Full Circle: Surprise,

You’re Dead! Now What?

Short Fiction by J.M. DeBord, Copyright 2010

Dying on a wet prison floor with a sharpened butter knife jammed in my chest, I figured
the next step was eternity in Hell for a person like me. How wrong I was.

Soon after crossing over, I began to see possibilities for another life in body. A fresh
start, of sorts, on a conveyor belt of mortal opportunities. Humans busily procreating on
Earth eventually produce circumstances attractive to a soul in search of a life, but I was
still haunted by my last life.

I’d do my time in Purgatory getting poked in the ass by devils if that’s what I deserved.
I’d been a bad man by most standards, a bad father by any standard. Died gasping
for breath while serving life for dealing drugs—piles and piles of drugs. But someone
thought the pain and tragedy I’d already experienced were enough. Don’t get me wrong,
no angels sat on clouds playing harps when I crossed over. Nothing like that, but sur-
prisingly, not much different from regular life. I was still the same old me, just without a
human body.

I might have resisted the beckoning Light, to become a ghost haunting the world of the
living, if not for the Teacher who stood at the threshold. He spoke in complete thoughts,
and what I heard was: “The decisions you made were sometimes unnecessarily painful.
Sometimes stupid, but they were yours to make and learn from, and you are forgiven if
you forgive yourself.”

My sort of Teacher. I drifted away from my corpse on the prison floor, regretful but
ready. Every Pit Bull eventually lets go of the leg and returns to the doghouse, broken
and exhausted. I wanted rest.

The Light washed away all pain and suffering, but I couldn’t forget my daughter, Kara.
I’d never really known her, having spent most of my life breaking the law, running from
the law or caged by the law. Her mother had kept us as far apart as possible. Couldn’t
blame my ex-wife; I was bad news walking. Many nights, while locked in a prison cell,
the thought crossed my mind, if only I’d been more involved in Kara’s life, I might have
taken better care for my own. I’d been forgiven and all when I followed the Teacher into
the Light, but I’d missed out on the best potential for my previous life: I’d missed out on
love.

Too late to do anything about it, I entered the next life as a restless and troubled soul.

I’d been a hard person, colorful, intense. Looking back over many lifetimes, I saw a pat-
tern: lives of turmoil, untouched by feeling, distant from my fellow beings. I needed to
learn an important lesson, or else my fate was another life repeating the same mistakes.
My last life opened the door, but the next room was dark inside. Literally: For long
stretches following my death I saw nothing, until a possibility for reincarnation present-
ed itself, all of its potential recognized at once:

*Female, named Monique. Would die before her second birthday, drowned in bath water
by the boyfriend of her drug-addled mother. He was destined to go into a fit of rage be-
cause he hadn’t had a fix that day, and poor Monique cried ceaselessly. No wonder she
cries, I observed; the moron spent the food money on crack!

After Monique’s tragic death, he’d skip town in terror and soon be cut down in a bar
fight started over whether Tupac was really alive. The mother would go to jail for child
neglect and drug abuse and get clean. Whenever the crack devil beckoned thereafter,
she’d remember her beautiful little girl Monique and resist, living the rest of her days
with lingering guilt but also determination to make good. If she was fortunate she’d learn
that indifference, especially toward a loved one like her own daughter, is worse than
hate. The knowledge earned through hardship might eventually make her something of a
saint.

That was her potential, and I’d take the life of her child to help make it happen. The boy-
friend would learn that rage stems from self-loathing and unfulfilled dreams that, when
abandoned, abandon you. What’s left is a shell with a soul crying to get out. At least
some good could come from Monique’s short life.

I saw a chance to pay off Karma by inhabiting that body and putting my unique stamp
on its life. Many lives had been ruined by the drugs I’d peddled. I just wasn’t ready to
leave my isolation.

Before I got shanked with a butter knife and died, my daughter Kara visited me in pris-
on. Her letter arrived out of the blue after more than a decade of complete silence, catch-
ing me off-guard. During my first stint in prison, I wrote to her once a week for a year.
Hard letters not only because they were slow and tedious in the making, or because of
my eighth-grade education, or because I had to wait until late at night when everyone
was asleep: I didn’t know what to say. “Hi, this is the father you barely know, writing
from the penitentiary. Last week I watched a man die with a smile cut across his throat.
How you doin’ in school?”

Shame was tough for someone like me to admit. I could swing million-dollar deals, but
when it came to the heart I was stone. My life had revolved around crime, violence and
prison—not exactly conversation for a schoolgirl. After a year her mother wrote back
telling me to save the ink, Kara would never read the letters. So I stopped writing and
tried to forget everything but the daily challenge of survival in the joint. Hard to do with
so much time to think, but I did it. Until Kara wrote and the door to my past blew wide
open. At a bad time too: the white, black, and Mexican factions were at war, blood ready
to spill. People were about to die, only a matter of time.

****

Kara was prettier than I’d imagined she’d be as a grown woman: pointy chin, cheeks like
a mountain lion, wavy chestnut hair and soft brown eyes. I recognized her immediately
waiting for me in the prison visitor room, a large open space like a gymnasium inter-
spersed with heavy steel tables and chairs bolted to the polished stone floor. A clean-cut
young black man sat next to her, trying to appear comfortable. I figured he was at the
wrong table, so I told him in no uncertain terms that he didn’t belong and should move
along.

“Tyrone,” my daughter said, indicating the man-boy next to her, “is going to be my hus-
band. We’re engaged.”

Prisoners watched us on the sly. I was well-known in the joint, a person of authority,
and my daughter with a black wouldn’t play well. Race didn’t matter to me until locked
up for life in a zoo packed with vicious animals. The Brotherhood that initiated me in
return for my loyalty unto death didn’t just watch out for members’ bodies, but their lily
white souls too.

The young man fidgeted under my menace, though he looked determined. The reason for
him tagging along became apparent in the way he and Kara looked at each other: to help
her get through seeing me. My respect for him grew a notch; took balls to walk into such
a situation. I had radar for when a man could be backed down, and this wasn’t the time
to prove who was Alpha male. So I turned on her, saying, “Husband? You’re too young to
get married. How old are you, 19?”

“20.”

“Same difference.”

She replied that they loved each other, nothing could keep them apart, and even her
mother had accepted their union. Little did I know then, some souls are made for each
other. Kara and Tyrone had reached across a divide of time and culture to be reunited.
Soul mates. All I saw at the time was my rosebud being deflowered by a black man. Wait
until the bulldogs in the Brotherhood tossed that bone around….

Kara deftly switched subjects. She remembered the sweet letters her mom had read to
her before bed, until they stopped coming. She had wanted to write back, but my ex-wife
told her I was in “the bad place” where letters aren’t delivered and people are forgotten.

Kara’s innocent remark set me off. All I could think was: her mother that fucking bitch
lied to me—and to our daughter! I would’ve strangled my ex right there, and must have
turned color because Kara’s brows furrowed over her concerned eyes and she asked if I
was all right. I wasn’t; I choked on rage!
She tentatively placed her hand on my tattooed forearm. A jolt shot through it. People
were watching. The jackals sensed weakness, but it was no time to pay them much
mind. Tenderness flowed from my precious daughter’s touch through my skin, up my
nerves, and tried to penetrate my hardened heart.

No such luck. Kara’s unconditional love had the opposite effect of triggering a blind fury.
I tore away from her and stalked over to the barred gate leading back into the prison.
Back to my cell. My hell. I wanted out, not in, but this was Hotel California and I could
never leave.

I grabbed the bars and heaved—snarling, thrashing wildly. Let me in! Let me out! Let me
die! I couldn’t take it. A jackhammer split the stone in my chest.

Prisoners hooted. The intercom screeched for more guards. They couldn’t pry loose my
hands. A cloud of Mace in my face and still I held on. Riot sticks pounded my ribs and
kidneys. Guards yelled orders for me to stand down. Visitors were quickly cleared. I
heard Kara above the clamor:

“Daddy? Daddy, please!”

Unable to cry or cry out, I collapsed and curled into a ball, beaten savagely into uncon-
sciousness.

****

After crossing over, earthly life is supposed to wash away. The soul needs to conserve
energy before taking another whirl on the Wheel of Life and Death—the Samsara of East-
ern cultures. But my body had been cut down before finishing its task, and I thought
maybe I’d embraced death too eagerly, thinking I could forget the misery my life had
become.

Even if my corpse lay rotting in a prison cemetery, I wanted to go back. “Hi honey, I’m
home!” The memories stirred life into buried bones.

I knew of souls making contact with the living. It could be done. I pictured Kara and
reached out. But there were so many minds and their petty concerns to wade through:
what’s for dinner; how are my stocks; that intern at work sure looks good; what to buy
this weekend; Brenda at the salon said Sheila said something else and blah blah blah.

Life is slow death when the importance is missed. “Don’t you see,” I railed at the lost
souls, “that you’re missing the point? Love! Love one another! The time is up before you
know it, and all that’s going with you is what you learn. Ever seen a U-Haul pulled be-
hind a hearse?”

Distracted, I lost any chance of finding Kara. It was no use. And even if I did find her,
what then, punch through the barrier between life and death like a poltergeist and prob-
ably scare her senseless?

“Doesn’t work that way,” I heard in reply, “though you’re learning to recognize what you
missed.” The Teacher dropped by for a visit to my spiritual isolation chamber, where I
accepted no company or contact from other souls.

“Oh,” I thought, “you again. Thanks for nothing.”

The Teacher radiated patience but also sadness at my obstinate insistence on remain-
ing alone. Like connecting with the rest of the wretched mass of creation would somehow
help me. I felt admonished and railed back, “I could have held on if you wouldn’t have
convinced me to give up! Now I have no chance of getting back to my Kara. To just sit in
her presence... I’d gladly be a ghost for eternity to be near her again. Don’t you have any-
thing to say for yourself?”

Calm silence in answer to my rant. God it was aggravating.

“Then go away!”

The Teacher’s presence left me to marinate in regret over everything I’d lost.

****

Back in earthly life, the scene in the visitor room earned me a week in solitary confine-
ment. The Hole. A week to talk to shadows and listen to the ravings of lunatics. I was
empty once the rage subsided, just a shallow bowl of murky feelings. How could I show
weakness in front of Kara during our only meeting? No pen and paper were allowed in
solitary, so I couldn’t write. I didn’t have her phone number even if I had a phone. I was
impotent, and for a man like me at the time, that felt worse than defeat. At least in de-
feat I could go down fighting. At least I could move on. Impotence is a three-legged horse
on a circular track, hobbled and never getting anywhere but back to where it started.

Three times a day, a tray of crappy prison food was shoved through a little slot in the
steel door of my cell in The Hole. On the second morning, a pair of narrow eyes peered
at me and the raspy voice of a junior Brother got my attention with the announcement:
“The Brotherhood sends its greetings. Whole place is talking about you, man. Did that
nigga boy really come here with your daughter? You never told us ’bout no daughter.”

Oh Kara, I’m so sorry, I said in my heart. My mind drifted aimlessly, my only desire si-
lence, but the Brother had nothing better to do but keep blabbering.

“She’s corrupting her blood with that piece of shit. Man, I woulda whipped out my fat
white cock and pissed on him. The golden arch goes smack on that black face. Not much
to say, eh? Save your energy. When you get out of The Hole, it’s party time. Time to show
d’em monkeys who’s boss.”

The hours passed in a 6′ by 8′ metal box where nothing marks the days and nights ex-
cept the routine of waking, eating, shitting and sleeping. When you know you’ll never be
free again, one day is no different than all the rest. A dull fatigue settles into the bones.
The blood pumps with less conviction. There’s no motivation. And a staggeringly numb
feeling slowly closes the eyes of the soul. The body continues but the soul prepares for
rest, sooner the better.

Some fight to wrestle every drop out of life, others hibernate. I tore in half, wanting life
and wanting to leave it.

****

Another possibility for reincarnation presented itself after a long time of sweet nothing-
ness in the afterlife. Circumstances built on Earth that appealed to some incomplete
part of myself. My soul in that body had good potential.

*Iranian male, named Saeed. Would live a long and fruitful life and raise many children
and grandchildren. His wife from an arranged marriage would treat him pretty well. Life
would compensate in small comforts for what it lacked in passion. The main lesson to be
learned was that love can be found in little things, and so can God: a sunrise, a child’s
laughter, a good meal, a cherished friend.

After what I’d been through in the last life, this possibility presented appealing easiness.
No sudden violent deaths. Good health. Mostly pleasant days and nights surrounded by
strong family, which brings out the best in just about everyone. Almost a century of good
living, if I played my cards right, but something felt wrong. Some other soul should take
that turn on the Wheel and work out its own potential.

My soul had issues to resolve, still refusing any company in the afterlife and barely able
to tolerate my own.

Never think that death is the end, an escape. No, it is a continuation.

****

On the fifth day in The Hole, under constant assault from the howls and screams and
gibberish of prisoners tortured by isolation, I broke down. I could see Kara squarely in
my mind’s eye, tantalizingly near but quickly vanishing as my fingers reached out. Her
last words echoed: “Daddy? Please!” It was driving me nuts! I stopped eating, slept in
fits, dreamed of being chased by shadowy monsters, paced the steel box and stared va-
cantly at the walls. Only the regular meal deliveries and the cries of other inmates fur-
ther ahead on the insanity spectrum reminded me where I really was.

I’d always been the coolest cat, untouchable by fear or feeling. Lesser men cracked,
but I’d earned my tough exterior. Nothing got to me until Kara. Love finally touched my
heart. And broke it.

Once in prison for life, I’d devoted myself to the Brotherhood. Everything revolved around
white power and the struggle for racial purity. It all suddenly smelled like pig shit, unim-
portant, and worse: the sort of deception that involves personal complicity. Nothing mat-
tered. Not my “rank” and status in the gang; not my “wares” (once a drug dealer…); not
the respect I’d earned by taking the fall rather than ratting for a reduced sentence. Not
even the Brotherhood mattered.

So on the morning of the last day, when my so-called Brother (that scab on the ass of
humanity) stuck his snout through the food slot, I totally lost it. I’d questioned a lot of
assumptions during my isolation, eyes opened at least partially, and cringed at the truth
of what I’d become: Dead weight. Dead to myself, no longer fitting the world I knew be-
hind bars that had shaped me into a human caricature of an Aryan.

“You the man,” hissed the serpent behind the food slot. “Got all the blacks talking. Mexi-
cans too. They know who’s boss. Woulda been better to scrub your ass with that afro-
turfed skull. Dude! Who does blackie think he is, trying to take the daughter of a real
man?”

Out of my oddly lucid daze, I replied, “I hope they have a whole tribe of little kids that
take over your neighborhood and blare gangsta rap all night, living on your tax dollars
and drinking 40s in the street. In fact, I hope your pathetic little soul comes back as a
fat-ass African woman who eats fried chicken by the bucket and smacks her lips lick-
ing her fingers. You think I was mad because he’s black? I’m mad at myself, dig? And for
being locked up the rest of my days with a bunch of idiots who don’t know their asses
from a hole in the wall. While my daughter goes on to make a family without me. That’s
why I went off in the visitor room,” my voice echoed down the corridor for all in solitary
to hear. “And you’re a fucking idiot. Get out of my sight.”

“To think you were voted into the leadership while locked up in here,” spat the serpen-
tine voice. “Unanimous too. The Brothers told me not to say nothing before you’re let
back in population tomorrow; supposed to be a surprise. Some surprise. A new vote is
needed, I think the Brothers will agree. We were going to show the blacks our unity, but
instead you just bought yourself a ticket to Hell... Brother!”

****

My soul’s regrets must have been causing ripples in the afterlife, because the Teacher
showed up again and sent a thought: “You wanted to see your daughter, here’s your
chance. Each soul has its own tone, the frequency at which it vibrates. Listen for Kara.
You’ll find her, but you can only observe. She’s dreaming earthly life and can’t be dis-
turbed.”

I did as instructed and found Kara and Tyrone together, after some practice at attuning
rather than seeing. It was Christmas Eve. I hovered nearby, so close to want to touch
her, but remembered the instruction to remain in the background. I wasn’t the only one.
Many souls hung about for various reasons, mostly out of kindness and desire to help,
some just to listen.

Tyrone, now her husband, sang the sweetest tune, with Kara harmonizing. I knew in-
stinctively that he’d make a name for himself as a singer. Good for him. Good for both of
them!

She sat happily on the floor reclined between his legs. He placed a hand on her belly and
smiled broadly while finishing a song about the birth of a blessed child long ago in Beth-
lehem. A new life grew in her womb, they’d just found out. Still early in the pregnancy,
but a fetus lived within her, I sensed. Its destiny being written. Its lessons to be learned.

“If the baby is a boy, maybe he’ll look like my dad,” Kara said hopefully.

Tyrone quipped, “Oh yeah, with my spiky black hair to boot!”

They laughed together, clear and happy but with a touch of sadness. She still mourned
the loss of the father she barely knew. Arranged with other family photos, they had a
picture of me from before I’d done hard-time, when some happiness remained in my eyes
and my skin wasn’t completely inked. With the closure I needed, I could move on.

****

The door crashed open after the seventh day of solitary, leading from a small steel box to
a really big one holding thousands of prisoners. A guard escorted me back to the ward. I
normally would’ve bantered with him to establish future trust and maybe get a favor, but
an old, dead layer had been peeled away, and a strange sort of clarity slowed down time.
I might as well have been walking on the moon.

Everyone from the ward was at chow, so I went to the dining hall, not really hungry in
body but famished in soul. Hard looks shot my way at the entrance, especially from the
blacks. Hungry for the kill, their gleaming eyes said I was a marked man. I grabbed a
tray, worked through the food line and came to the point of no return.

The Brothers were sitting together at their usual table like hyenas watching me. If I sat
down with them I could explain what I’d said in The Hole as a momentary lapse, not
uncommon under the circumstances. I could turn it all around and accuse the jackass
junior Brother of trying to take me down. I’d take him down first, easily, dead before the
end of the hour. He sat right there at the table; I smelled the fear behind his sneer. I
could go back to the old routine and maybe even run the Brotherhood, if I played it right.
If instead I walked away and sat down at another table, I would be known instantly as
the dead man. The Brotherhood is a lifetime commitment. They weren’t going anywhere
except under the dirt of the prison cemetery.

I approached the table with food tray in hand. My seat was open but I didn’t sit, instead
stared at them, thinking: Had I really learned anything? Temptation is a bitch that never
goes away. Even knowing the siren’s call, the water beckons. Finally the head of the
Brotherhood, mountainous and covered in green tattoos and battle scars, said, “You care
to explain yourself? I hear you’re losing faith.”

Words echoed in my mind: “faith,” “explain.” The scene appeared so totally unreal I al-
most laughed, as if my mind was detached from my body and remembered the scene like
something ridiculous that happened long ago.

“What do you know of faith?” I retorted. “To explain myself to you means I give a shit
about your opinion.”

I wanted to say more; tell them that their Brotherhood is a child’s game for adults and
their ideology a cover for childish fear. But I knew it would only give them a reason to
hate me and justify away the symbolism of what I was about to do. I could have the most
impact by just walking away. Which I did, feeling like a free man.

I ate alone under the stares of the whites, blacks, and Mexicans, fiddling with my food
until the dining hall closed. The loudspeaker announced roll call in five minutes. Time
to get back to my cell. I took my tray to the dish window and tossed the silverware into
a bin of blue sudsy water. A guard lackadaisically watched me to make sure I’d returned
everything that could be used as a weapon, and I exited the dining hall. Last one out.
“Roll call in three minutes. Move it ladies!” blared the loudspeaker.

I didn’t care if I was late. What could they do to me? More time in The Hole would have
been a blessing.

I passed a group of blacks on work detail in the corridor outside the dining hall. The
floor was wet and shiny from their mopping, reflecting sunlight streaming through high,
barred windows. I normally would’ve strutted right down the middle while dragging my
feet, but instead walked to the edge, respecting their work.

I didn’t see the shank or who shoved it expertly up under my ribs and left it. Didn’t even
really feel the blade. A sharp bite and I fell on the shiny floor, alone, diaphragm frozen,
heart racing, each attempt at breathing causing a hot rip near my sternum. I thought,
“Relax, you can live through this. Someone will notice.” But suddenly I didn’t want to
delay the inevitable. Death seemed better.

It didn’t take long. My soul saw the Light, felt the Teacher, popped out of that body and
escaped the place I could never leave alive.

****

The Teacher was silent and so was I. I didn’t mind his presence. The haunting restless-
ness finally settled. We reviewed my life, and I learned that even the harshest moments
served a purpose. I was “bad,” immature, and could be forgiven for the way I adapted
to my environment, even for the lives that I harmed or destroyed. But I still longed for
my Kara. As little as I’d really known her, the potential for love was real. Our souls pos-
sessed a special connection, like two voices joined perfectly, to learn and laugh and love
together and grow into better beings, better able to use the potential in every life.

Said the Teacher, “A child will soon be born and live for 19 good years before taken sud-
denly. The parents are loving. Their son will be cherished, and will bring great joy to
their lives.”

That got my interest. “Sounds promising. Tell me more about them.”

“You already know.”

And I did, suddenly, know all about that new life and its potential. The parents were
Kara and Tyrone. She would soon give birth. I’d assumed the opportunity to be her son
was reserved for a better soul, but realized there is no better or worse, just incomplete.

“Who is to say I’m right for them? Don’t they have some say?” I asked.

The teacher answered, “The soul chooses the parents. This life will bring balance, so that
you can all evolve and join the One, painting your uniqueness onto the eternal canvas.”

I hesitated but the decision was already made. The Wheel turned, and time had come to
jump back on for another ride.
Time to come full circle.

####

To read more great fiction from J.M. DeBord, please visit his Amazon author page at
http://www.amazon.com/J.M.-DeBord/e/B003O9GSL4 Or visit his blog at http://
groovywriter.com