Push the button

The button must be pushed, everybody does it. It makes the world a safer place, even when it tastes bitter.

Gerald was only seventeen years old. He shaved every morning accurately because his beard would not grow respectably. A beard would make him look more audacious, like some of his comrades. "It is what it is," he thought, like his father would say. One has to accept the facts. And the facts said, Gerald would look like a young man, a sensitive thinker who'd listen when you'd tell him something. A man not born to work on construction sites but one who would study philosophy and poetry. He was the dream of every young lady but the nightmare of every father who thinks a man should earn money with hard work.

He had been with the others for a few months, and for the first time, they trusted him to push the button. Knowing this would change everything, he took his time before making it. "It is important to know what you are doing every second of your life," his father would tell him. His father also was a great man who could speak of many things and knew many old stories.

Photo by Olivia Houck on Unsplash

Gerald stood before the button and asked himself if this was the right thing to do. He had a bad taste in his mouth and was unsure if he had a cold or something else. There was no going back afterward. Of course, his task was honorable. Everyone here loves to push the button, as it removes dirt and filth and makes the world a better place. Something was not right, though. Whenever he reached for the button that would change everything, he felt his heartbeat, and his hands started shaking.

"Now do it!" he told himself. Then he felt shaking and a weird taste in his mouth. Again, no. Failure.

"Maybe... focus! It's good. I am a good man like my dad." There was no one here. Gerald was alone. He felt alone. "Everyone is waiting outside for me." His comrades sat outside in the sun, smoking cigarettes and joking. He wanted to be with them, be a grown-up in every way, and be respected. His back straightened up while thinking about their trust in him and the pride that made him lift his head.

"Now!" he yelled, moving his finger forward to the old button, which had seen many pushes. Then, he slowed down as if he could not control his hand and touched it gently. He didn't cause the push.

What if he was wrong with his doubts? Why was he hesitating? Everyone said how this was unpleasant but necessary. He should do it, like everyone else. Everyone does it. Pushing the button must be right because everyone is doing it. And it's not a big thing, not a big deal. Somebody would do it anyway if he wouldn't do it. "I just want to push! Push! Like everyone!" he was unsure if he screamed or if it was only in his mind. "No big deal, this is right! Right, god dammit!"

His eyes became wet somehow, and he didn't know exactly why. He was sure he was right, but his heart made this weird sound, this dark and pitiful boom-boom. Like it would beat slower but harder, he was sure, this caused the wet eyes too. The taste in his mouth again.

Then he heard something, and it was suddenly clear that this was wrong. He should not have done it. Gerald thought to go out and tell the others to stop pushing this button. The moment he turned around, the outside door opened. Gerald could not see his friend Max because the sun was behind him, making him a silhouette without a face. He knew it was Max because Max had an old injury and could not stand straight. They sent him to this place because they could not use him otherwise.

"What takes you so long? Lunch is waiting!" he hollered.

"Almost done. There was rust on the tanks," Gerald replied.

He turned back to the button. "I am no traitor. It's now. Now! Traitors are the worst, really the worst!"

There were just seconds left, or he would have to give up. Gerald thought about his father. His father was dead, but he would have been very proud of him for pushing the button and making the world a safer place. Eventually, his father only died because there was no button before. Gerald tried to see his father. He wanted to hear his voice, but it was not there. It was gone, left his head. He wanted to hug and smell him, but he could not imagine him even. His father's face stayed black inside his mind, and Gerald felt alone in this room, even when Max waited at the door. "I don't want to be alone. Better outside than inside."

Gerald could see his hands moving. Were they his hands? He didn't have control anymore. Was he guilty when he didn't push? Suddenly, he knew that the bad taste in his mouth was the taste of guilt.

His hands felt like he was connected to something else. Like a weird version of himself was moving in them. Numb. When he felt the statics under his skin, he wanted to say something to regain control. Like in a nightmare, he could not make a sound. His throat was closed, and he had trouble breathing. His words were dead inside him, like the flies at his dad's window.

He wanted to scream, but his words were all dead.

His fingers moved towards the button, and there was no way to prevent it. The moment he touched it, he thought, "This is my last chance," but it wasn't a chance. Something else did it, and he just watched, hoping it was not him. Then... the thought: yes, it was him! He can stop right now, but it would be easier to push. While he thought about this, he moved further, almost like a machine, the button further and further. He had hopes that it would stall, but it didn't. Suddenly, the button stopped, and Gerald knew he had done it.

"I belong to them. This taste is me now. I am the taste. I am the guilt." His thinking became very clear now, and he felt pain as someone would have shot him in the stomach. "I don't want to be. I want to go home and be with my dad." He wanted to cry. Those with the taste no longer get to cry. They only get to die.

Gerald heard the sound of metal moving on metal. He turned away and walked towards Max, but his knees were shaky, and he almost fell. He got back in control quickly and hoped Max didn't see it. He didn't want to look like a loser to Max, and he couldn't bear the jokes about how he had messed up his first time. Gerald managed to walk, and when he arrived, he saw Max smiling.

"What took you so long? Did the rats insurrect?"

"No, it was just rusty," Gerald replied, hoping Max would not ask what was rusty.

Before they shut the door, the tanks breathed out their gas. The whisper of the unholy air followed the screaming. The quiet was over, and the screaming and begging started. Gerald felt like he was hit in the stomach and was not sure if he needed to throw up. He saw his hand trying to close the door but was too weak. Max, with a smile, threw the door back in its frame.

"What are you eating today?" he asked.

"Schnitzel, if they have some," Gerald replied, "with Kraut." Kraut would take away the taste in his mouth.

"Good choice," Max said. "Don’t drop dead of hunger, huh? Lot of work today. Overtime, even. Cleaners gotta eat!" Then he laughed, clapped Gerald on the shoulder, and the two young men went to lunch.

Photo by Karsten Winegeart on Unsplash

Afterword

"Push the Button" is not comfortable. It’s not meant to be. It’s not a monster story—because the real monsters never hid in the forests. They were ordinary people, like you and me. People who followed the system did ordinary things and became part of something unimaginable.

History tells us that shadows do not commit atrocities. Real people do. Men and women who convinced themselves they had no choice. I don’t judge the people in history. But to those in the future, I say: don’t be like that.

Terrible things must be remembered. If we forget, we are damned to repeat them.