7877

TW: Suicide

[Jane Marston, employee #78870 of the Fuzon Corporation’s factory, plucked this story from the either of the Ideaspace. They told the tale to whoever would listen to them ever since they escaped from that accursed cell. Jane told me this story five months after the City died. This is the only information I could find related to Employee #7877.]

On the night you died, you were feeling nostalgic for your name. Names are a simple thing, all things considered. Some might have weight and implications, but by and large they don’t have much meaning in the grand scheme of things. They only have the meaning we give them. And in these last moments, you realize how meaningless such things are. You remember your name, but you haven’t heard it in a long time. Not that it’s such a great loss, especially considering what was gained, but it’s still something that you miss.

The circumstances by which you and your fellow workers lost the right to your names require some backstory. Some years back, you entered the workforce at the ripe age of 13. You lived in the City for half of your life, but you do not remember a time outside of it. Your parents died a year before you started working, and you only got the job by pure chance. In one of the many coincidences that define humanity, the place where you were sleeping on the night your parents died just so happened to be due for demolition to build a factory for the Fuzon Corporation, who you worked under for the rest of your life. When the demolitions people came to the property found you sleeping, they pulled you awake and called the police. They justified arresting you with loitering, a nice term for “preferring to sleep in an abandoned building than the freezing cold streets.” You had barely spoken a word before the arresting officers beat you into unconsciousness.

When you awoke, a man in a grey suit offered you a job, which you handily accepted. For it was less of an offer and more a knife to your throat. As if by assembly line, you were given an employee tattoo and thrust into your new room. It was extremely Spartan even by the standards of apartments in the City. What little furniture was in there was branded with “Property of the Fuzon Corporation.” The walls were corpse grey with only a sliver of a hint that they were any other color (and even then, black). The room had barely enough room for a bed. It was just comfortable enough to let someone sleep but not comfortable enough to let that person dream. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years, especially given the… stains on the sheets. (Especially glaring since the week before you started working, the Fuzon Corporation forbade sexual intercourse on company property).

On the first day of the job, you found your tasks to be mind numbingly simple: move piece a to product b. For many, this work was maddening. Some workers collapsed on the spot while others were taken away by security for “reeducation.” It would have been better if they were killed, you thought on one cruel and awful day. The only reason such menial work was being done by humans was to get rid of the homeless problem. There were alternatives, but the CEO was uncomfortable with the “mass genocide” brand and all its connotations. Branding “slavery” was far easier. There were attempts at unionizing the workers, but the union leaders were “discovered” to have some shady pasts from secretly being spies for the competing corporation to being rapists bent on using the union as a sex cult that worships little green men to some other excuse made up on the fly.

Only one union was allowed to succeed, though to call it a success would be akin to calling the Hindenburg a success because if briefly flew. A supervisor named Jason Williams, Employee #55, led the union. Jason was a man who spoke of idealism and vision. He would not be cowed by the threats of his superiors of humiliation, demonization, and other such things. He braved the horrors of the bureaucracy required to form a union through guile, skill, and bribery. Ultimately the negotiations the union was able to make allowed Jason to receive a slight pay raise, the supervisors to get a mini fridge in their office, and the employees to lose half their salary and access to their names during the 18 hour work day. A successful venture, all things considered.

There were some growing pains, most notably Gabrielle Hansen, Employee #6878. She had been working at the factory for twice as long as you, though she was a few years older than you were at the time (you’re the same age now). There were no friends at the factory, though there was an air of friendliness to Gabrielle. A sense that she was someone who would be wonderful to talk to about one’s personal problems. One hot summer’s evening, she finally snapped and started screaming her name over and over again. When security tried to take her down, she fought back viciously, killing three guards before dying of a baton being shoved through her head. Since Gabrielle worked right next to you, the image of her brain fluids gushing out the back of her head traumatized you. Were you a stronger person, you most likely would have collapsed in terror and been sent out for “reeducation.” But sadly, you were not that strong of a person and were able to ignore the horror you had just witnessed.

Life eventually returned to normal and you lived your life as best you could. You went to work. You moved piece a to product b. You went back to employee housing. You ate food. You went to sleep. You awoke. You ate food. You went to the communal bathroom. You went to work. You moved piece a to product b. You went back to employee housing. You ate food. You didn’t dream. You woke up. You ate cardboard shaped like food. You found the bathroom was broken and thus didn’t go. You went to work. You moved piece a to product b. You returned to her bed. You were informed that the annual budget had cut dinner. You went to bed. You awoke. You went to work. You moved piece a to product b. You found out the rent was raised. You worked overtime. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You lay awake in bed. You moved piece a to product b. You worked overtime. You looked up at the concrete sky. You didn’t sleep. You moved piece a to product b. You went back to work. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You received your paycheck and returned it to you landlord before going to bed. For once, you went to sleep.

That night though, something odd had happened: you had a dream. There was a clarity to it that dreams rarely have. Indeed, it felt more like a memory than an actual dream. And yet, you feel as if you’ve had this dream before, or at least the feelings they imply. You were in a room talking to someone. The person you were talking to had the shape of being but without any specific shape. Each time you blinked, the being changed their form. One moment, they were a 37 year old man with a long beard but a bald head. The next, a six year old girl with pigtails and only one arm. Then the being shifted into an old, malnourished dog of 13 whose barks sounded like English words spoken in a Jamaican accent. And again and again, the being changed form. In the background, a song about a merman was playing.

HELLO FRIEND, said the being. “Said” is probably the wrong word, as there was no voice to the being’s words. You simply remembered the words, but you were aware that you never heard them.

“W-who are you?” you asked as if they were going to give you an answer.

I AM. You waited for the being to elaborate, but they did not.

“You are what?” you asked again, more certain than ever that there was not answers to be given.

…I DO NOT KNOW YET. I AM.

“I don’t understand.”

NEITHER DO I, BUT I CAN GUESS. I AM A COLLECTION OF POSSIBILITIES WAITING TO BE BORN. I AM AN IDEA UNTHOUGHT BY SOCIETY, READY TO ENGULF REALITY. I AM GOD. At this point, the being looked like a black woman in a maid’s uniform with an air of mystery and glee. The words “Grandeur and Monstrosity” appeared in your head for some reason whenever the word “God” was spoken in this context.

“Isn’t God an old guy with a long beard?”

GOD IS ALL THINGS. YOU ARE MADE IN MY IMAGE, ARE YOU NOT? They said, pointedly not looking like you.

“I-I guess.”

THEN, I AM GOD. Said “God.”

“W-well, what do you want?” A chill was going down your spine, as if someone was dancing on your grave.

I HAVE A PROPOSITION FOR YOU: I WOULD LIKE TO BE BORN, AND I NEED YOUR HELP. “God” then proceeded to explain everything to you. The process by which “God” would be born, the implications of said birth, and finally what your role was in the play. Upon hearing this last part, you were at first flabbergasted. The chill had grown into a masquerade ball over your grave, with each dancer trampling on your grave as if it was mere dirt. The song in the background was getting louder. The lyrics were gone, and all that was left was the cacophony of instruments.

“W…w-Why me?” “God” did not answer; they merely looked at you with the body of your mother and the eyes of your father, a look that nearly made you puke. “Well… what do I get if I do this?”

“YOUR NAME.” Said “God” in the form of your supervisor. At that moment, you woke up in a sweat. Though you remembered the whole of what was discussed, what you focused on was that last comment. So lost in thought, you didn’t notice you were walking out into the streets naked. You didn’t notice what you grabbed from the abandoned communal kitchen or that you had been walking for an hour. What did they mean, you thought, by that? You know your name. Surely. You can say it aloud if you wanted to. Even think it. The only car in the City drove by your, ignoring you in favor of darker prey. You didn’t want to say your name of course. But you totally could. As long as you remembered what that name was, everything would be-

THEN WHY DON’T YOU, a voice in your mind questioned. You stopped walking at the exact midpoint between a tilted skyscraper and a miserable tree. The only people who could’ve seen you are locked in the small jail used to house drunks and future employees. If only someone was there. But even the streets were magically empty that night. You were the only one there. All the cameras save one were off due to budget cuts. There were no witnesses to this bit of magic. You kept trying to remember your name. It was on the tip of your tongue. But the word wouldn’t leave your subconscious mind, where all information, symbolism, and mystical experiences are housed. You knew of magic from someone you once loved.

It was then that you noticed the knife in her hands. It was a large knife. You had no idea where you got it. Did you always have this? Then you remembered what you were asked to do: NOT TO DIE, BUT TO BE RE-BORN/AWAY FROM A LIFE SO BATTERED AND TORN. And suddenly, you realized the truth underneath all the pretty words and metaphors the dream had told you. For some, there is a need to know why they would do such a thing. A greater good being served once a distasteful act is done. A way to justify their action, even if you know it is a lie. You are one such person. There was a voice in your head that sounded like yours screaming at you not to do it. This is cowardly and cruel. What would… would… but all the names that came to mind were lost. No one cared. Those who did were long dead or had abandoned you for some “higher calling.” The factory would just hire someone else to do your job. Your family was dead. Your friends were gone. They did not love you. You were alone. There was nothing to live for.

But you could do one last bit of good, you lied in your thoughts. You could do what the voice commanded. It was right; you told yourself its plan would work. Surely “God” could sort this cruel awful world out. All you needed to do was be strong for once in your life. You raised the knife to your heart and pressed the tip of the blade to your flesh. A sweat poured down your face. You paused for a moment and decided that you should raise it just a little bit higher. The sweat began to dry up. You ignored the cause and pushed the knife closer and closer to your flesh. You had to be careful, lest you miss the right vein. The knife moved slowly towards your body. It ached with the pain of someone ripping their own arm off. You wanted to puke. Wanted to scream. But you had removed sound from the equation. You weren’t strong enough to finish the deed.

IT’S OK. A voice from within said. I WILL TAKE IT FROM HERE. And a force that you did not believe belonged to you moved your fist, creating a smile on your throat. The knife fell out of your hand and lay static on the ground. With the deed done, the dominos were pushed in the direction of the City’s death. Your last thought was a bit of longing towards your name. The breath you gasped rhymed with it.

[I asked Jane the circumstances by which they learned this story. They told me that it came to them in a dream. Jane smiled as they said that. As if they knew I’d be credulous about such an answer. I was, obviously. Not as much as I would’ve been when I was younger. Mostly, I was bemused by their answer. Stranger things have happened, I suppose. We talked a few more times, and I eventually asked Jane if they ever wanted to cross the line 7877 did. They told me without much emotion (more akin to a seventy-five year old talking about a relative who died when they were a teenager), “Of course I did, we all did.”]

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