The Last Thought

The last thought one has at the time of death determines what birth one is awarded in the next life.

That’s what the monks told me.

I wondered what he was thinking as I stuck the barrel to his balding scalp.

If I could figure that out I’d use the clue to find him in his next reincarnation so I could kill him again.

He had been sleeping. So I suppose the most recent dream image he’d experienced during REM would qualify as his last thought.

I needed to know what that thought was. And I could narrow it down from there where his pathetic soul would respawn. Maybe in Malaysia, or Arkansas. Maybe as a stone.

While I was looking for him I had many things; I even had a house with a backyard and a wrap-around porch. As the search continued everything was offered to the goal until there was nearly nothing left to pack.

A small deity statue no bigger than a salt shaker that the monks gifted me upon graduation from the monastery.

A bundle of clothes to throw over what remained of my self.

The barrel that I would use when I found him again.

The documents from my EEG experiments.

I stuffed them into a drawstring backpack and set out to start the next step of the investigation.

I poured over the ancient texts documenting the correlation between final thoughts and new births. According to the monks, a divine thought leads to a blessed future life; an impure thought leads to a wretched future, including the possibility of a lower animal birth.

Whatever the final thought — it is not subject to manipulation. Many hire pandits to chant holy words beside their beds as the time nears, but there is no cheating death. The last thought cannot be contrived; it will be whatever habitual accumulated groove has the most pull from a lifetime of repetition.

If you care most in life about your pet donkey, that will be what comes to mind at the time of death, regardless of how hard you try to recall the divine.

My chalkboard was filled with sacred geometric diagrams, esoteric sketches, and passages from various scriptures. I was close to unlocking the mysteries of karma and reincarnation.

For what he had done I needed to find him again. I was not quenched. Like a meal unsavored. I couldn’t rest until he met his end by my hand at least one more time.

I had used EEG sensors to monitor his brain activity during sleep and handed over the documents to a prominent neuroscientist, Jaico. With his findings I could scientifically scrutinize my theory of what his final thought had been.

“My models can only determine with fifty percent accuracy the general content of a dream at a given time,” Jaico said.

Once I discovered the nature of his final thought, I would cross reference my research catalogs and move onto the next phase of my work: determining where and when he might be produced once again.

“That’s all I need,” I said. “Fifty is more than enough.”

Jaico sighed and straightened the papers on his desk. “It was a person.”

He was thinking of a person at the time of death. Even if science could verify with only fifty percent certainty, my hunch filled in the other half.

I knew exactly what he was thinking at the time that I killed him.

He was thinking of me.

He would come to me in his next body, whatever it might be. I was sure of it.

As I left the office, an exasperated breath was released behind the door, followed by hurried whispers. As I turned toward the elevator, the secretary looked at me in apprehensive panic.

She anxiously slipped a file under a stack of papers on her desk. As I drew closer, I saw that it was my own file. Her reaction told me what would come next.

I folded the edges of my lips into a pleasant smile. It didn’t stop my hand from shaking. It didn’t stop her hand from reaching for the phone.

The monks said that everyone has a set lifespan, that like one’s final thought, it cannot be manipulated. The lifespan, however, is not based on time, but on the number of breaths one takes in their life.

I guess, when he was sleeping, some part of his subconscious must’ve known his number was up — and that’s when I appeared in his dream. Like birds who can sense an impending storm.

The number of breaths cannot change but one who masters control of the breath can extend their life.

Monk Carlo was rumored to take but a single breath every six weeks.

The secretary dialed the number. My legs instinctively took me back toward where my house used to be.

The lights closed in on me. My breath quickened, shortening my own lifespan. I ran to a wooden fence but couldn’t scale it. My bag caught a loose nail and was torn open. My things spilled out like puss from a festered boil.

As I sat in the damp grass the flickering of a neighborhood sprinkler was all I could hear.

A speckled caterpillar crawled across my knee. I put my finger down and it crawled up the nail and into my palm. I lifted my hand to my face. It was him. He was brought to me.

The lights and cries of the officers were getting louder just beyond the corner.

Suddenly, a twinge in my heart detached me from the neighborhood. I was surprised to find my own number called.

The shame washed over me. Not the pain of my own life pouring out before me, but that I knew for absolute certain what my last thought would be if I was to go in that moment.

And where I be in my next life; but atop a leaf.

I tilted my head back. The rotating sprinkler showered my face as I looked upward.

I felt him still in my palm. I had to finish what I set out to.

My fist was clenched tight when they reached me, nails buried white into the palm. They yelled profanities, telling me to drop what I was holding.

But I couldn’t.

They followed their duty and my number was cashed. He rested on the back of my lifeless hand. The dark red lines flowed past him and he curled, clinging onto the flesh, like to an island beside a current.

I thought of the mountains as I went.

The edges of my lips showed a pleasant smile. A smile that stopped the shaking.