A Short Film About Dying

They said there was nothing they could do for him. At eighty-five years old, R. had just completed his useful working life cycle and must leave his post with immediate effect. Legally, they could no longer let him continue with his administrative duties at the Ministry.

“But I’m in perfectly good health,” he had argued. “You need only look at the results of my last medical.”

But the Terminations Officer, a prim, upright, immaculately dressed young woman with her hair scraped back into a neat bun, looked singularly unimpressed.

“Granted, your eyesight is exceptional for a functionary of your age, as are your blood pressure and cholesterol levels. Heart rate is strong. You have had no significant health problems throughout your useful working life cycle. Nor is there any history of serious illness in your family. Functionaries ten or even twenty years your junior would be delighted to have results like yours. Unfortunately, we have restrictions in place to serve the wider populace.”

“But I’m simply not in a financial position to retire.”

“You need some assistance?” Her nostrils twitched, as if she had caught the scent of something unpleasant. She tapped a few keys on her computer keyboard. “But from the looks of your employment history, you’ve only been with the Ministry for fourteen years. Not nearly long enough to be eligible for a pension. More to the point, your early records are incomplete. For instance, what were you doing between the years of 2018 and 2043?”

“I dedicated my early years to the arts.”

“The what?”

“I didn’t go down a traditional career path. I traveled a lot, never stayed in one place for too long.”

“I’m not sure I quite understand. But with these gaping holes in your records and insufficient state contributions to receive even a small monthly stipend from the government, you’re in an unenviable position.”

“But couldn’t you make an exception?”

She shook her head. “Out of the question. As far as the Terminations Department is concerned, there really is nothing else I can do for you. You can no longer legally work in any capacity. Your final salary has been paid in full and your records amended accordingly.

“If you wish to apply for financial assistance, you’ll have to visit the Appeals Department. I doubt they’ll be able to help you, but they’ll be much better briefed than I am regarding your options.”

“And where is that? In this building?”

“Of course. Floor 201. You can take the elevator from just along the corridor.” She attempted to smile, but it quickly collapsed into an uncomfortable grimace. “Before you leave, would you care to rate our interaction today?”

“Rate?”

“Yes. On a scale of one to ten, how satisfied have you been with the service I provided?”

“Service? I just came here to see where I stood in regards to keeping my job.”

“Affirmative. And did you receive the correct and most up-to-date information?”

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Therefore, you would rate the interaction as a ten?”

“A ten?”

“Thank you so much for your participation in the survey. Your score of ten has been added to my Personal Achievement file. Have a nice day.”

Feeling increasingly weary and dejected, R. took the lift up to the Appeals Department. All that talk about being fit and healthy and capable of continuing his work duties had been a lie. For many years, he had found it increasingly difficult to get out of bed each morning. A profound tiredness weighed on his shoulders like an immovable object. Routinely, he sneaked off to the storeroom for a nap. That he hadn’t been discovered was a miracle in itself, especially considering the number of supervisors that patrolled the main building and the number of cameras situated at the most ubiquitous of angles.

“Can we help you, sir?” asked one of the administrators stationed by the entranceway.

“I was referred here by the Terminations Department. I need some advice regarding my employment options following the end of my useful life cycle.”

“They referred you here?” He pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. “A little irregular, but I’m sure they had their reasons. Here.” He handed R. a small slip of paper with 1234 printed on it. “Take a seat over there.” He pointed to the packed waiting room. “Your number will be called in due course.”

R. managed to find one of only a handful of unoccupied seats among hundreds. All the other functionaries wore the standard blue coveralls, with a white identification tag affixed to the top pocket on the right-hand side. There was a mix of demographics. The one thing they all had in common, however, was the worry lines etched across their faces, an almost palpable sense of anxiety permeating through their hunched-over bodies. When R. took a seat, one young man with watery, mournful eyes made a vague yet hopeless gesture, a brief shrug of the shoulders and a deep intake of breath.

“We could be in for a long wait.”

When R. was first making his way in the world, he ignored all the well-meaning advice from his family and friends. While his contemporaries opted for safe, secure, if poorly paid positions at the Ministry, he had always wanted more from life. For over two decades, he traveled around the country. One summer, he worked on a farm, the next he busked in the city streets. The year after that, he offered his services as an artist in the capital city, drawing beautiful charcoal sketches of holidaymakers and day-trippers. But he never registered with the proper authorities. Back then, he thought he was being clever, ducking his financial responsibilities, never paying any taxes. Now, even though the standard pension system had been radically overhauled, he was seeing just how foolish that decision had been.
He couldn’t have said how much time passed. He kept a close eye on the clock on the main wall, watched the way the second hand slowly traversed the face. Sometimes, it appeared to stop or travel in the opposite direction, as if entrapping him in one tiny pocket of time. A moment replayed over and over again, a nothing moment, an empty, designated point between one unedifying event and the next.

“Number 1234.”

R. gave a start and looked down at the ticket in his hand: 1234. Getting to his feet, he walked over to the desk of the officer who had called out his number, a fresh-faced young man with a neat cropped haircut and bright, inquisitive eyes.

“Please, do take a seat. How can I proceed with your inquiry today?”

“I’ve just come from the Terminations Department. I’ve reached the age where I can no longer work, even though I’m willing and more than capable of continuing with my duties. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough state credits to be eligible for a pension. All of which means I have no way of providing for myself.”

“Not good.” The young man winced and shifted in his seat.

“Thankfully, you’re in the minority. After the last big state pension reforms, most conscientious citizens made their own private plans. Looking at your records, you would perhaps have been better staying off-grid and never contributing at all.”

“How’d you mean?”

“If we didn’t have a record of you, we could’ve housed you in a special facility. No picnic, but at least you’d have had a roof over your head and three-square meals a day. As you’re on file now, that’s not an option. Your one and only course of action would be to hand your apartment over to the Acquisitions Department. That way, you could free up some credits to give yourself a modicum of financial freedom.”

“But the apartment is all I have. It’s my home.”

R. sucked back a pang of genuine sadness. Twelve or thirteen years ago, just after he’d taken a job at the Ministry, he had an unlikely stroke of luck. The last of his living relatives had remembered him in a will – gifting him an apartment of shoebox proportions, but which had nonetheless served him well as a home ever since.

“The apartment might just be your saving grace.”

“I will have to sell it, you mean?”

“Sadly, yes. And I sympathize, really, I do. But your options are severely limited. You’ll be immediately arrested if you attempt to work. The state takes a dim view on anyone contravening regulations. With no living relatives, there’s no way you can generate any income to both feed yourself and pay your monthly bills.

“It’s a tough one, but at least you’ll no longer be a burden to yourself. The State will be happy to take the decision out of your hands. But our services don’t come cheap.”

“Sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.”

“It really is simple. I’ve just made the request on your behalf. If you go to the Acquisitions Department on Floor 301, you can complete the process.” He handed R. the same piece of paper he had received on entering the room. “Keep this number with you. It’s your own unique identifier now.”

Resigned to what was looking like an increasingly bleak fate, R. climbed into another elevator and rode the conveyance up to Floor 301. In contrast to the Appeals Department, there were only a dozen or so people sitting in a much smaller waiting room. Again, there was a mix of age groups present, but all the functionaries looked sickly and morose, as if they’d just been given a fatal prognosis from their general practitioner.

“What you in for, friend?” said a man of around the same age as R., who was clearly suffering from a terrible disease. The stench of decay clung to his clothes, hair, skin, the breath he exhaled as he spoke. “They stick the old requisition order into you, eh? A bad business. I used to work in the private sector. At one time, I was a wealthy man. But I never put nothing aside for a rainy day.”
Before he could further elaborate, a young woman at one of the advice booths pressed a buzzer and shouted out:

“Number 1562.”

“Ah, that’s me. Good luck, friend. I’ll see you on the other side, no doubt.”

R. watched him shuffle unsteadily over to the desk and take a seat. Getting old had never really worried him until recently. He had always associated the aging process with wisdom, and becoming the person he was always destined to be. Of course, there had been many missed opportunities, times when he could perhaps have become both a husband and a father. In particular, he remembered his relationship with Rose, the one woman who could genuinely be called the love of his life. He recalled how she used to admonish him for his stubborn ways. ‘You’ll regret this one day. You’ll end up with no pension and they’ll toss you into a pauper’s grave, or worse, leave you to rot at the side of the road.’ Rose was a fiery woman. Often, the intensity of her love literally took his breath away. Now, he couldn’t even remember why they had parted. But like everyone else – she had been right. And now he was having to face up to the consequences.

Lost in a fog of the past, it took a second call of his number before R. realized that his turn had come. Raising a hand to identify himself, he went over to the booth and took a seat opposite a serious, plain-faced woman in her mid to late thirties.

“Ah, yes, 1234. I have just received your file from my colleague in the Appeals Department. Before I explain the ins and outs of the process, I want you to know that you’re not alone. This is a big decision and the State is behind you one hundred percent.”

“Oh, right. Thank you. Although I’m not quite sure about the true implications of selling my apartment. But your colleague in Appeals gave me the impression that things have already been initiated.”

“That’s correct. I can finalize everything right this minute. Our system is flawless. If you would just provide your authorization, I’ll transfer the deed of your property to the State Holding Company. In a matter of seconds, your financial worries will be over.”

“But like I said, what does it involve, exactly? Would I have to rent an apartment and live off the proceeds of the sale?”
“Erm, not exactly, no.” She lowered her eyes and bit into her bottom lip. “This is rather awkward. I assumed that you’d been fully briefed on your options. To be perfectly honest, there is no way you can renege on our agreement now. You’re on Floor 301, after all. There’s no going back.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Put simply, you will receive sufficient funds to be swiftly and efficiently euthanized, at no extra cost to any dependents.”

“But I don’t have any dependents.”

“Great.” She grinned and raised both thumbs as if that was the most wonderful news. “All the better. The process is hands-free from here on out. In a few minutes, you’ll be escorted to the Assisted Dying Chamber and be given a pain-free injection to put an end to your life.”

“What?”

“Wonderful, isn’t it? You won’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll take care of everything on your behalf. So many people of your age group are taking up this option nowadays. Who wants to be frail and helpless, eh? Who wants to struggle to clean themselves and go to the toilet properly? No one. You’re a pioneer. You really are an inspiration to other functionaries. Once your working life is over, why wait around simply to die?

“And taking a look at your activity log today, the whole liquidation process has taken less than sixteen hours. Pretty impressive, eh? If you’d like to recommend the same service, do feel free to rank us on the government review website. It will only take a few seconds of your time.”

R. didn’t know what to say or do. He just sat there with his head lowered until two orderlies in white uniforms arrived and escorted him to the Liquidation Department.

“Number 1234?” said the receptionist. “We’ve been expecting you. If you’d like to follow me, we’ll prep you for your journey.”

R. was taken to a white-walled cubicle and told to lie down on the bed. From concealed speakers came the low strains of a classical piece of music R. recognized well. Clair de Lune by Debussy, a recording his uncle used to play time and again when he was a young boy. It had been such a long time since R. had heard music of any kind, other than the irritating and tinny electronic bleeps that sounded in the elevators and canteen. He completely lost all sense of time and place. He leaned back and hummed along softly to the beautiful soaring piano movements, which produced the most blissful of sensations. Every note sent a tingle of pleasure through his old, beaten, and weary body, making him feel young, and energized for the first time in many years.

“So glad you decided to take out a plan with us,” a nurse said as she entered the room, carrying a needle on a small metal dish. “You won’t regret it. We’re the number one facilitator of assisted death. You couldn’t be in better hands.”

Placing the tray on the bedside table, she picked up the needle and briefly studied the level of medication.
“Perfect. In a moment, you’ll feel a little scratching sensation. Nothing too painful, I assure you. Just close your eyes and drift away. Don’t fight it.”

In that one moment, when he felt the needle pierce his skin, R. experienced an odd sensation. Rather than seeing his whole life pass before his eyes—the many people who had populated his small part of the world, and the truly memorable things he had seen and done—all he could picture was his cramped work cubicle at the Ministry and a desk piled with thick, dusty files. The sum and parts of his true life experience perhaps, the last thing he thought about before the injection overwhelmed him and he breathed his last.