Legally Dead

I’m dead. Well, legally. My heart still pumps, my muscles still move, lungs still contract and expand, but that’s about it. I can’t perceive anything. I can’t smell. I can’t taste. I can’t see. I can’t feel. I can’t hear. Now, the argument can be made that I’m not dead. That as long as the brain is still active you’re still alive. But politics would disagree. Especially in a place like America, where the government’s main goal is to stay in control. After all, every senator is human, and every human needs a job. So they passed the original death bill in 2038. It wasn’t called that, of course. Nobody would sign something so ominous and evil sounding. It was called something like, “Preservation of the Fittest,” or some crap, where those who were deemed, “legally dead,” were… redistributed, to preserve the legally alive. It was the perfect way to make people happy. After all, who wouldn’t like to be alive forever? When you’re heart stops pumping, just take one from a guy in a perma-coma and pop it in there. He won’t need it. He’s as good as dead, after all, and keeping him alive would just be a waste of resources. Why not give the man who’ll never wake up the honor of saving another’s life by sacrificing his own? I know, it’s a shaky argument at best, but when you’re only looking for a reason to do something, even the stupidest reason would suffice. So the death bill passed, and the legally dead were sent off to containment facilities, waiting to be disassembled. But then people ran into a problem. They started running out of legally dead people. when everybody is staying alive off of the remains of the dead, then nobody dies. This creates a feedback loop where more and more people need more and more parts from a shrinking supply. So what did congress do? Call it quits, right? Nope. They simply broadened the definition of legally dead, and looked the other way when a few perfectly healthy bodies popped up in the containment facilities. So people were happy for a while, living forever off of the bodies of those less fortunate than them. How do I factor into this? Welp, I was one of the unlucky few that accidentally showed up in the containment facilities, or so I would assume. I had no health problems. My heart beat at a healthy pace, my breathing was as consistent and healthy, my body was in pretty good shape. The last time I remember actually perceiving reality was… well, I can’t say how long ago it was. When all you can see is an infinite, jet black, all consuming void, it’s hard to tell what time it is or how long it’s been. Hell, I could already be dead-dead and I wouldn’t be able to know. But the last time I actually had a body, I was at a bar, drinking alone, trying to forget the day’s misfortunes. I’d got passed up on a big promotion, my girlfriend dumped me for the jackass who got it, and I had debts I made predicting I would get the job and be able to pay them off. So yeah, a shitty day. But then a girl talked to me. I don’t remember much about her, I was already on my 7th bottle, but I remember she had a nice laugh, and a vaguely pleasant body. She smiled at me, and flirted, and laughed, and made me forget my sorrows. One thing eventually led to another, and she invited me back to her place. I was pretty tipsy, and when you’re that far gone, a pretty girl you just met and know nothing about asking you to come back to her place sounds perfectly rational. So I signaled the barkeep, paid my tab with money I didn’t have, and left with her. We walked down the street a little bit, it was a decent part of town, clean sidewalks, no hobos, whatever. She was under my arm, supporting my stumbling body along the sidewalk. Eventually, we turned down an alley. This would seem like a red flag to most rational people, but remember, booze. We walked a ways, and then I fell. I pushed myself up, the moist floor of the alley under my hand. I looked to my side, my surroundings blurring with that effect that only comes with a good binge drinking. I saw her legs, but there were too many. One… two… three… four. Four sets of legs. I looked up, and there she was, obscured by 3 of the biggest men I’ll ever see. I stared while one raised a club, my arms attempting to block my face, and then there was a thunk, and stars burst to life around me, before sinking to darkness. Next thing I knew (I would assume) I was in the containment center, with no ability to perceive the outside world. Sometimes they let people go, I mean, there might be the chance that they’ll do more good alive than dead, or that somebody will worry about their suspicious absence and snoop around, but I wasn’t so lucky. I was a washed up, drunk, deadbeat waste of life. Nobody would miss me. Nobody would think I’d be worth letting live. I was more use dead than alive. Just how people like us. You stop caring once you’re dead. You don’t care about boredom, or pain, or anything a only somebody a corporal body would matter too. I’m dead. I can’t feel, taste, touch, hear, smell, or see. So I just think. About my life. About my choices. About the wonders of the universe. I think about anything, big or small. Why not? I got time. It’s not like I’ve got anything planned. After all, I’m legally dead.