This post may contain Mildly Adult content.
This page is a permanent link to the reply below and its nested replies. See all post replies »
BlueVeins · 22-25
You go to your consultation. You tell the social worker there your name, driver's license number (or SSN), and home address to verify your identity. The social worker talks to you for a few minutes about the permanence of your decision, and you tell them a little bit about the reasons why you're making this decision. Perhaps you have terminal cancer, or you can't cope with having just gone blind in one eye. Perhaps you suffer treatment-resistant depression or are bored beyond belief with life itself. The social worker signs a slip verifying that you know what you're doing.
Thirty days later, you take a light rail line just outside the city, to a facility run by the federal government. Several members of your family and your friends meet you outside. They hug you, offer reassurance, tell you what a joy it was to have you in their life. You reciprocate. At your leisure, you walk through its gates. The sergeant sits down with you, verifies your identify, and once more confirms that you understand what's going to happen. You and the sergeant record a video of yourself, confirming your decision for recordkeeping purposes.
You're escorted to a spacious steel room with thick walls, ventilated from the ceiling only, and with one side open to the outside room. The floor is lined with a huge, thick biodegradable plastic tarp, and in the center, there's this padded wooden chair with straps and buckles, and a cord lying on the ground. You sit down in the chair and grab a device resembling a bicycle brake at the end of the cord; you know that if you squeeze it, this whole thing will be called off.
One of the recruits at the range walks up to you, fastens the straps onto your body, and puts the hood over your head. You can hear their footsteps as they leave, and you know the time is nye. There's another recruit sitting at a table with a .50 caliber rifle. He rests the rifle on the table and uses his iron sights to train it on your head. He feels this wave of anxiety and horrible power flowing through him, imagining your whole life to this moment and the horrors you faced that drove you to this point. There is no challenge for him except relieving the burden placed on you... to snuff out a life for the greater good. He lines up your head between his sights and slowly squeezes the trigger. Nobody knows quite when the bullet will come out -- not even him. He's dying from the anticipation, but he knows he mustn't be hasty, for your sake.
As soon as the medical staff on-site hear the shot ring out, they rush in with coolers, scalpels, and other medical equipment to extract all of your organs. Perhaps your death can bring life to those who actually wanted it. Once the medical staff are gone and start heading out, the remaining soldiers come to wrap up your body. It's a gruesome task, as nearly your entire head was blown off and is splattered everywhere. But they all know that in their line of work, they're liable to have to deal with much worse. The makeshift bag is buried shallowly in a field in east Texas, earmarked for this specific purpose for its high rate of decomposition.
Thirty days later, you take a light rail line just outside the city, to a facility run by the federal government. Several members of your family and your friends meet you outside. They hug you, offer reassurance, tell you what a joy it was to have you in their life. You reciprocate. At your leisure, you walk through its gates. The sergeant sits down with you, verifies your identify, and once more confirms that you understand what's going to happen. You and the sergeant record a video of yourself, confirming your decision for recordkeeping purposes.
You're escorted to a spacious steel room with thick walls, ventilated from the ceiling only, and with one side open to the outside room. The floor is lined with a huge, thick biodegradable plastic tarp, and in the center, there's this padded wooden chair with straps and buckles, and a cord lying on the ground. You sit down in the chair and grab a device resembling a bicycle brake at the end of the cord; you know that if you squeeze it, this whole thing will be called off.
One of the recruits at the range walks up to you, fastens the straps onto your body, and puts the hood over your head. You can hear their footsteps as they leave, and you know the time is nye. There's another recruit sitting at a table with a .50 caliber rifle. He rests the rifle on the table and uses his iron sights to train it on your head. He feels this wave of anxiety and horrible power flowing through him, imagining your whole life to this moment and the horrors you faced that drove you to this point. There is no challenge for him except relieving the burden placed on you... to snuff out a life for the greater good. He lines up your head between his sights and slowly squeezes the trigger. Nobody knows quite when the bullet will come out -- not even him. He's dying from the anticipation, but he knows he mustn't be hasty, for your sake.
As soon as the medical staff on-site hear the shot ring out, they rush in with coolers, scalpels, and other medical equipment to extract all of your organs. Perhaps your death can bring life to those who actually wanted it. Once the medical staff are gone and start heading out, the remaining soldiers come to wrap up your body. It's a gruesome task, as nearly your entire head was blown off and is splattered everywhere. But they all know that in their line of work, they're liable to have to deal with much worse. The makeshift bag is buried shallowly in a field in east Texas, earmarked for this specific purpose for its high rate of decomposition.
