lijrobert
July 6th, 2014, 10:22 PM
------OK context before the story. I wrote this for a writing contest and recently received the results. I got third place! I've posted a draft before, but thought you guys would want to see the final product------
The Letter
by Lijrobert
The doors of Seattle’s Federal Population Management Center clunked open just like they had thousands of times before. Through them, a lone man walked. The man, who was tall and had fading blond hair, walked with a slanted, hesitant gait which showed the unpleasantness of the task before him. Approaching the reception desk, he picked up a pen and wrote his name on the electronic slate. The tired, old receptionist studied her monitor, as information flashed by. After clicking a few buttons, she began to speak.“Mr. David Gault, is it? You can sit down over there.” Taking his seat, David began to reflect on his motivation. The reason that he sat here in the early morning hours on a gray Saturday.
Ethan Gault was born on March 5th, 2058 at Seattle Children's Hospital. The birth went perfectly and the new parents were overjoyed with the addition to their family. He grew rapidly, walking and talking before many other children. His excellent marks in school and exceptional performance in sports and other extracurricular activities made him the pride of his family. Love and happiness enveloped him everywhere he went.
In keeping with tradition, Ethan’s tenth birthday was celebrated with a spectacular event. There was food, friends, and of course presents. By the end of the day, the young boy was in bed and his parents were finally settling down. Although it was not yet a late hour, David and his wife were surprised when they heard a knock at the door. Standing up, David walked into their living room, and approached the door expecting a parent running back to get a forgotten toy or jacket. Instead, on his doorstep he found a weary, mail carrier. After passing a fairly sizable letter across the door, the man hurried away to his truck, leaving David Gault with a letter marked "Federal Population Control Administration."
With a jolt, David snapped back to the present.
"David Gault? Is there a David Gault here?"
Looking up, David saw the young woman who was calling his name. He followed her to a small examination room.
The refurbished closet was as covered in posters and as filled with furniture as such a tiny room would allow. Sitting down in one of the two armchairs that were housed in the room, David waited for the questions he knew the government psychiatrist would ask.
The letter that the mail carrier had handed David said the following:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gault,
We regret to inform you that your child, through the Population Control Act of 2041, has been scheduled for permanent termination on April 22nd, 2068. To read more about your options at this point and to find your case number, you can go to pop.gov.
Thank you for your cooperation,
James Watson
Federal Population Control Administration
At first, David and his wife did not fully comprehend what the letter was telling them. Only after reading it several times did they finally understand. They were going to lose the one person they both cared about more than anyone in the world. Their only child, Ethan, was going to be ripped away, all because of a law written more than twenty years ago.
When the Population Control Act was signed, it was the only solution to a mounting problem: a growing, hungry, nation. Food was scant. People were rioting. The entire country was on the brink of collapse. In the nick of time, a package of laws passed. Most of them simply alleviated the, then current, crises facing the entire country. One, however, was offered as a permanent solution. The Population Control Act would eliminate a certain number of children, who were age ten or younger. This would allow the population to stabilize to ideal levels. Also, to prevent bias, the children being euthanized would be randomly selected. A senator's son would be just as likely to be “terminated” as a homeless man's daughter. And what if people didn’t want their child to die? They would have only one option: they could offer their own lives.
As the psychiatrist closed her notebook she said, “Thank you for your time. We’ll have your test results in a few minutes.” Standing up, David walked back into the hall and stiffly sat down in the same seat he had occupied only a few minutes previously. Soon, his name was called again. This time, it was a cold medical technician. Seeing that David had stepped forward, the man said, “You passed the psychological testing. Do you have anything you would like to do before we commence with the procedure?” David simply replied “No.” There was no turning back now.
David never thought about dying before. The wars of past were just old photos by the time he was born. The Population Control Act of 2041 was passed after he turned twelve and thus caused him no worry. Even some of the brushes with death he had when he was younger, such as the car wreck on his sixteenth birthday, didn’t cause him to think about what happens after your eyes close for the last time. Of course, David and his wife had considered the possibility of their son being one of those poor, randomly selected children who would be sent to die, but their conversations on this topic always ended short, with neither parent saying whether they would make the ultimate sacrifice for the child they adored. Now, with the topic ripped open like a raw wound, David and his wife made a truce. They would wait until morning before they made their decision together.
David did not sleep soundly on the idea of pushing off a decision which would so permanently affect his family. While his wife slept, he, without the same sleeping aids she took, tossed and turned. He knew he could not live without his child or his wife, leaving a single, normally unthinkable solution. However, as David’s restless night continued, his decision became more final and resolute. There was a bullet coming towards his family and he had to take it. In exchange for his life, he would have assurance that his child would be left to live.
Hearing the answer he almost always did, the technician said “Alright. Follow me,” and began to purposefully walk away. David trailed him obediently, as they traveled deep into the building. He was taken, again, into a small room. This time, however, the room was not crammed with furniture or covered with motivational posters. Instead, it held a single chair and an examination table. David climbed up on the table as the technician, now donning gloves and blue scrubs, pulled out an IV tube, two vials, and a needle. When the medical equipment was prepared and fully cleansed, the technician, reached for a pen and two contracts. With the mask muffling his voice, he said, “There are two papers here. The first one is required by federal law and confirms that you are absolutely sure about what you're going to do. Once you sign it there is no turning back. If you’re giving up your life as a donation for someone who is set to be terminated, you use the second paper and put down their case number on the first line and your signature on the second.” David hurriedly did what the man told him, pulling out the paper where his son’s case number was written down. When both forms were filled out, they were taken away, and an IV tube was inserted into his arm. For a few seconds, David felt the chemicals draining into him. This feeling did not last long. The cold darkness of medically induced sleep soon engulfed him.
The technician knew the moment when the man died. He had done this for so long he could tell when someone had taken his final breath. Despite his certainty of the man’s death, he still had to go through the routine he had been taught in training many years ago. He checked for signs of breath and a pulse. Only then did he write down, on a small yellow piece of paper, “Time of death 5:35 PM”.
The technician proceeded to take out the needle and the attached IV tube and place them in the medical waste bin. The vials were put in another bin. They would be refilled and used another day. Then, after clicking the button which was used to call the waste pickup team and double checking his daily schedule to make sure that he had finished with his allotted fifty jobs for the day, he rushed to his car, so he could get home. If he got there fast enough, he might be able to be there when his five-year-old son came home from daycare.
The Letter
by Lijrobert
The doors of Seattle’s Federal Population Management Center clunked open just like they had thousands of times before. Through them, a lone man walked. The man, who was tall and had fading blond hair, walked with a slanted, hesitant gait which showed the unpleasantness of the task before him. Approaching the reception desk, he picked up a pen and wrote his name on the electronic slate. The tired, old receptionist studied her monitor, as information flashed by. After clicking a few buttons, she began to speak.“Mr. David Gault, is it? You can sit down over there.” Taking his seat, David began to reflect on his motivation. The reason that he sat here in the early morning hours on a gray Saturday.
Ethan Gault was born on March 5th, 2058 at Seattle Children's Hospital. The birth went perfectly and the new parents were overjoyed with the addition to their family. He grew rapidly, walking and talking before many other children. His excellent marks in school and exceptional performance in sports and other extracurricular activities made him the pride of his family. Love and happiness enveloped him everywhere he went.
In keeping with tradition, Ethan’s tenth birthday was celebrated with a spectacular event. There was food, friends, and of course presents. By the end of the day, the young boy was in bed and his parents were finally settling down. Although it was not yet a late hour, David and his wife were surprised when they heard a knock at the door. Standing up, David walked into their living room, and approached the door expecting a parent running back to get a forgotten toy or jacket. Instead, on his doorstep he found a weary, mail carrier. After passing a fairly sizable letter across the door, the man hurried away to his truck, leaving David Gault with a letter marked "Federal Population Control Administration."
With a jolt, David snapped back to the present.
"David Gault? Is there a David Gault here?"
Looking up, David saw the young woman who was calling his name. He followed her to a small examination room.
The refurbished closet was as covered in posters and as filled with furniture as such a tiny room would allow. Sitting down in one of the two armchairs that were housed in the room, David waited for the questions he knew the government psychiatrist would ask.
The letter that the mail carrier had handed David said the following:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gault,
We regret to inform you that your child, through the Population Control Act of 2041, has been scheduled for permanent termination on April 22nd, 2068. To read more about your options at this point and to find your case number, you can go to pop.gov.
Thank you for your cooperation,
James Watson
Federal Population Control Administration
At first, David and his wife did not fully comprehend what the letter was telling them. Only after reading it several times did they finally understand. They were going to lose the one person they both cared about more than anyone in the world. Their only child, Ethan, was going to be ripped away, all because of a law written more than twenty years ago.
When the Population Control Act was signed, it was the only solution to a mounting problem: a growing, hungry, nation. Food was scant. People were rioting. The entire country was on the brink of collapse. In the nick of time, a package of laws passed. Most of them simply alleviated the, then current, crises facing the entire country. One, however, was offered as a permanent solution. The Population Control Act would eliminate a certain number of children, who were age ten or younger. This would allow the population to stabilize to ideal levels. Also, to prevent bias, the children being euthanized would be randomly selected. A senator's son would be just as likely to be “terminated” as a homeless man's daughter. And what if people didn’t want their child to die? They would have only one option: they could offer their own lives.
As the psychiatrist closed her notebook she said, “Thank you for your time. We’ll have your test results in a few minutes.” Standing up, David walked back into the hall and stiffly sat down in the same seat he had occupied only a few minutes previously. Soon, his name was called again. This time, it was a cold medical technician. Seeing that David had stepped forward, the man said, “You passed the psychological testing. Do you have anything you would like to do before we commence with the procedure?” David simply replied “No.” There was no turning back now.
David never thought about dying before. The wars of past were just old photos by the time he was born. The Population Control Act of 2041 was passed after he turned twelve and thus caused him no worry. Even some of the brushes with death he had when he was younger, such as the car wreck on his sixteenth birthday, didn’t cause him to think about what happens after your eyes close for the last time. Of course, David and his wife had considered the possibility of their son being one of those poor, randomly selected children who would be sent to die, but their conversations on this topic always ended short, with neither parent saying whether they would make the ultimate sacrifice for the child they adored. Now, with the topic ripped open like a raw wound, David and his wife made a truce. They would wait until morning before they made their decision together.
David did not sleep soundly on the idea of pushing off a decision which would so permanently affect his family. While his wife slept, he, without the same sleeping aids she took, tossed and turned. He knew he could not live without his child or his wife, leaving a single, normally unthinkable solution. However, as David’s restless night continued, his decision became more final and resolute. There was a bullet coming towards his family and he had to take it. In exchange for his life, he would have assurance that his child would be left to live.
Hearing the answer he almost always did, the technician said “Alright. Follow me,” and began to purposefully walk away. David trailed him obediently, as they traveled deep into the building. He was taken, again, into a small room. This time, however, the room was not crammed with furniture or covered with motivational posters. Instead, it held a single chair and an examination table. David climbed up on the table as the technician, now donning gloves and blue scrubs, pulled out an IV tube, two vials, and a needle. When the medical equipment was prepared and fully cleansed, the technician, reached for a pen and two contracts. With the mask muffling his voice, he said, “There are two papers here. The first one is required by federal law and confirms that you are absolutely sure about what you're going to do. Once you sign it there is no turning back. If you’re giving up your life as a donation for someone who is set to be terminated, you use the second paper and put down their case number on the first line and your signature on the second.” David hurriedly did what the man told him, pulling out the paper where his son’s case number was written down. When both forms were filled out, they were taken away, and an IV tube was inserted into his arm. For a few seconds, David felt the chemicals draining into him. This feeling did not last long. The cold darkness of medically induced sleep soon engulfed him.
The technician knew the moment when the man died. He had done this for so long he could tell when someone had taken his final breath. Despite his certainty of the man’s death, he still had to go through the routine he had been taught in training many years ago. He checked for signs of breath and a pulse. Only then did he write down, on a small yellow piece of paper, “Time of death 5:35 PM”.
The technician proceeded to take out the needle and the attached IV tube and place them in the medical waste bin. The vials were put in another bin. They would be refilled and used another day. Then, after clicking the button which was used to call the waste pickup team and double checking his daily schedule to make sure that he had finished with his allotted fifty jobs for the day, he rushed to his car, so he could get home. If he got there fast enough, he might be able to be there when his five-year-old son came home from daycare.