Currently Untrue By Burial see related

HUSC Narrative 214

My name is Nathaniel.  I am writing this journal involuntarily.  Sort of.

            I walked out of the government complex and a man came up to me asking if I had just registered with the HUSC program.  I told him I did and he handed me this blank notebook.

            “I’m trying to get soon-to-be husks to record their final days in these journals.  I’m going to compile them all and distribute them to everyone. Humanitarian organizations, churches, members of Congress, each and every citizen.”

            I asked why he wanted to do that.

            “Can you stand to live in a nation that openly massacres and enslaves its own citizens? We’re being robbed of our natural rights!”

            He was worked up and I could tell that he prepared a speech for me.  I didn’t want to listen to it so I asked him what he was going to call it.

            “I’m not sure yet,” he said.

            I made a suggestion.  “The HUSC narratives.  Like the slave narratives.”

            “What are those?” he asked.

            I didn’t bother to explain. I asked how I would give him what I’d written.

            “I’m here every day,” he said.  “Bring it when you go in for the last time”.

#

These are the last three days of my natural life. Actually, this may just be the last three days that I’m aware of my natural life. I registered with the Humans Under Sedated Control program today.  It’s essentially government-assisted suicide, but they must have figured that the GAS program wouldn’t be as appealing. Suicides still happen though. A few months ago a man that lived above me was found with his wrists slashed. He was in the bathtub wearing a floral print dress, a pearl necklace, clip-on earrings, and a wig. I think the people that kill themselves generally are anarchists. They’re trying to make a statement.

#

I went to my first counseling session today. All registrants with the HUSC program are required to see an individual counselor to make sure it’s really what they want to do.

            Mine is Dr. Angers, a psychiatrist, I think. She told me to call her Devin. She’s a thin woman with red hair and the fair skin to match. I went into her office and she asked me to sit in an ugly green chair while she sat at a metal desk going through papers. Every now and then she’d look up and flash a smile at me. She did this several times and it always looked sincere.

            “Why did you register with HUSC?” she asked and came around her desk. She pulled her chair around, set it in front of me, and took a seat.  She wore a bulky black pantsuit that made her head look a little too small for her body. I thought about the easiest way to put it.

            “I’m done with living,” I said. It’s that, and I haven’t been able to put a gun in my mouth.  I held one in my hand for a while but when I looked down into the barrel I got so nervous I probably would have broken my teeth first. That’s the closest I’ve come. But I didn’t tell her that.

            “Well you’re not going to die,” she said. “You’ll be alive, but with reduced functional capacity.”

            “I know, but I won’t be alive, right?” I pointed my hands at myself.

            “That’s one way to look at it.” She smiled and paused for a while with her eyes on me. I started drumming on my knees and looked to her desk. There weren’t any plaques or degrees on the wall behind it. The only thing that told me about her was the small I.D. card clipped to the pocket of her coat.

            “What HUSC does,” she started, “is a minimally invasive procedure that disengages the ‘you’ part of the brain.”

            I asked her which way they went in. I know you can reach the brain by going under the upper lip. I licked my teeth thinking about it.

            “We do have to cut a small part of the skull out right here.” She touched the top of her head where her hair parted in the middle.

            “Will you have to shave my head?”

            “Yes. It can be done before or after the procedure.”

            “Before,” I said.  I haven’t bothered to get a haircut in years.  My dad cut my hair when I was younger.  I’d sit on the edge of the bathtub and he’d run clippers over every inch of my hair and touch up the sides and back.  Afterwards I liked to walk faster than usual and hang my head out of the car window.  The air running through it felt good.  I imagine it wouldn’t feel much different being bald.

            Dr. Angers reached behind her and wrote something down.  She turned back around with a folder and smiled at me again.  She didn’t say anything and I couldn’t keep looking at her.  I didn’t know if she was waiting for me to keep talking or what.

            “Let’s talk about what will happen after the procedure,” she said.  “You won’t be as capable of complex thought, but your physical abilities will remain largely intact.  With this you have two options.  One, you can be in a federal program that works on infrastructure renovation, or two, you can be a part of a pharmaceutical research program.”

            I told her I wanted to be in the federal one.  I’ve heard that in the other one they give you cancer and all sorts of diseases to try out new drugs.  They say that your pain receptors are shut off and you’re essentially a vegetable, but I don’t want to put myself through that.  I don’t know how much progress they’ve really made in that option. People still get sick all the time.

            For the rest of the session she asked me what seemed like routine questions. She asked me if I had notified my workplace of my decision.  I lied and told her yes. She asked where I wanted to be relocated, I told her New Mexico. She asked me if I wanted to have what she called a “transition ceremony,” a sort of mock funeral the government provides for your family and friends since they’ll never see you again. I told her no, my dad died when I was nineteen and he was the only family I’d ever had.  When I told her this she paused again.

            “You’ve indicated on your registration form that you’re a Christian?” she asked. Before I could say anything she said, “Tomorrow there will be a spiritual advisor here to talk with you for a bit.”

            She stood and I did the same. I moved toward the door but she grabbed my arm and looked up at me. “Take care, Nathaniel,” she said. She held on to my arm a little longer before letting go.  I don’t know what to make of it.  It was like she looking at something other than me.

#

            Dr. Angers wasn’t there when I went in today.  I paced around for a while before sitting in the same chair as the day before. I waited. There was a framed photograph on the wall of two men shaking hands. One wore a suit and sat at a table with a stack of paper in front of him. He was the President when I was in elementary school. The other man in the picture was wearing a white doctor’s jacket and stood on the other side of the table, leaning forward. They looked ecstatic about shaking hands, but they were serious about it. The President held several pens in his other hand.

            The door opened and Dr. Angers stuck her head in.

            “Oh good,” she said and slipped back out the door.  A moment later a short man with thinning grey hair came in.

            “Hello Brother Nathaniel,” he said.  “I’m Reverend Gregory Krause.”  He shook my hand vigorously and sat down in front of me.  His nose and cheeks were cratered.

            “I’m here to tell you that God wholly accepts and appreciates your decision.” I started to feel rotten when he said that.

            “Joining HUSC is one of the most selfless ways to devote yourself to the service of your country and your brothers and sisters in Christ.” He got down to a whisper by the time he said “Christ.”  He leaned in close to me and his eyes were wet.

            “Whatever your reasons are, no matter what has brought you to this point, God is with you. He loves you as his own child.”

            This is how it went for a long time. He talked in circles about God’s love for me and how honorable I was for doing this.  I stopped nodding after a while hoping he’d see that he’d gotten the message across, but he went on and on about devotion and service and aiding my brothers and sisters in Christ forever and ever amen. When he was finished he asked me to pray with him. He slid out of the chair and onto his knees, raising his head and hands to the ceiling.  He closed his eyes and held his mouth open as if waiting to drink the rain.  It was awfully dramatic. I hung my head and stared at my lap.

            “Lord,” he started, “hear our prayers for Brother Nathaniel as he commits himself into the service of this magnificent country…” I’ve never liked people telling me about God and what He thought about everything.  You can’t tell me that He supports taking the easy way out.

            “Amen,” said the reverend.  He stood and wiped his eyes. “Peace be with you.”

            “And also with you,” I said and watched the floor where he had been as he left the room.

            Dr. Angers came in and sat in the reverend’s chair.  “How did it go?”

            “Fine,” I told her.

            “Reverend Krause is a nice man,” she said. “A bit much sometimes.”

“Mmm.” I stared at her feet now.  They were in black heels.  I started moving up her legs, noticing that they were bare. She wore a thin grey dress with a black belt around her waist.  I could see her shoulders.

            “Is something wrong?” she asked.

            “No. No.”

            She pulled her chair closer to me, our knees nearly touching.

            “You’re very brave, Nathaniel,” she said.  She placed her hand above my knee.

“It took about as much courage as writing a check to get here,” I said. My chest felt tight.

“Not everyone can make the same decision you have.”

“Is there anything else today?” I asked.

She drew back and said, “No. That’s it. We have some final details to work out tomorrow.”

“Can’t we get them done today?” I asked. She walked over to her desk.

“Unfortunately I don’t have the paperwork right now.  And you’re required to have three consecutive visits before you can undergo the procedure.” She grinned slightly. “It’s the law.”

I stood up and left without saying anything. In the elevator I stretched and tried taking deep breaths but my chest still felt tight. I got out of there as fast as I could.

I walked down the alley next to the complex. It was wet and trash crept around in the breeze. At the end of the alley I turned left and ran into someone. I apologized profusely but the man didn’t say anything. He wore a pale blue uniform and stared at the back of someone else wearing the same thing. They were both bald with gauze patches on the tops of their heads. In front of them were half a dozen more people, all in the same uniforms, all bald, all with bandages. They stood in line for a large white van. What looked like a police officer helped them into it, one by one.

“Sit all the way in the back,” he said. “You, sit beside him. You, beside her.”

He winked at the last one and said, “You get to sit up front with me.”

I watched until they were all situated. The officer instructed them to fasten their seatbelts. He closed the doors and walked around to the driver’s seat. He started the van and turned in his seat, making sure they were all there. He turned back, pulled down the gearshift, and drove away. I came home.

#

            Today I walked into Dr. Anger’s office and before I could sit a tall, gaunt man in a dark suit hurried in.

            “Mr. Lockard?” he said.

            I nodded.

            “Please, sit. This shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.” I sat in the ugly green chair just as I had the previous two days.  He paced around Dr. Anger’s desk looking through a file in his hand. He nodded in agreement with some things in it and didn’t have much of a reaction to others. I couldn’t make out the name on his I.D. card.

            “I’m afraid Dr. Angers won’t be here today.”

            “Oh,” I said. The man flipped carelessly back and forth through the papers again. It looked like he was trying to kill time.

            “It seems you’ve gotten everything squared away.” He handed me the file. “Just look over these things and make sure they’re correct. Sign it when you’re done.”

            I looked over the forms.  I’m still bound for New Mexico. I’m still enrolled in the federal construction and renovation program. I’m still going away unnoticed. I’m still getting my head shaved beforehand. I’m still undergoing the HUSC procedure. I signed my name. Nathaniel H. Lockard.

            “Looks like you’re all set for ten tomorrow morning. We’ll see you then.”

            I stood and started to follow him out the door but he stopped and turned to me.

            “Did Dr. Angers ever conduct herself inappropriately during these sessions?” He spoke in a low voice and raised his hand halfway to his mouth.

            I told him no. She did not.

            “Alright then.” He cleared his throat. “Have a good day and good luck tomorrow,” he said, reaching out and slapping my shoulder. He walked down the hall and disappeared into another counseling room, leaving me standing just inside of Dr. Anger’s office. I left and was careful not to go out behind the complex like I did yesterday. I walked around the streets for a while but soon realized there wasn’t anywhere unfamiliar I wanted to visit, so I came home.

#

When I was little my dad would take me out on the weekends to baseball games in Lynchburg. He’d buy us rubbery ballpark hotdogs and always try to get me to put more than mustard on them. He’d load his up--mustard, ketchup, chili, onions, sometimes peppers--but I always stuck with mustard. It’s uncomplicated and delicious. I didn’t care much for the game really. My dad would taunt the other team and shout at the umpires after every strike called against us. I would watch the bugs as they circled around the lights hungrily. Sometimes they’d charge straight into a light but they always got spit back out. I liked the biggest ones the most, the ones that you could sometimes hear colliding with the bulbs.

            Afterwards we’d drive home and my dad would provide a brief analysis of the game. I could never give him much in response, so I just agreed with him every now and then. When he was done with his analysis neither of us talked much. He’d turn up the radio a little and I’d lean my head on the window, watching the asphalt swim by mostly black. My favorite part of the ride home was when we’d drive under a streetlight and it would shut off. It would be dark and everything would seem quieter. A moment later we’d be beneath another light, this one lit and flooding the truck’s cab. When the lights would go off I felt like I was nothing. I was just a small, insignificant body, unnoticeable in the darkness.

            Maybe that’s what it will be like tomorrow when I go in for the last time. I’ll go into a room and when I come out all of my hair will be gone. Then I’ll go into another room and they’ll hook me up to an IV. Then the lights over my head will shut off, but this time there won’t be another light coming up ahead.

###

Currently Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven By Godspeed You Black Emperor see related

            My name is Nathaniel.  I am writing this journal involuntarily.  Sort of.

            I walked out of the government complex and a man came up to me, asking if I had just registered with the SHEL program.  I told him I did and he handed me this blank notebook.

            “I’m trying to get soon-to-be shells to record their last week in these journals.  I’m going to compile them all and distribute them to various humanitarian organizations, churches, and members of Congress.”

            I asked why he wanted to do that.

            “It’s murder! Can you bear to live in a nation that openly massacres and enslaves its own citizens? We’re being robbed of our natural rights!”

            He was worked up and I could tell that he prepared a speech for me.  I didn’t want to listen to it so I asked him what he was going to call it.

            “I’m not sure yet,” he said.

            I made a suggestion.  “The SHEL narratives.  Like the slave narratives."

            “What are those?” he asked.

#

            This is the last week of my natural life.  Actually, this may just be the last week that I’m aware of my natural life.  I registered with the SHEL program today.  It’s essentially government-assisted suicide, but they must have figured that the GAS program wouldn’t be as appealing.  What the SHEL program does is some sort of procedure that disengages the “you” part of your brain.  You are reduced to basic physical abilities.  You can walk.  You can lift things.  You can do simple tasks.  I don’t think you can talk, but you can comprehend what people are saying around you enough to take orders. You are on the verge of mindlessness. You’re a shell of a human being. 

After the procedure you aren’t capable of complex thinking.  And without complex thinking, you can’t interpret what you experience.  You never have to feel sad or alone ever again.  It’s beyond your grasp.  The best part of it is since you have pretty much vacated your body it’s like you’re dead, but less useless.  This is what the government has taken advantage of.  When you become a shell you’re given either to the federal government or the drug companies.  The government uses you for basic labor.  Within the first five years of the program over a third of the country’s power system was renovated using shells.  They say within the next two decades all of America’s infrastructure will be the best in the world thanks to the SHEL program.  The drug companies take it a step further.  They disengage your pain sensors so they can give you cancer and other diseases and then test their medications on you.  I don’t know how well it’s worked for them.  People still get sick all the time.

The SHEL program hasn’t stopped suicides from happening though.  It’s become very popular for depressives and especially cults, but there are still people that put guns in their mouths and ropes around their necks.  A few months ago a man that lived above me was found with his wrists slashed.  He was in the bathtub wearing a floral print dress, a pearl necklace, clip-on earrings, and a wig.  I think the people that still kill themselves are generally anarchists.  They’re trying to make a statement.