Read Online The Hauntings of Playing God (The Great De-Evolution) by Chris Dietzel - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Dietzel
Tags: Literary, Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Literary Fiction, post apocalyptic, Dystopian, Metaphysical & Visionary
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a day. She washes their bodies every other day. They are repositioned twice a week. This is to prevent bedsores. They used to be moved more frequently, back when there were more care workers. She has given up on brushing their teeth. This was the first sacrifice that had to be made so their collective health was sustained.
But even these simple, basic needs—food, cleanliness—have become too much for one person. Beginning her rounds as soon as she wakes up makes no difference. If she wakes at four in the morning, she starts her rounds. Her conscience does not let her go back to sleep because sleep means all of these people, people who are relying on her, are going without care longer than they should.
There are no vacations. She cannot take days off. There is no one to alternate duties with. She no longer bothers to clean her dirty dishes. She pulls a filthy plate out of the sink and puts new food on it because that saves a couple of minutes.
Naively, she once thought if she merely moved faster, she could still care for each person the way she used to when Elaine was here. There is no pace to quicken, though, when you are ninety-three years old.
Maybe if I only clean them once every three days. Maybe if I only reposition them once a week.
But this is desperation speaking. This line of thought is how the quality of life begins to diminish past the point anyone would consider acceptable. Bedsores will begin to develop if she only cleans them every three days, if she only adjusts their arms and legs a few times each month. Infections will spread. She won’t allow that to happen to her Blocks. She has already stopped shaving the men’s faces and combing the women’s hair. She no longer takes the time to offer a loving caress on each person’s hand or cheek. There is nothing else she can cut back on to help get through all the chores for every Block. Yet continuing with such little sleep is not realistic. It will kill her. If she dies, the people she is caring for will all die too.
I can’t keep doing this.
Only two thirds of the way through her chores, she is already so exhausted that she needs to put her head on the closest cot and regain her balance. The very real thought crosses her mind that she could crawl into bed next to the Block already positioned there and take a week-long nap. The Block does not move over to make room for her. He does not offer an encouraging smile.
She thinks about lying down on the floor and sleeping there, even though her own bed is only a hundred feet away. Too far when she is this tired. Sleep beckons to her. But she is already struggling to finish her chores in one day; a nap would mean she wouldn’t finish until the next morning. And then, the following night, she wouldn’t be done until the next afternoon. Any semblance of a 24-hour schedule would be gone. She would find herself working through the night, through the mornings. Without a boundary of time, she would collapse.
I can’t keep doing this.
It’s not an option to stop at midnight and leave some of the people uncared for. Even if there were only two more Blocks left to be cleaned and fed, she couldn’t go to sleep knowing they have to wait for basic care that everyone else has already received. Her conscience wouldn’t let her sleep. She could walk back to her own cot, but a voice in the back of her head would keep reminding her of the people who were wearing shit-filled diapers. This thought would force her back out of bed. It’s a losing battle. She knows this.
Some days, she thinks the entire group should band together and suffer equally, as long as it means everyone survives. This is how countries unite during wars. It’s how families come together after tragedies. But what is the point of sixty-five people (she includes herself, even though she is the caretaker and the only person in the building with a real voice) suffering each day? What is the point of anyone waking up just to be miserable, go about
But even these simple, basic needs—food, cleanliness—have become too much for one person. Beginning her rounds as soon as she wakes up makes no difference. If she wakes at four in the morning, she starts her rounds. Her conscience does not let her go back to sleep because sleep means all of these people, people who are relying on her, are going without care longer than they should.
There are no vacations. She cannot take days off. There is no one to alternate duties with. She no longer bothers to clean her dirty dishes. She pulls a filthy plate out of the sink and puts new food on it because that saves a couple of minutes.
Naively, she once thought if she merely moved faster, she could still care for each person the way she used to when Elaine was here. There is no pace to quicken, though, when you are ninety-three years old.
Maybe if I only clean them once every three days. Maybe if I only reposition them once a week.
But this is desperation speaking. This line of thought is how the quality of life begins to diminish past the point anyone would consider acceptable. Bedsores will begin to develop if she only cleans them every three days, if she only adjusts their arms and legs a few times each month. Infections will spread. She won’t allow that to happen to her Blocks. She has already stopped shaving the men’s faces and combing the women’s hair. She no longer takes the time to offer a loving caress on each person’s hand or cheek. There is nothing else she can cut back on to help get through all the chores for every Block. Yet continuing with such little sleep is not realistic. It will kill her. If she dies, the people she is caring for will all die too.
I can’t keep doing this.
Only two thirds of the way through her chores, she is already so exhausted that she needs to put her head on the closest cot and regain her balance. The very real thought crosses her mind that she could crawl into bed next to the Block already positioned there and take a week-long nap. The Block does not move over to make room for her. He does not offer an encouraging smile.
She thinks about lying down on the floor and sleeping there, even though her own bed is only a hundred feet away. Too far when she is this tired. Sleep beckons to her. But she is already struggling to finish her chores in one day; a nap would mean she wouldn’t finish until the next morning. And then, the following night, she wouldn’t be done until the next afternoon. Any semblance of a 24-hour schedule would be gone. She would find herself working through the night, through the mornings. Without a boundary of time, she would collapse.
I can’t keep doing this.
It’s not an option to stop at midnight and leave some of the people uncared for. Even if there were only two more Blocks left to be cleaned and fed, she couldn’t go to sleep knowing they have to wait for basic care that everyone else has already received. Her conscience wouldn’t let her sleep. She could walk back to her own cot, but a voice in the back of her head would keep reminding her of the people who were wearing shit-filled diapers. This thought would force her back out of bed. It’s a losing battle. She knows this.
Some days, she thinks the entire group should band together and suffer equally, as long as it means everyone survives. This is how countries unite during wars. It’s how families come together after tragedies. But what is the point of sixty-five people (she includes herself, even though she is the caretaker and the only person in the building with a real voice) suffering each day? What is the point of anyone waking up just to be miserable, go about
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