In the Future, Genocide Will Be Voluntary
A short story inspired by Canada
When I got home, everything was gone. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Not a piece of clothing, not a dish, not even the toilet bowl brush. Empty. And after they got rid of all my stuff, they must have given the place a deep, thorough cleaning because there wasn’t even a speck of dust in the corners of my closets. Not a trace of me, not even my filth, remained. There was no evidence I ever lived in this apartment other than the key I held in my hand, which now felt criminal to hold because it would only be a matter of minutes before the building superintendent would realize I was here and demand the key back.
I didn’t want the confrontation. I felt ashamed it had come to this and I didn’t even want to be in my own skin, much less look somebody else in the eye. I put the key in the lock one last time and left it there. I used the stairs to leave the building to avoid running into anybody in the elevator. All I wanted to do was go somewhere to be by myself and hide, but I had nowhere I could do that. The only place for me was outside, where I had no choice about the temperature or the people, or the noise. But that would have to do.
I exited the building through the back way that leads to the alley with the dumpster. It was full and all my things were in there, at the top of the garbage heap. Even if I wanted to get some of my things back, I’d have to climb into the dumpster to get them. But I knew I had to let all my things go. I had to let everything go.
How did I get to this point? It’s such a cliche, overdone story, I’m embarrassed to tell you because how in the hell could anybody do the same mistakes so many other people have already done? Well, it starts with a drink and a little depression, then a few more drinks which lead to more depression and some rage mixed in for good measure, then you become such an asshole that your wife leaves you then you become so drunk you can’t do your job, and before you know it, you’re looking at all your belongings at the top of a dumpster in the alley behind the apartment building you got kicked out of because you don’t have a dollar to your name. There, I saved you some time. I am indeed just one more fuck-up and I won’t be the last.
But now, I’m also just one more person on the streets. I had been walking the city for hours, feeling like a ghost nobody sees, floating, nothing. I saw other people, though. I looked into their eyes, saw their wide smiles and their tightly-closed lips, faces of happiness and concern and fatigue and fear. Everyone seemed to have a reason for being where they were and a place to go where they would have more reasons to be where they were. I knew I was supposed to feel like I wanted those reasons, too. But that desire burned out of me a long time ago. I hadn’t had a reason for anything in a long time, and I got used to it. All I wanted now was to lie down somewhere.
I walked into a park that only had a few dim lamposts scattered about. It was dark now and the lights only illuminated the area directly under them. I instinctively looked for somewhere to lie down near the light, I assume to keep myself safe. I laughed at that instinct of self-preservation that apparently still lived inside of me. If only I had more than an animal’s sense of self-preservation, maybe I would have never gotten into this situation. It all made me feel numb and tired. I needed sleep.
I spotted a bench just outside the lamppost’s lighted area and went to it. I wanted to lie down, but there was a divider in the middle of the bench. I sat down on one side and lifted my legs over the divider, thinking maybe I could sleep with my knees up, but my back was too long and I had to lift my as up a little to fit the upper portion of my body in the seat. This wasn’t going to work, but I needed sleep. My body was worn out and unable to keep moving.
I lay down on the pavement and stretched out flat on my back. The pavement was cold and rough, but taking the pressure off my body felt good. I closed my eyes and, with my mind blank and jaded, I fell asleep instantly - but not for long. I dreamt I was drowning and could see my wife and kids above the water, looking down at me. Their faces were still and emotionless, but in the dream, I knew they were glad to see me go - not maliciously, but mercifully. I understood this in the dream- and I was at peace with that.
I felt my last breath and then woke up in a fetal position, with the taste of dirt and cigarette ash in my mouth. I had been sleeping on an old cigarette butt that had been stepped on I sat up and pulled myself onto the bench. My head felt like how one’s stomach feels when they’re about to vomit, and for the first time in a long time I had a real desire: to purge my head of everything inside it. The image of my ex-wife and kids looking down at me, the embarrassment last year when I came to work drunk and got fired from my job - all my co-workers looking at me with condescending concern, the knowledge that I did everything to myself and have only myself to blame, that I failed myself and was too damn stupid to find a way out. I wanted to get everything out of my head - everything. T
The sun was just starting to come up. I must have only slept two hours, if that. But lack of sleep was something I was used to. If I didn’t black myself out drinking, I could only shut my brain down for the length of a movie. I knew the lack of good sleep was killing me faster than probably anything else. Sleep was something I would sometimes fantasize about during the day. Just sit there thinking about how lying in a big, soft bed covered in pristine sheets, in a white, spotless, silent room - me laying there with a little smile on my face, in deep, beautiful sleep. Something I could never attain. But that’s what I most wanted. That was the only thing I had a desire for: Deep, deep sleep.
There was an option. It was something I had avoided thinking much about out of a misplaced hope that my situation would improve. But now that I was, indeed, at rock bottom, quite literally with pebbles from the cement ground sticking into the back of my head, it was time to consider medically-assisted suicide.
MAS had become more common in recent years as the government spent billions on advertising to destigmatize the process. And it seemed to work. The advertisements were everywhere people towards the bottom of the socio-economic ladder would see them - bus stops, subway stations, liquor store windows (never win store windows) - usually with happy people of various ages and races depicted in warm, glowing light, as if they are basking in the warmth of a God we all want to believe in during these circumstances, one last shot of happiness, albeit in a world that we don’t know exists. And this was always my hang-up about MAS; I didn’t have any idea what happens after death. Nobody knows for sure, but many firmly believe in something, usually either a heaven, hell, or absolutely nothing.
The idea of nothing scared me. I never knew how atheists could be so certain in nothing happening. You just cease to be and that’s it. But it did seem appealing. More than hel, of course, but also, in a way, more than a heaven, where I would presumably still be me. I would still have my memories of all my insecurities and self-disgust. That’s why the idea of heaven never made much sense to me. Humans aren’t meant to live in eternal bliss. We’re creatures who are dependent on conflict. Maybe in a heaven, we all attain some kind of heightened enlightenment that frees us from all our mental duress. But you’re gonna tell me that everyone gets this? That’s just hard to imagine. A 40-year-old with Down’s Syndrome gets the same enlightenment as a Buddhist monk or a serial killer who accepts Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior? Heaven never made much sense to me, but hell did. I was just more inclined to believe that, if there was an afterlife, it would be incredibly painful in ways we can’t even comprehend since that would be more in line with the way the universe is: cold, distant, dangerous, and emotionlessly cruel.
Because I was broke, I had to walk the three miles to the MAS Center. But I welcomed the opportunity to think about what I was doing, to see if I might change my mind. Maybe this long walk down the plank would be the kick I needed to get my life together. Maybe I’d discover that not only was life worth living, but I had the fire in my belly to really make something out of this precious gift I had neglected for the past 42 years.
But by the time I arrived at the MAS Center, that didn’t happen. I felt the same way I had felt for the past several years, only now I had a feeling of certainty that could even be interpreted, sadistically, as a sort of confidence. I wanted to die because I was tired of trying. And that feeling was valid, even common - or else there wouldn’t be a Medical Assisted Suicide Center right here in the middle of the city, helping people achieve their dreams at low or no cost, depending on your income level.
When I walked in the door, I was confused by how slick the main offices looked. This didn’t look like an office or even a hospital. It looked like a hip lounge where you can come in with a laptop to have a cappuccino and wifi. It even had music - some sort of cheerful ambient techno played quietly enough for you to have an intimate conversation.
I was greeted by a pretty 20-something with alabastrine skin, elegantly flowing brown hair, and bright red lipstick. She had the kind of look that gives any place a sense of class and style. This was a cool thing to do and you were cool for doing it. Women like her don’t exist at places that aren’t classy and stylish. And now you, too, can be one of the beautiful ones.
She beamed a bright, heartwarming smile and passed me a thin stack of paper.
“Welcome to the MAS Center, sir. We are so happy you could join us,” she said. “Have a seat right over there and please fill out these forms. Would you like anything to drink?”
I asked for the cappuccino and took a seat on a neon green faux leather chair. The whole perky welcome thing seemed odd to me. I had expected something more somber and understanding, like going into a funeral home to make arrangements for your recently departed loved one. But it made sense. Why pander to people who are at the lowest point of their life? Of course, some might say the MAS Center risked mocking their clients, too. But to that, I would contend that if you still have enough pride to feel bad about being mocked, maybe you’re not ready to take this step. And I most certainly was. So I sipped my cappuccino and filled out the forms, which were printed on beautifully textured paper, like an invitation to a fancy party.
After completing the bureaucratic necessities, two more beautiful young women escorted me to a large conference room with around 200 other people already sitting down and waiting. I found an empty seat and looked around. The crowd was mostly men of various ages and races, but if there was a mean, I’d guess I was it: 40-something man, tired, disheveled, worn-down, with a look in his eyes that screamed failure and lost opportunity. We were the men for whom there wasn’t anything in the world today. We were not intelligent enough to excel in the technology economy. We were too soft for physical labor and too masculine for the services industry. We had once believed wholeheartedly what society told us - get some education and you’ll be able to do well. That firm belief is what made our fall so hard. If we didn’t believe it, we might have been able to adjust. But when you build up an ego so high, it will break when it falls. We fell and we broke and there was no use for us anymore. We were no good for the economy, and therefore no good for social relationships. With seven billion people in the world, of course there will be some who are of no use. We were the waste and now we would be discarded. The simplicity of this made me feel at ease and I had no shame about it. If anything, it was just math. A little unlucky, sure. But a shrug, nonetheless.
To make sure everyone felt good about their decision to kill themselves, the MAS Center brought out a public health and suicidology expert named Dr. Robert Cones. Much like the other employees at the MAS Center, Cones looked like a perfect human being: 6’2”, lean muscular body, tan skin, and a radiant smile that conveyed empathy, not arrogance. As he spoke, it felt like he was talking to each of us individually, like he was getting to personally know us and vice versa.
“Everyone in this room has had a life full of emotions, memories, friendships - all the things a person experiences throughout their life,” he said. “You’ve been on a path that has seen ups and downs, and now you have chosen to get off that path. Well, we here at the Medically-Assisted Suicide Center applaud you for taking this brave step. You are making a decision that is completely yours, and that is personal to you. And you should be proud for taking ownership of your life and deciding what is best for you.”
Several men in the room nodded in agreement - not enthusiastic nods, but subtle little repeated bows as if they were in a trance and being told something they didn’t understand but wanted to. This was the purpose of Dr. Cones’ speech - to make sure everyone knew that they were in charge and this was their decision, not the rest of society that had no use for them and was better off without them.
After Cones finished his speech, he exited the room. We heard the doors lock before a loud hissing sound filled the room. An orange gas began pouring down from various spouts hanging from the ceiling. The gas acted fast and I felt an intense euphoria. My body became so weak that I just fell over, onto the man sitting next to me, who fell down, too. I was on the ground, with several other men around me who had also fallen off their chairs. Nobody could speak. A few moaned with exhausted pleasure. Nobody complained. We were there voluntarily and were happy to go.