How about a Story?

What if the Death Penalty isn't the worst thing out there? After all, Death is supposed to be relaxing, freeing from earthly care. What if there is - in some place - a condemnation even worse: one that takes you out of Death and forces you back into this difficult, awful thing called Life? What if Reincarnation exists, but is considered a fate worse than death?

These thoughts brought about this story. I hope you like it.




"Derek Young." The imperious voice of the Chief Judge washes over me as he says my name. Funny; I've had that name all my death, but it's never felt smothered in guilt like this before. I glance up at the Bench, my head still lowered humbly. All of them are staring - no, glaring - at me. The Chief Judge speaks again, his voice echoing around the courtroom. "After careful deliberations, this council finds you guilty of high treason. Because of the seriousness of your crimes, we hereby sentence you to the Life Penalty, to be carried out immediately." He raises his golden scepter in the air and a deep tone sounds from it, ending the meeting.

I shrink, my shoulders slumping inward and at the same time my mouth falls open slightly. The Life Penalty? I can't believe it. I know I messed up big this time, but the Life Penalty is controversial and rarely used. This can't be happening. It has to be a dream. Or a nightmare.

A soft hand on my shoulder brings me back into focus. It's John, my Advocate. He is looking at me with grief in his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. What is there to say?

"Thank you," I mumble. John's eyebrows rise in confusion, but he needs to hear this and I haven't got much time. I continue, making the effort to look him in the eye. "I know you tried your best to get me off. This isn't anyone's fault but mine. I know that."

John swallows hard and looks like he's about to say something, but at that moment a couple of Escorts appear at our table. Their faces seem unusually hard. "You'll need to come with us, Mr. Young," the one on the left says firmly. They don't touch me, but they don't have to. I look once more at my friend John, shake his hand solemnly, and then go along with the Escorts willingly.

The Hospital isn't very far from the courtroom. We walk silently through the streets, but everyone around notices us and stops to watch me. I am the example; I realize that. Don't do what he did, the Council seems to be saying, If you value your death, don't be like this man.

I've never been inside the Hospital before. Of course not; no one who ever goes in there comes back out again, except the Doctors. These last few minutes of death have made me sentimental, and looking at the big red doors of the Hospital makes me remember being young again, skipping past this building with my friends. How do you think they can do it? Tommy asked me once a few years back, watching a couple of Doctors coming out of the building. How can they go in to work every day and just end people's deaths? Doesn't it bother them? Don't they have any conscience at all?

The Doctor I'm handed off to is a stern-faced woman. She's all in white, of course. The whole place is white, so you can never - not for one second - forget what's about to happen to you. What you're about to lose.

The Escorts don't even talk to her; they just hand her my file and walk back out the way we came, taking their black suits with them. I'm suddenly terrified, surrounded by all this white. The Doctor checks my chart nonchalantly, makes a guttural sound of satisfaction, then looks up at me in distaste. "Mr. Young," she says, gesturing down a hallway. I'm trembling, but I obediently set off down the tiled corridor. She follows behind me, businesslike. This is just another day to her.

Every step is precious to me, numbered. I wish I could walk slower but the Doctor is right behind me, keeping a brisk pace, so I keep moving forward. Soon - far, far too soon - we've arrived at the Birthing Room. I hesitate outside, but the Doctor opens the heavy metal doors and ushers me through.

There's a chair in the center of the room, and other Doctors running machinery along the walls. The machines hum and beep and whistle occasionally, screens showing DNA segments and what looks like an ultrasound. I don't want to know what those machines do, but I suppose I'm about to find out. The female Doctor who brought me here stands behind the chair and nods at me significantly, looking down at the wooden seat. I walk forward (steps 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . ) and sit down for the last time.

The Doctor is gone for a moment, but soon enough she returns with a long needle in her hand. The syringe is full of the Elixir of Life, I know (pure white, of course), and my heart almost seems to start beating just looking at it. I yank my gaze away from the needle and look up into the Doctor's hard eyes. "Mr. Young," she says. "You have a right to know your fate. Do you understand what is going to happen here?"

I swallow. "You're . . . you're going to send me back."

"That's right," she says. "When I inject you with the Elixir of Life, it will drain everything from your body. Everything. Your knowledge, your experiences, your relationships, it'll all be gone." She must read the panic on my face, because she says, "This is the fate that awaits all dangerous criminals. You know this."

"Yes," I agree, mouth gone dry. "But I'm not -"

"The Elixir will also morph your body," she continues over the top of me. "You will go backwards through development, shrinking until you are the size of a child, then until you are the size of an infant, and still further until you are a single cell of DNA. We will take that cell and send it to the Standard Terrestrial Office of Reincarnated Criminals."

"The STORC," I interrupt in a frightened squeak.

She glares at me. "The STORC will determine which host you will be sent to, and then," she leans over me, looking grimly satisfied. "You will be ejected from death, and everything you have accomplished this far will be destroyed."

After all these centuries. I wither internally. After already having to live once, after all that I've done to get here...

Before I realize what is happening, the Doctor has stabbed the needle into my arm and is pushing down on the syringe. I gasp in pain. I'm not ready! I'm screaming in my brain, but I can't remember how to speak. I'm not ready! I'm not ready!

"You are starting over, Mr. Young," the Doctor says, removing the empty syringe. I look up at her in horror, my sight going blurry. I can feel my body shrinking, collapsing, imploding, but it's nothing to what's going on inside my head and heart. The memories and emotions seem to be ripped from me, leaving agonizing, gaping scars. My vision is gone now, but I have just one more moment of sensation before the void overwhelms me, and in that moment, I hear one of the Doctors laugh horribly.

"Happy Birthday," he says.