Standing on the edge of the roof of that old building, the man could feel that he was standing on the rubble of his lost youth, that every step taken on those dirty streets had left memories that now formed piles of rotting and wormy corpses over which carrion birds flew. The cold winter wind chilled him to the bone, his back began to constrict and his jaw to tremble, his teeth chattering. A blizzard shook the branches of the trees and their black windbreaks, while tears slid down his purple face and fell on his white hands.
Guilt-filled thoughts came to mind—his mother’s smile as she made him coffee in the morning, his father telling him his story while the television played in the background. But now, the house he was sitting on was a sanctuary of silence, an impregnable labyrinth of loneliness that hid in its nooks the nights of despair that abandonment and death brought with them. Nothing made sense to him; his mind was a prison within a prison that kept chained the few dreams that managed to survive adulthood. He felt empty, old, and useless, not having been able to defend the people who had loved him the most in the world and who cared for him even when the sentence of growing older had fallen upon them.
Although that had been totally out of his hands because the decision taken by the world government had taken them by surprise, like all the others that preceded this one. His father always said that what was most frightening was that people were convinced that all the injustices and crimes committed were for their own good.
The morning of the announcement, the news broadcast had been interrupted by the sound of the presentation of the government alerts. Then, on TV appeared the coat of arms of the world army. Immediately after, the spokesman of the regime stood behind the podium, with the face of death that characterized him—black suit, black shirt, and royal blue tie, a couple of decorations attached to his jacket, the little hair that remained cut almost to a shave. The anthem of the nations ended, and the “man of death,” as we called him, broke the silence with his classic:
“Citizens of the world, through the World Welfare Committee and its allied bodies, the decision has been made to end the lives of people over 60 years of age because the pandemic that is currently ravaging several territories of our planet is deadly for them, and in turn, they are the propagators of this new pandemic.
As we have informed you, this disease has no cure. Given the speed of spread and mortality, it is impossible for us to generate an effective vaccine to save the lives of millions of citizens. The symptoms are so atrocious that we are certain the most humane thing to do is to carry out a euthanasia process before they suffer from this deadly disease. The regime, in its immense mercy, does not want the suffering of any of its fellow human beings.
You must know that we give this announcement with regret because every human loss hurts us as if it were part of us—because we are a big family—but there is no other alternative. Therefore, we ask for your cooperation to avoid violent acts. Next, we will instruct you how the operations will be carried out to take you to the life protection camp closest to the sector where you live. Army personnel will appear at your homes to direct you to our buses. It is necessary that you carry your passport. Long live the new regime. Long live our lord and the new era.”
It took him a few minutes to understand what was about to happen. His parents looked at each other without saying a word. He did not know what to do. The coldness with which that bastard had given that message seemed chilling to him—so much so that he was stunned in a nebula that blinded his thoughts. His mother got up from the table, which brought him out of his stupor. He saw her go to her room, returning with the passports in her right hand. His father had his eyes full of tears.
“Put on a sweater and your jacket in case it gets cold,” said his mother.
“It’s not fair. They’re going to slaughter us like we were animals,” answered his father.
“But it’s for our own good, didn’t you hear?” replied his mother.
“Nonsense. This damn government is built on lies. How can you believe them?” said his father, while a coughing fit transformed his voice into an unintelligible bark.
“No one is going to take them. They will have to kill me first!” he said, showing a kind of false heroism, because he was actually dying of fear.
“Don’t be stupid. What are you going to do? They will end up killing you,” replied his father to that sudden outburst of bravery with his classic harshness.
“Surely they are authorized to use brute force if there is resistance on our part,” said his father, ending any response.
His mother remained silent, putting on her coat. He stood up and went to the window. Then, he saw how a black army tank and a bus arrived, both parking in front of the park on the corner of his street. A patrol of the national guard made its way past both vehicles, and the sound of a loudspeaker resonated in the air:
“All people over sixty years old, go to the park with your world mobility passport. You are not allowed to carry any type of belongings. In fifteen minutes, a roll call will be made. If you do not show up, the personnel of the National Guard will appear at your home. We are authorized to use brutal force in case of resistance.”
Following this, another pre-recorded voice said:
“Remember that the regime wants the best for the citizens of the world. Obedience makes us strong. Long live the new regime. Long live our lord and the new era.”
At that moment, he saw one of his neighbors putting his parents in a car. He turned it on, and a voice emerged from the speaker that resonated over the recording:
“Stop! Brutal force will be used if you move forward. Do not disobey instructions.”
The man accelerated, but before reaching the corner, they opened fire from the tank. The car crashed into the facade of a house, catching fire immediately. The man opened the driver’s door and got out with a gun in his hand. He fired a couple of times, but a shrapnel shook him frantically before he fell to the ground. A bullet went through the glass of their window. His father, who was behind him, pulled him towards him upon hearing the detonations.
“They killed them, Dad,” he said, full of terror.
A few hours later, that broken man hugged the photo of his parents and, with tears in his eyes, looked into the abyss. Nothing would ever be the same again. He took a deep breath and, with a broken voice, cried out like a child for his parents before throwing himself into the void. His head shattered as it crashed against the sidewalk. No one was moved by the strong blow. There was no one to look out of the windows. Soon, the cleaning crews would pick up the body, and that death would be one more figure in the high suicide statistics that were never spoken of in the new regime—in which everything was conformity and obedience.