This blog was written as part of a writing exercise sponsored by @f3nix. The idea is to finish a story begun by another author. In this case, the author is @calluna. Although I love to write, I think my fiction tends to be rather spare. Doesn't matter how many words I start with, I always pare it down so that it's skeletal. I think that happened here, again.
That's OK. This was a great exercise and I'm happy I joined in. Thanks @f3nix and @calluna. Here's the story, begun by @calluna, and finished, sparely, by me :)
Source: Pixabay
Quitting Life
She picked up a resignation form today. She had been thinking about it for a while, handing in her notice, taking her last year. Every day is just the same, different faces, different flavours, but underneath, it was all the same. Was there any point in the endless forward march, the slow decline into ill health, unemployment and poverty? She didn’t have children, no friends who came to visit, and it was at least three years since her last match.
She sat on the corner of her single bed, in her single room, the thin long window illuminating the bare floor. She pushed a loose strand of mousy blonde hair behind her ear, and picking at her thumb, she wandered in thought.
She could travel, she could see the ocean, she could stand beneath trees, she could sit in silence. For one year. It was as good as it got, some people only got 6 months. But was she ready?
She couldn’t keep going, not like this. She had seen the lifers, the people who worked for 65 years and collapsed, decrepit, into the hands of hapless, half-hearted “help”. She had even been that half-hearted, hapless help, she had worked for minimum wage, clearing up bodily fluids, spoon feeding, doing what she could, but it destroyed you, seeing all your future had to offer.
A lot of people who worked there handed in their notice; you had to do it between 40 and 55 to get the year. Some people applied for special circumstances after 55, but generally they got less time.
She was 47. A lot could change in her life still. She could meet someone, she could have children, grandchildren, she could grow old. Couldn’t she…? Did she want to? She turned it over in her mind. She had accepted a lot in her life, but she just couldn’t face the rest of her life, playing out, day by slow dragging, hardworking, lonely, day. Night after empty, starless night. If she took her year, she could get away from the cities and their thick rank pollution. She could escape the crush of the masses, the regimented flow of preoccupied people. Her parents took her to a forest once, before the regulations changed, and closing her eyes, she could almost hear the hushed whisper of branches, almost feel the dappled sunlight on her upturned face. Almost. She opened her eyes, was there ever really any question? She had dreamed of it for as long as she could remember, and in that moment, she realised, she was always going to quit, it was never a question of did she want to, just when. Was she ready?
She flopped back onto her bed, bouncing back against the overly springy mattress. Relief coursed through her. She was going to quit, maybe not today, but she would do it. The digital display in the wall flashed, green numbers ticking over, 23:00. Instinctively, she felt around her bedside tablet, and pressing the button, retrieved her small blue pill. Blue before bed, white before work. It dissolved on her tongue, and she felt the thoughtless relaxation wash over her.
The next morning, she woke before her alarm had chance to rouse her. She stood at the window, watching the constant ebb and flow of people and traffic, the living city beneath her never slept. Her resolve had only hardened overnight, it felt right. She retrieved the form. She would quit. She would take the year. One good year, then call it quits.
My Idea of How It Might End
Her pulse quickened. The year, nearly gone. A final countdown flashed on her wall.
23:00
60 minutes left...
Calm. Lotus position. Palms up. Deep breaths.
23:02
Fifty-eight minutes left...
Had she spent her time well? Had she traded wisely? A dreary existence, with little hope, exchanged for one year of comfort. And no hope.
In exactly fifty-eight minutes a red pill would drop from the dispensary. She would place it in her mouth. Her part of the Contract would be fulfilled. The sentry at the door was the Company's guarantee she would follow through on her promise.
23:10
50 minutes left....
She reflected on the first moments under Contract. Regret was immediate. They took her away, and put her in segregation. Everyone with her, except the sentries, had signed the Contract. That should have created a bond between them. But this didn't happen. It was as though their decision to break with life constituted a commitment to isolation.
All contractees could fill their leisure hours as they wished. Except for the last instant of the last day, when accounts would be settled.
There was work, two hours of light duty daily, on a rotating schedule. The job was simple: mix compounds, package the blue and white pills.
No need for blue or white pills here. Just the one red pill, at the End.
23:27
33 minutes....
She gazed out the broad window to the green lawn, and the grove beyond. Every morning for the last year she had smelled wildflowers from that window. Sometimes deer and white-tailed rabbits would come close enough for her to see the tremor of their whiskers, the trail of their breath in the morning chill.
Before, she had never experienced the exquisite beauty of life. Now, the realization of it was an intolerable ache, for she had signed everything away.
23:40
20 minutes...
She looked in the mirror opposite her bed and regarded her stringy hair, soft chin, droopy eyelids. She felt the most wrenching affection for each feature that distinguished her from all other living things. This was one gift she had not expected from the Contract. The love for being, for herself as she was.
23:46
14 minutes...
She glanced out the window one more time. If there was a place afterwards, if impressions lingered, this is the memory she wanted to carry with her. The window, and the life it offered.
23:55...
The red pill fell into her hand.
23:57.... :58.... :59....
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