Death Doula by K. Hartless

Lambskin gloves. A fresh pair for each new soul. My gentle fingers have guided many spirits through the bloody canal of death into the afterlife. Souls misaligned, uncertain, and in need of adjustments, assurances, a Death Doula’s gloved hands are the perfect captains.

I stand under neon lights in a five-star kitchen watching a master chef dice his latest delicacy with a sharpened knife. A cobra head opens and closes on the counter. Although it was severed from its body over twenty minutes ago, reflex action means it’s capable of administering a fatal bite. When the chef disposes of it, short, front fangs take their revenge.

Most beings are comfortable in the wombs of their lives, unwilling to transition, and it is my job to love them through it. Neurotoxins are swift. Within minutes, the chef writhes on the kitchen floor, suffocating. Hi snake stew will simmer long after his last breaths are released.

At first, I stand over the soul trapped within its fresh corpse. My gossamer gown tickles the spirit awake. The afterlife is too bright at first, so I lean in close to let the squinting spirit’s questions flow freely towards my silk-framed face.

I am aware that in that first moment, I am as close to a god as I will ever be.

“Am I dead?” Always the first question. 

“Indeed, chef. You are more than dead. You are about to be reborn.” I fan my gown further to create the illusion of a cascade of light. It’s what most souls expect, and I find the sensation soothes them.

“So, is this heaven?” a popular second. 

“No, I’m afraid there is no such place.” I laugh because it is heavenly to see a newborn soul try and grasp the afterlife, like a baby discovering a rattle, and I am the patient mama guiding its fingers.

“Is this hell?” This one is debatable, but I keep this to myself. After all, fledgling spirits can’ be expected to comprehend the nuances of eternal suffering and punishment.

“No, this is a crossroads. Think of it as a meeting of streams. And your brook is here to meet with the wider stream already in existence. Exciting, no?”
            I’ll admit at this point, some souls shut off. A switch flips, their energy sated. Spirits such as these go limp as dish rags, and I perform the necessary cuts to free their spirits from their bodies so that they drift down the canal, bobbing barrels steering themselves towards their next destination, whatever that might be.

As payment, I rip out an eye out from its socket and gaze into the kaleidoscopic cornea. I follow the maze in each eye to lead me to the next patient.

 Of course, other times such as this, a soul reaches out, grasping, searching for that rattle with both hands.

“Join me in a dance between realms,” I say to the chef, and as I like to start things off casually, I offer a gloved hand. Most take it. Rise from their bodies. They want to be wooed into the afterlife not pushed off its escarpment, and after a few missteps, the chef and I find a rhythm and can proceed.

“Heaven and hell reside within each of us,” I confide. “Come, you’re free of the burden of your body; let us celebrate.” Above simmering pots, the flames of the stove, we are airborne. Moments as precious as first steps. Thoughts as treasured as first words.
            A Death Doula must be intuitive. The recently deceased have endured a special kind of trauma and require a personal touch. In some ways, each passing is akin to a violent abduction.

The chef tests his limits and reaches for a beloved knife mid-waltz.

“No, those tools are of the past.” I tell the grieving soul as he looks with longing at his workstation.

My patients are sick, in their own way. They grasp at doorknobs, try to sit on toilets, and attempt to drive cars. None of these tasks are possible, nor are they necessary.

As the soul’s gemstone eyes adjust to the afterlife, I come into focus. The light of the first moment revealed to be garments of the darkest wine, deeper than the blackness of the most distant universe. I use my gloves to massage the chef into a suggestive state.

I will not leave until I help the spirit to normalize. Even if it means that together we must suffer through each of the stages of grief from anger to sadness to release.

Once we have mingled, I reach into the soul’s memories to extract scents of bliss. Fresh baked bread, cardamom seeds reminiscent of baked apple pie, and the nutty aroma of roasted garlic.

With a wave of my hand, fragrant candles in those fragrances appear, as well as aromatic herbs wrapped in mesh cloth. I pull a rare Bulldog Bat skull from inside my gown and hold it before the chef, swing the sacred animal left to right in a hypnotic rhythm. Once the soul’s in a trance, I make my first request.

“Say your prayers,” I tell it. And when the soul starts in on whatever religious verse they have known in their previous existence, I promptly interrupt.

“No. Not those prayers. Say your naughty prayers. Tell me your darkest secrets.”

My job is simple: listen to the confession of every evil thought as it oozes from the soul in a thick roux.

            “In fourth grade, I stuck peanut butter in my sister’s hair. Mashed it so bad they had to cut most of her locks off.” 
            I admit it. This marinade of misdeeds amuses me, and I reenact scenes to help the soul clear its conscious.

            “Like this? I say and I smush a sticky substance into the spirit’s hair making sure to mess it in good. “What a wicked thing you did. Now, you will never be able to remove this gooey mess from your being. You will wear it forever.”

            Other times, retribution isn’t atonement enough, and I am called on to inflict a higher level of pain to free the soul from their darkest deeds.

            “That’s when I took her. Behind the bar. Sure, she said no, but I just covered her mouth until the screaming stopped.”

            In times like this, I’m partial to my cat-o’-nine-tails, a multi-tasker with bits of glass on its tips. The instrument seems to send most souls screaming and it takes fewer overall strikes to clear their conscious once and for all.

            Dark fantasies must sometimes be fulfilled. Souls will pray for the deeds they didn’t dare to act upon in their physical lives. I bend to whatever positions are needed to make them comfortable with their own deaths. Nothing is taboo; we are spirits, after all. Through the chef’s eye, I spy a new client, a nature lover.  
            Pine tree candles burn around us in an illusion of forestry. I suck mud from the soul’s ten cold toes. Each one completely coated. Foot fetishes are wildly popular, though I must admit the addition of the mud is an unexpected twist.

This client’s love dart swells ready to penetrate and release, better yet it is surprised when I move aside my own gown to reveal a larger love dart of my own. We will chase each other through this forest he’s created in his mind, both hunter and prey, looking to see who will penetrate first. And yet the spirit knows it will be me, and soon it will be stilled into complete ecstasy, ready to be cut free and sent down stream.

Through the emerald maze of his eye, I am left beside a body starved in life. So many souls harbor the heavy guilt of wrongdoings, and it is my job to help them release these burdens. “Give me your naughty prayers.” I command when the petite soul is fully entranced. It’s reply is poetic.

“Now I lay me down to death, I pray for chains, and whips, and sweat.”

 I will make it a rag doll. Wait till its neck is limp from hours of chain. This one unable to let go until it is beaten into peace.

Other souls are stiff. They never relaxed in life, and they’ve never been nurtured. It is my job to soothe them to a release. Positions of ecstasy they never knew among the living, and I have experienced them all. I sprinkle sandalwood dust over these weary souls and start my gloved rub downs. They will need to be grounded to grow into their new lives and when contractions of ecstasy begin, I pause to ride the waves of their tremoring.

Despite centuries of servitude, I am pleased to report that no two releases have been the same. I strive for tranquil transitions, and in return, I get to play a game of hide and seek, as I tuck a snippet of my own soul into each spirit before it floats away.

I can never travel down the river after them, as I was dead before my birth, trapped in an in-between state, and the tiny pieces of my preformed presence I stowaway inside of each of their souls are all of me that will ever escape.

Before I can gaze into the mirror ball of an eye, another soul latches on, and I use its memories to conjure a loved one’s figure to send it to paradise as a final goodbye. My spirit weakens, as I help another soul to simply let go.

K. Hartless

K.Hartless is a persistent poet and eclectic fiction writer who enjoys penning fantasy, science-fiction, and horror while traveling the world. She's recently been published in Luna Station Quarterly, Echoes & Whispers, and HOW. Check out her Yardsale of Thoughts at khartless.com or follow her haiku habit on Twitter @hartless_k.