The Pusher
This is a bit of writing I was working on this morning. It is really the same scene that I wrote out some time back. I'm just starting to get the urge to write now, make this into a real story. Anyway, here it is as it came together this morning.
Her hair is whipped by the wind, wet from rain, tears. She sits. Huddled. Knees tucked to her chest. A tattered teddy bear clutched in her hand. The rain is cold. A flimsy summer dress clings sticks to her. Goosebumps blanket her exposed flesh. She hadn't planned to be up here this long.
She looks over the edge again. One hundred and eleven stories of office building filled with business men, lawyers, politicians, psychologists, craftsmen, clergy and marketing wizards. At the bottom is the green granite courtyard. Technicians waiting to clean up the mess, package her remains. She's made no special requests. She couldn't have afforded it anyway.
"Rick!" a voice cracks in my helmet. "You need to get out there and help her."
"Yeah," I hear myself reply, "just securing my harness."
"Now Rick. The next client is in the chamber already. That girl is spending chips she doesn't have. You get her off the goddamn platform NOW!"
"I hear you." I can't put it off any longer. I step from the alcove, begin my approach. Her reddened eyes meen my mirrored face shield. She shifts closer to the edge.
So far for her it has all been about dignity and the sanctity of life. A shoulder to cry on, listening, caring, understanding, provided at a reasonable price. Guidance from our talented staff. In this world with no safety net, preaching the sanity and reasonability of a quick, clean and respectable end. It began with slick ad copy sponsored by the government program for population control. It has been humane, an operation designed and run by clergy and psychologists. She has found such comfort in this idea of bringing her life's story to a conclusion. Talented writers have typed it up. Her pictures and films, her memories, collected. A beautiful life story told. This will be held in the archives. Her life recorded, remembered, important.
Now her time is up, her chips expended. If she doesn't jump now she'll be on the street, prey to the creatures of the street, a victim to freaks and rejects unable to function in civilization.
"Damnit Rick. 30 seconds. Then her time is coming out of your check!"
So now comes my job. I'm a "pusher". I am not a murderer. Clients always fall of their own volition. One look at me. Black arbor, riot shield and stun club. It gets the point across. I am her last chance to end with dignity. She will die clean with her nice story, her pretty face enshrined in the Library of Life, a permanent record that she existed.
If she refuses to jump, then she's gone. The mementos she signed over to us will be burned. All records of her existence as a member of civilization will be destroyed. She will die, freezing, starving broken and nameless in the streets.
This is my job, my public service. This is what goes through my head as I approach. She shifts. Her eyes widen with fear. Shaking, she chokes with sobs, now gasping to breathe. I raise my club and she jerks back. I lunge forward, my safety harness responds, jerking me back. Something has happened to me. My baton and shield have tumbled from my grasp and echo upon the cold marble floor. Held back in my armor my hands reach out uselessly toward her as she slips over the edge. I hang there, suspended, then slip to the ground as the safety harness relaxes. Numbly I pull the microphone leads from my helmet and something inside of me crumbles. I wail like a child as I lay fetal, curled upon the platform.
"Finally, Jesus, for fuck's sake that took long time, huh? Anyway, next one is coming up."
I gather my shield and baton. I crawl back to the alcove. Bracing against my shield, I push myself up to stand. Through my mirrored visor, a young man, with determination in his step, strides out onto the platform.
"He has five minutes." my ear-piece declares.
I reconnect my mic. Catch my breath. "Yeah... I'm watching him," I reply. "Hopefully this one won't take so much."
Her hair is whipped by the wind, wet from rain, tears. She sits. Huddled. Knees tucked to her chest. A tattered teddy bear clutched in her hand. The rain is cold. A flimsy summer dress clings sticks to her. Goosebumps blanket her exposed flesh. She hadn't planned to be up here this long.
She looks over the edge again. One hundred and eleven stories of office building filled with business men, lawyers, politicians, psychologists, craftsmen, clergy and marketing wizards. At the bottom is the green granite courtyard. Technicians waiting to clean up the mess, package her remains. She's made no special requests. She couldn't have afforded it anyway.
"Rick!" a voice cracks in my helmet. "You need to get out there and help her."
"Yeah," I hear myself reply, "just securing my harness."
"Now Rick. The next client is in the chamber already. That girl is spending chips she doesn't have. You get her off the goddamn platform NOW!"
"I hear you." I can't put it off any longer. I step from the alcove, begin my approach. Her reddened eyes meen my mirrored face shield. She shifts closer to the edge.
So far for her it has all been about dignity and the sanctity of life. A shoulder to cry on, listening, caring, understanding, provided at a reasonable price. Guidance from our talented staff. In this world with no safety net, preaching the sanity and reasonability of a quick, clean and respectable end. It began with slick ad copy sponsored by the government program for population control. It has been humane, an operation designed and run by clergy and psychologists. She has found such comfort in this idea of bringing her life's story to a conclusion. Talented writers have typed it up. Her pictures and films, her memories, collected. A beautiful life story told. This will be held in the archives. Her life recorded, remembered, important.
Now her time is up, her chips expended. If she doesn't jump now she'll be on the street, prey to the creatures of the street, a victim to freaks and rejects unable to function in civilization.
"Damnit Rick. 30 seconds. Then her time is coming out of your check!"
So now comes my job. I'm a "pusher". I am not a murderer. Clients always fall of their own volition. One look at me. Black arbor, riot shield and stun club. It gets the point across. I am her last chance to end with dignity. She will die clean with her nice story, her pretty face enshrined in the Library of Life, a permanent record that she existed.
If she refuses to jump, then she's gone. The mementos she signed over to us will be burned. All records of her existence as a member of civilization will be destroyed. She will die, freezing, starving broken and nameless in the streets.
This is my job, my public service. This is what goes through my head as I approach. She shifts. Her eyes widen with fear. Shaking, she chokes with sobs, now gasping to breathe. I raise my club and she jerks back. I lunge forward, my safety harness responds, jerking me back. Something has happened to me. My baton and shield have tumbled from my grasp and echo upon the cold marble floor. Held back in my armor my hands reach out uselessly toward her as she slips over the edge. I hang there, suspended, then slip to the ground as the safety harness relaxes. Numbly I pull the microphone leads from my helmet and something inside of me crumbles. I wail like a child as I lay fetal, curled upon the platform.
"Finally, Jesus, for fuck's sake that took long time, huh? Anyway, next one is coming up."
I gather my shield and baton. I crawl back to the alcove. Bracing against my shield, I push myself up to stand. Through my mirrored visor, a young man, with determination in his step, strides out onto the platform.
"He has five minutes." my ear-piece declares.
I reconnect my mic. Catch my breath. "Yeah... I'm watching him," I reply. "Hopefully this one won't take so much."