Death Inc.

Chapter 5

Years passed, and Death Inc.'s reputation soared along with its profits. Dan became a prominent figure, lauded and vilified in equal measure. The public's demand for his services grew, but so did the economic disparity. Many people found themselves living longer but with a diminished quality of life, unable to afford the end-of-life care some desperately needed.

To address this growing issue, Dan proposed a new, more affordable service: allowing a paying person to administer the euthanasia themselves. This decision marked a turning point, both for the company and for us. The idea was controversial, breaching ethical boundaries and sparking fierce public debate.

I was mortified. The very thought of turning such a profound act into a transactional service was abhorrent to me. Yet, Dan saw it as a necessary evolution of his business, a way to make it more accessible to those in need. The tension between us reached a breaking point, as I struggled to reconcile my love for him with my growing horror at his actions.

"Rachel, we have to adapt," he said during one of our increasingly rare and strained conversations. "The world is changing, and so must we. This new service will make it possible for more people to find peace."

"But at what cost, Dan?" I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes. "This isn't just business; it's people's lives. How can you be so detached?"

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and something I couldn't quite place. "I'm doing this for the greater good, Rachel. I need you to understand that."

It was as if my show of emotions made my points invalid and he wanted to dismiss me from the conversation.

I nodded, but deep down, I felt a chasm widening between us. Despite everything, I still loved him. I clung to the hope that one day, he might see the human cost of his ambition and find a way to reconcile his vision with his heart.

Dan's proposal to allow a paying person to administer the euthanasia themselves was met with both outrage and relief. For some, it represented an affordable solution in a world where extended lifespans had become a financial burden. For others, it was a grotesque commodification of life and death.

The day of the launch was a media spectacle. Reporters, protesters, and supporters gathered outside Death Inc.'s headquarters. The tension was palpable, a mix of anticipation and anxiety. Inside, Dan was in his element, orchestrating the event with the precision of a conductor leading a symphony. He was confident, charismatic, and utterly convinced of his mission.

I stood by his side, feeling a mix of pride and dread. The love I felt for Dan was strong, but it was now intertwined with a deep-seated fear of what he had become. As he addressed the crowd, I couldn't help but remember the idealistic young man I had fallen in love with, and how far he had drifted.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dan began, his voice steady and authoritative, "today marks a new chapter in our commitment to providing dignified end-of-life care. Our new service will make it possible for more people to have access to the peace they deserve, regardless of their financial situation. This is about choice, dignity, and compassion."

The crowd erupted in applause, but I could hear the murmurs of dissent as well. Protesters held signs that read, "Life is sacred" and "Euthanasia is murder, not a commodity." Pro-Life stickers could be seen on every other bumper on the road. I felt a pang of guilt, wondering if we had gone too far, if we were sacrificing our humanity for the sake of business.

The new service, "Death Inc. YOU," was simple in its concept but profoundly disturbing in its execution. By allowing a paying person to administer the euthanasia, Death Inc. slashed costs and made the service accessible to a wider demographic. But it also opened the door to a dark, unspoken market: people who found a twisted pleasure in ending a life.

Dan's justification was economic and pragmatic. "Rachel, this will help so many more people. The professionals' fees are too high for most, and this way, we're democratizing the process. It's about making a necessary service available to everyone."

"But what about the people who will abuse it?" I countered, horrified. "The ones who pay not out of compassion, but out of some sick desire to play god?"

"We have strict screening processes," he assured me. "Only those who pass rigorous psychological evaluations will be allowed to participate."

Despite his reassurances, the stories began to emerge. Dark tales of people with questionable motives, individuals who saw Death Inc. YOU as an opportunity for a deplorable form of dark tourism. They paid exorbitant fees not for the service itself, but for the experience of ending a life. It was a macabre pastime, a chilling reflection of how far humanity could fall.

One evening, as we sat in our lavish living room, I broached the subject that had been weighing on my mind. "Dan, do you ever think about the consequences of what we're doing? The people who can't afford even the new service? What happens to them?"

He looked at me, his expression a mix of frustration and determination. "Rachel, we've been over this. We're doing the best we can to provide a solution. Not everyone will be happy, but we can't save everyone. Take that up with the lizard people that sentenced everyone to a long life of suffering. I'm doing everything I can."

"But what about the moral cost? The human cost?" I pressed, feeling the tears welling up.

"This isn't just about business. It's about people's lives. Their dignity."

Dan sighed, his face softening for a moment as if he had a little sociopathic Dan in his brain pressing a patience and happiness button that was low on battery. "Believe me, I think about it every day. But I believe in what we're doing. I believe we're making a difference."

I wanted to believe him, but the weight of our choices felt like a burden too heavy to bear. As Death Inc.'s success grew, so did the public outcry. The controversy surrounding the new service became a national debate, with politicians, religious leaders, and activists all weighing in. I admit some of the memes were funny.

Amidst the turmoil, I found solace in small acts of rebellion. I began volunteering at local hospice shelters, trying to make a difference in the lives of those who couldn't afford Death Inc.'s services. It was a way to reclaim some of the empathy that had been lost in the pursuit of Dan's ambitions.
One day, while I was helping at a shelter, a woman approached me.

Her eyes were tired, her face lined with the struggles of a hard life. "Mrs. Hastings, I just wanted to thank you. My father... he couldn't afford Death Inc., but your kindness helped us through his last days."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Here was a tangible example of the human cost of our success. I thanked her, tears streaming down my face, and vowed to do more. I knew I couldn't change Dan, but I could try to balance the scales in my own way.

As the years went by, the divide between us grew. Dan became bedridden, his once indomitable spirit now trapped in a failing body. Yet, even in his weakened state, his mind remained sharp, his determination unbroken. He still believed in his mission, convinced that Death Inc. was a force for good.

I, on the other hand, saw the cracks in our legacy. The people left behind, the lives cut short, the families torn apart. It was so heavy, I often wondered if our love could withstand the weight of it all.

In the quiet moments, when the house was still and the world outside seemed distant, I would sit by Dan's bedside, holding his hand and remembering the man I had fallen in love with. The idealistic young man who wanted to change the world, who believed in the power of compassion and empathy.

"Rachel," Dan said one night, his voice weak but steady, "I know this hasn't been easy. I know I've made mistakes. But I believe in what we've done. I believe it matters."

I squeezed his hand, tears slipping down my cheeks. "I know, Dan. I know. But sometimes, I wonder if the cost was too high."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and resolve. "Maybe. But we did what we thought was right. We made a difference."

As I sat there, holding his hand, I realized that despite everything, I still loved him. The years had taken their toll, but the bond we shared was unbroken. And in that moment, I knew that no matter what the future held, we would face it together.