Last Words Incorporated

By SarahPerlmutter

"Hello! Welcome to Last Words Incorporated. Are you here to check-in or visit?" the young woman behind the glossy counter asks you.

"Check-in," you say, pulling out your checkbook and a pen. You sign away the last of your life's savings, and hand it over with a meek, "Here's what I owe."

"Great!" The woman's voice is too squeaky for you. Young people are always straining your ears these days. It seems they're always fighting for the opportunity to be heard over the noisy world. That was part of the appeal of Last Words Incorporated for you: It's only focused on the noise from your life that was most important.

The woman checks the screen embedded in the polished counter in front of her, and reads your name. "Is that you?" she asks with a smile.

You nod, as a rush of nerves fill your weary flesh. I can't do this, you think to yourself. You had been so confident before coming that this was your time, but now you wonder whether or not you still have a few more good years in you. But then you remember the insidious disease invading your bones, eating away at your life before you even turn seventy-five. You know you can't fight the disease, so this is your best option. Besides, you already made up your mind, put down your $1000.00 deposit, and alerted your children to make plans for visitation.

You take a deep breath and follow the smiling woman past the counter, down a long hall of rooms. Your bones ache as you move. Yes, it's time, you think. It's time for you to be memorialized for your family before the disease has a chance to eat away at your legacy too.

She takes you to the last room on the left, opens it, and gestures for you to enter. "The last rites specialist will be with you shortly," she says, closing the door.

You are left alone in the last rites room. You read about this online. It looks exactly as it did in pictures, right down to the various artifacts from religions around the world, the mood lighting, and the long, plastic bed around all the equipment.

A faint knock at the door sounds and then a tanned older man with a fluffy white beard enters the room. He, too, is smiling. "My name is Ron, nice to meet you," he says, stretching a hand to yours. "Are you ready for your last rites?"

You nod. "I am."

"Excellent," he grins. "Now lay back." You sit on the bed and do as he instructs. The lights dim. "Which last rites would you prefer? We offer a wide variety."

"Do you have any that are just as a sort of goodbye?" you ask.

"Of course."

Just then, you feel a sharp prick on the top of your right hand. You squeal from the painful surprise.

"You have lived a long and beautiful life. You will be remembered by those you leave behind. You have done all you could in your time and you are dying with dignity. It is a pleasure to wish you well now."

As he speaks, you feel a cool current through your veins. Another prick pinches your left hand, and warm liquid begins to drip down the surface of your skin. "Stop," you urge him. The coolness pauses, as does the dripping of your blood down your flesh. "Explain it to me again."

"Last Words Incorporated allows you to choose everlasting life," he says, reciting the official pitch you recognize from the brochures. "With our sustaining liquid coursing through your veins, your body is able to continue functioning long after your soul leaves you. In a moment, I will hook the brain scanning equipment to your temples. This will allow me to scan through your memories and find the phrase you said the most in your life. This will be the last words that your body will be programmed to repeat as your memorial."

A tear streams down your cheek. There's no turning back now. For once, you know you can do this. "What if my most repeated phrase isn't good?"

"We have leveled rooms. We have the Profound Room, the Ordinary Room, and the Snippet Room. Have you been practicing your last words?"

You nod again. You couldn't think of anything more profound than "so long," but you figure that should be enough.

"Then you shouldn't worry. Unless, of course, you said another phrase more in your life. Are you ready to continue?"

You nod and take the opportunity to wipe the tears from your cheeks with your bloodless hand. The cooling sensation flows once more and Ron plugs the nods to your temples.

You close your eyes, your brain suddenly too busy with thought to allow any other stimulation. Your life flashes before you as the procedure continues. Your breath slows. Your heart freezes. You realize now that all the memories you see before you were times when you gave up, and a single phrase repeats across them all. My goodness, you gave up on yourself a lot.

You want to yell for Ron to stop—this isn't the phrase you meant to practice—but you're too far gone to speak now. Your body is stuck in place as you detach from it. Darkness consumes you. Then, everything stops.

***

A man wheels a memorialized body into the Snippet Room, headphones in his ears to drown out the sounds of pointless jabber.

"Nobody loves me," one body repeats.

"I don't deserve that," another says.

"I'm ugly," a woman repeats.

The man, bobbing to the music playing in his ears, sets the new body up and leaves it to eternally repeat its phrase: "I can't."

Maybe their family will come and release them from their loop before the thousand years are up, the man thinks as he leaves the room in darkness. But it's not likely. The bodies in the Snippets Room rarely have visitors.