift in silence.