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Life After Life

Martin Repa

I just took my last breath. I open my eyes. A red curtain is closing to the rhythm of chimes. I smell candied roses and incense. I feel warmth on the crown of my head. I can’t turn around.

My legs start moving on their own. I’m running, but backward. I’m fleeing in reverse and can’t see where. The curtain fades into the distance. Something is still scorching my head. Everything is bathed in a yellowish darkness. Something is approaching me. It’s… a back. A really big back.

“Good day. Do you know where we’re running to?” I ask.
The back with a hole in the middle keeps running silently. It overtakes me. For a moment, I feel its heavy breathing near my ear, and then I’m running alone again. Not even an hour passes before another back approaches me. This one is much smaller and hunched. There’s no way this one will outrun me.

“Excuse me, I’ve been running for about an hour now. Do you know why?” I ask a small elderly man running next to me, whose partial face I can see.

“This must be your first time running, huh?” he pants.

“Listen, kid, we’re running for another life. If you take my advice, hurry up, because the good spots are already going fast. See ya!” He waves and overtakes me without another word.

I keep running, guessing for about six hours. My legs don’t touch the ground because there isn’t any. On either side, I notice what look like sand dunes with red poppies growing on them. It starts snowing. The yellow darkness takes on a pink hue thanks to the blue snowflakes. Memories of my life surface. I don’t think I lived it to the fullest. I was always hiding somewhere, not paying much attention to my family or myself. I believe, if the old man wasn’t babbling nonsense, that I’m running for a new and better life. I close the chapter on my previous life and mentally say goodbye to my loved ones. I feel I can turn around.

Alright, it feels much easier to run now. My brain is completely overheated. All my memories have evaporated. I’m approaching a vast water surface. It glimmers so much it feels like I’m running toward some kind of light. I pick up speed. The promise of a better life propels me forward.

I’ve arrived. I stand beneath an enormous neon sign. It reads: “Do not disturb. Stay calm. Everyone will get their turn.” I join a long line of all kinds of characters. Everyone is trying to get closer to a large golden lake.

“Excuse me, how does this work here?” I ask the last person in line.

“See that transparent clerk over there? You pick up a form from her, fill it out, sign it, and then they’ll let you jump into the lake,” explains a man missing his head.

“Sounds good. And I can choose the kind of life I want with that transparent lady?”

“Where did you come from?” he asks, shaking his head under his arm in disbelief.

I try to remember where I came from, but my memories have long since turned into water vapor, sprinkling red fields on the sand dunes.

“You don’t choose anything. They choose. They’ll evaluate how you lived and decide what kind of afterlife suits you,” the wandering Dutchman explains in a softer tone.

Alright then. I hope they don’t have anything on me. I trust it will go smoothly.

Around us, advertisement posters depicting various forms of life float by. I stop at one that reads, “Oil, women, camels—become a sheikh!” That wouldn’t be bad. Lots of money, a harem, and lazing around. My daydreaming about sweet idleness is interrupted by an aggressive poster advertising the life of an orca. “No, you wouldn’t want to sweat in some desert. How about an orca? No natural enemies. You can swim wherever you want. Come on, take a dip,” the poster argues convincingly.

“What’s the cost?” I try to negotiate.

“Just a bit of your brain.”

Further haggling reveals that the posters feed on our brains.

“No way. I’ll need all of my brain because a sheikh sometimes has to drive,” I counter with a solid argument.

“Sheikh? Brain? What are you talking about? Don’t you know where they put you?” the poster laughs uproariously.

“Put me? Already?! Where?”

“I’m definitely not telling you. I don’t like you one bit. Bye.”

“Next!” the transparent lady shouts, her voice overpowering the fading laughter of the poster. I approach the desk with great apprehension.

The lady combs two long transparent hairs and sizes me up arrogantly.

“Well, young man, you’ve really messed up your life. What can we do? Here’s the form. Check one of the three options, sign it, and jump.” I hear pity in her voice.

I wake up. I feel like throwing up. Memories come back to me faintly.

“Ah yes, the form. Three options. Each worse than the other. The first is to be reborn as an Amoeba. Constantly dividing, and it’s sure to be very painful. The second is a Woodpecker. I’d spend my whole life banging my head against trees. The third option is to be mold on brie. I choose C; mold is undoubtedly the noblest of the offered choices.”

“Jožko, wake up!” my sister nudges me.

“You really need to start looking for a job. You just lie here rotting all day.”

“Thank God! It was just a dream,” I say, hugging her tightly.

“I’ll get dressed right away and go, Gerda. I definitely don’t want to end up as mold.”

“That’s good to hear,” she whispers, stroking her two long transparent hairs…