The door opened.

Bang!

I holstered my government issued handgun. The government loves population control, but in the name of fiscal responsibility, guns were deemed the cheapest and most humane solution. I got on my radio to notify dispatch I was 10-97. She was home alone--the parents were notified that I was coming that day between 1000 and 1400 hours.

I pulled out a white sheet from my pocket. I squinted and crossed my eyes to purposefully blur my vision while I laid it over her face. I walked to my black government issued SUV that was horribly parked on the curb. I was never good at parallel parking I thought to myself. The trunk opened and I pulled out the body bag. The smell made me wince and cough. Budget cuts forced the Department of Population Management to recycle the bags.

I walked over to the lifeless six year old girl, laid down the body bag, and started picking her up. It was windy that day. The white sheet I placed on her slid off and I caught a glimpse of her face. She had hazel eyes. I shook my head. How unfortunate I thought to myself; a ten year veteran committing a rookie mistake--I forgot to clamp the sheet edges to her hair. I put the body bag into the trunk and shut the door. Now the part that I really hated.

I grabbed my clipboard from the front passenger seat and began filling out paperwork. I verified all the information was correct: parents information, the girl’s information, and made sure I attached all the relevant handouts. The first handout advertised cleaning services through Sunshine Cleaning, the DPM’s lowest bidder. The second handout thanked the parents for their patriotism and talked about how their sacrifice helped stabilize the nation’s future. The third handout explained how the parents, if they wish, could have the ashes sent to them. Shipping and handling fees varied. The fourth handout explained how to file for their tax credit—up to $1200 this year. I left the paperwork in the mailbox, locked their front door, and walked back to my car.

I returned to the DPM’s unloading zone where federal contractors took the body and cleaned the car. I took the elevator up to third floor to turn in the copies of the paperwork. As the doors opened, I was greeted with a loud “SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” from my co-workers. We ate cake, drank apple cider, and mingled. The receptionist remembered I needed a toaster so she bought me one. I wished I had the courage to ask her out. Another lonely birthday for me, but I was used to it.

Yesterday marked the DPM’s last day of operations. The new President finally fulfilled his campaign promise to shut down the department. I would have voted for him, but the bill to allow felons to vote would not be active for another two years. By sheer coincidence, a letter from the DPM was forwarded to me yesterday thanking me for my years of service. Sitting my in cell I could not help but think how ludicrous everything was. I am serving a life sentence for murdering her parents, but was thanked for murdering her.