Because he was little more than a waste of resources, the only socially responsible action for Peter to take was ending his own life. He’d thought about it in the soundest of minds. Even at the height of his potential, if he produced whatever goods or services he was capable of producing, he would continue to remain a net drain on the economy and the environment for the foreseeable future.
He told this to a friend and was told to seek counseling. He tried to explain, he wasn’t depressed. He was only stating facts.
“I can’t believe you’d be so selfish that you’d even think about killing yourself. What about the people who care about you?”
Peter nodded, and waited.
After they had drifted apart, Peter crossed his friend’s name off a list.
He came out to his parents, and thankfully, they disowned him. He crossed them off, too.
The last of his connections was his landlady, who made gentle smalltalk whenever she saw him. When he stopped paying rent, she stopped talking, and changed the locks. Peter had left his list inside. It would likely be incinerated.
Severed at last from responsibility, Peter was ready, though unsure of the proper method. Subjecting an innocent bystander to the trauma of finding his lifeless body would be too cruel, and if his obituary was published, some empathetic auld acquaintance might feel some slight despair. Dying would not be enough. He could not be found or recognized. He had to destroy himself.
The pain was terrific, but he felt so much safer knowing that his teeth no longer matched the dental records, and that the acid had left his fingers nothing but bones. Anchor on his ankle, he was ready to disappear.
The fish who saw him looked alarmed. He was sorry.