It’s hard cleaning dishes as quietly as possible but it’s half-past two in the morning and the last thing I need is to wake someone up. Especially my parents.

I pass by the fridge on the way back, the dim illumination of its interior lighting part of the kitchen and my unkempt features as I scout for any goodies which I find in the form of a half-finished kit-kat bar. Nabbing my treasure, I tip toe my way back to my room on the second floor. At this point I’m an expert at avoiding the minefield of creaks that litter the wooden stairs and so, despite my weight, I’m able to traverse in silence.

My room is dark, lit dimly by the dual screens of my desktop on my desk. It helps hide the mess that my room is in. Empty packets of crisps, soft drink cans, pizza boxes on one side and empty game cases, cardboard boxes and packaging material on the other of this dingy room that is much overdue for a cleanup. 

It’s on my way to my chair where my foot hits something hard, causing me to drop my newly acquired treasure, lost to the sea of garbage below.

“Fuck!” I hiss, quickly grabbing my foot and hopping the rest of the way to my chair, landing on it much harder than I would like as I force back the recliner mechanism with a loud click. 

“Shit!”

I lean forward, testing the recliner mechanism and find it still working to my relief. Then I hold still for what feels like hours, listening closely to hear if my sudden racket stirred anyone awake. After being met with a lack of response, I check my foot to see if there’s any damage and, satisfied it’s not bleeding, I turn my attention to the thing I just hit.

As with many other people who live in disorder, there’s a sort of reason for the chaos. Remove one thing from a seemingly random place and that person wouldn’t be able to find that item. Subtly shift things around and you’ll find that person suddenly bumping into things that he’s been gracefully avoiding from months of muscle memory.

I find myself face to face with a mysterious box. I say mysterious because I definitely recall opening whatever packages I had delivered to me today and that all package related trash belonged on the top right side of my room, not in the short corridor between the door and my desk.

It’s also two-thirty in the morning. So I have no idea who could have placed the box here. Certainly not my parents who are sound asleep. Feeling more than a little creeped out, I roll forward, my ass still planted on the chair, until I’m right in front of it.

There’s no markings on the box. No logos, stamps, or stickers showing who it’s from. All there is, is a piece of tape holding down the two folds that would open this box. It’s a big box too. Like it’s meant to hold a couple stacks of books or a computer, but when I lift it, I find it’s surprisingly light. That makes even less sense given the solid impact I made with this thing.

With no other choice, I grab a pair of scissors and my phone to shine some light. I slice the tape clean, slowly leaning away as I do so as if I expect some devil spawn to jump out at me.

Nothing happens.

I open the box. Cautiously.

Inside, completely undisturbed, is… something circular. Slightly smaller than my hand. When I pick it up, I see that it’s an unmarked green button.

Something clicks in my head.

Something big.

And with that realisation I gingerly roll back to my desk, placing the button carefully on it as if it were made of glass. 

Ripping out a piece of paper, I scribble today’s date and the time and my username, ‘i_dont_need_this’.

I bring it in front of my computer screen, the only other source of light in my room, and take a picture with my phone. It’s grainy but passable. I shift it again to one side, making sure it’s a fair distance that I wouldn’t accidentally touch it, and hurriedly log on to my computer as I try, and fail, to contain my haggard breaths that fill the otherwise silent room.

There’s a rumour, you see. On the dark web and some obscure degenerate message boards. An urban legend that circulates around people like me. 

Depraved, sick people devoid of hope. Misogynists and misanthropes, pedophiles and rapists, serial killers and all in between. The mentally ill, the ones on the very edge of society.

There is a button that allows whoever presses it to die. 

Instantly and painlessly.

It comes to people like me. Sick, irredeemable people. No one ever knows how. All who have received the button have said it just mysteriously appeared one day.

No one could ever verify such a thing exists. People who have supposedly streamed them have had those videos wiped. Normal, really, for any self-respecting video platform in this day and age. If a person were to save those recordings offline onto a separate device, they would come out corrupted no matter how many redundancies were placed. 

All that makes it out to the internet are the words of complete strangers behind anonymity. That’s already hard to trust, but these anons are also completely mental, which makes their word even more sceptical. 

Well, their words and the pictures.

The pictures never get deleted. They stay and get passed around from forum to forum like some weird chain letter. A lot of them are fakes, obviously. But there’s a smattering of real ones. You could always tell because of the content of the pictures. The fake ones, the pictures are too clean ‘cause they got a good phone from their well paying job. The rooms are too neat, the furniture well-maintained.

And you can see when someone is at the end of their rope.

Someone like me.

It’s been years since I’ve felt this much excitement.

Feeling pleasantly surprised, happiness, elation and anticipation, all things I thought I lost so many years ago.

Until now, all that stayed within me were layers of anxiety, of depression and paralysis, of mental self-flagellation. Trapped in this disgusting fat body while I can feel my mind physically rotting like a carcass. 

I wasn’t always this way. No one ever chooses to be like this at first. I was a shy and sheltered kid. But, like, I still had friends even up until high school. It was just that the things I could with them were so pathetically limited thanks to my parents. They told me what was good and bad, what subjects I should take and interests I should have. Like, what kind of parents have their kid report back to them every hour while they’re out?

My parents were the usual helicopter parents you now hear a lot on the news. How it’s those types of parents who are contributing to the declining mental resilience of the new generation. I ended up avoiding pain whenever I could, whether that was physical or mental. New experiences deterred me. As I grew older, I never really grew up, content to stay in the narrow bubble of my comfort zone.

Maybe if I just had that one friend who pulled me out of my comfort zone, or if I tried to take the opportunities that came to me I might be here. Like I said, I was sheltered. My parents were well off. Even after having two more kids, they had more than enough money to pay for our entire education. So naturally, there were plenty of chances for me to develop myself growing up. Perhaps my parents should have pushed me to take some of them but there was a fat chance of that happening. I don’t even know how my younger siblings ended up better than me. Maybe because I was too much of a goody-two-shoes for my own good. Followed the rules too much. Rode the praise of being a good kid too much and now I’m a fat fucking waste of space.

Maybe I could have done something about it myself. But, nature and nurture, as they say, right? Psychologists say you can’t really change whether you’re an introvert or an extrovert. That’s encoded into your very DNA. So my nature was already giving me a more quiet inclination. Add to that my nurture and, well, you get the deal. Or maybe I was just a lazy, scared piece of shit.

I ended up coasting through life.

I wasn’t able to find a job after graduating. I didn’t have work experience or internships. My grades were average and in today’s service-based economy, everyone was expected to be extroverted and outgoing. 

I stood no chance.

My siblings are a different story. They’re both long gone, financially independent, with well paying jobs and that special someone in their lives. Guess it pays to be a bit of a rule breaker.

Me? I’m nearing thirty, obese, never been in a relationship much less touched a girl. The last time I talked to someone irl that wasn’t just grunts to my parents was… Something years ago.

I hate it.

Who wouldn’t hate this?

I hate what I’ve become and hindsight is always 20/20, which is why I can confidently say I hate myself. Because it was my own inaction that drove me to where I am. 

At least, that’s what I tell myself right now. The flavour of the week on why I’m such a fuckup changes from self-loathing to anger toward my parents. Sometimes it’s a mix of both. It probably is, but shit is it easier to see things in black and white.

My parents tolerate my existence at best and do their utmost to ignore it at worst.

All my meals are delivered. I don’t do my own washing. I clean my bedroom maybe once every two months.

I don’t see myself ever getting out of this and even if I wanted to, where would I even start? The sheer amount of effort just to start is staggering. How long would it be before I would reach a point where I should have been in my early twenties?

That was a large tangent and a half. What’s of importance right now is the green button.

My sticky fingers quickly begin typing on my backlit keyboard. The sounds of mechanical keys and heavy breathing fill the room and I feel the excitement rush through my body, adrenaline flowing down from my core into my brain. Dopamine I haven't had in such a long time. 

I went on every chat forum and message board I was a part of, showing off the button like it was some great achievement I accomplished. In a way, it is. To be so worthless to society that the button chose me. It’s an honour.

Soon the messages came flooding in. 

‘For real?’ 

‘Another troll’ 

‘Fuck soooooo lucky.’ 

‘Do it already.’ 

‘Stream when?’

'Pics or it didn't happen'

‘Lol you know this is all fake right?’

I had fantasies of this moment but I never did think it would actually happen to me. I realise I haven’t glanced at the button in a while. I check back to see that it’s there and it is. Sitting. Waiting for me.

I grin.

I have a plan. I want to do this right. Celebrate this momentous occasion. It is, of course, something worth celebrating. 

All I ever wanted was to kill myself but I was a coward, just like before I was a shut in. The curse of humanity’s survival instinct, bred and evolved over thousands of years, prevented me from doing the deed. 

Suicide was even harder as I didn’t live in a country where guns were legal.

But now I have the button. A device to bypass all those biological protection measures and end my perpetual suffering.

I wade through my room once more, reaching to flip on the light switch on the wall. The light stings my eyes and I feel the residual pain as my eyes get used to the constant light after spending the past few years in nocturnal conditions.

I had some old equipment from when I tried out streaming games (as does anyone who’s a shut in tries to do). I take them out, dusting them off a bit and positioning them around my desk while moving the trash away with my foot as best as I can. Somehow, I still remember how to arrange my setup.

All this is probably futile in terms of recording for posterity. But at the very least those who watch can clearly see the button in action. I owe them that much.

I post that I’m setting up a stream now and that they should be patient. Once again, I’m flooded with replies filled with strangers’ hopes and anticipation. I feel like a goddamn celebrity. Like pewdiepie or something. So much validation all at once. Is this what normal people feel on a day-to-day basis? Being approved by their family and friends, work colleagues and strangers?

It feels good.

I feel my heart thumping in my chest as I tighten the last of my light stands as well as the sweat dripping down my back, making my shirt stick to me.

I sit, take a deep breath, find my centre. The moment is close and I want things to be perfect.

I have my mic and camera ready to go. I open OBS and the forum’s own video hosting service. I check to make sure all the equipment works and that the quality is crisp then send out a link to every site I know.

Here we go.

“Hey guys, I don’t need this here. If you’re watching this, you know why I’m here.” My voice is hoarse and soft, almost croaky from barely ever saying a word. How many actual words do I speak a week? Twenty? Maybe less.

Christ my hands are jittering.

“First, of course you’ll wanna see the goods. Or good. Ta-dah!” I reach over, careful to place the button on top of my palms, and hold it in front of the camera. “The real deal. The green button. No markings. Nothing that says ‘from China’ or shit like that. One hundred percent genuine article.”

I detach my camera from my screen to show the box. “Here’s the box. Don’t mind the mess. Aaaand… shit lemme just try to reach here. Fucking fat arms. Ugh. Ok, there. You can see no markings on the box either. Completely plain inside and out.”

I place the camera back on top of my computer screen and check the chat.

‘It’s happening!’

‘Here we go lads’

‘Do it do it do it do it do it’

‘Lol why so formal?’

‘So just a depressed fat fuck. Not even a serial killer? Lame.’

‘Snuff time bois’

‘Jesus you are fucking big my guy.’

‘For you.’

‘When did you get the button?’

‘Luckiest man on the planet’

'Have you raped anyone?'

‘What a pussy he’s still talking’

‘Kill yourself’

‘Fuck man just press it don’t need to do this detective holmes shit.’

“Obviously you guys want me to get into things but I wanna share some details first. The anticipation will also make the end result that much sweeter. Teasing you fucks is so satisfying but don’t worry, I won’t blue ball you fucking degenerates. Like, look at this.” I hold my hands up to the camera. “Fucking knees weak, palms are heavy type shit going on here, lads. I’m literally spilling spaghetti right now.

“Anyway, so, a few things. As you saw earlier, there’s no markings on the box or the button. It’s, uh, just past three in the morning here. I got the box at, uh, two-thirty after coming back from the kitchen. I didn’t see it since my room’s normally dark. Like, seriously it’s so fucking bright right now but I’m doing this for you, chat. I bumped my foot into it really hard. It felt like there was more shit in the box, but when I opened it there was just the button. Didn’t even look like it moved after I knocked against it. Button itself seems to be made out of a metal base with the actual button being plastic.”

When I check chat again I see they’ve taken up the topic of my breathing. Yeah, laugh it up shitheads. I’m the one that’s about to escape from this hellhole of an existence. Fuck… this is why I fucking hate this body.

‘Dude calm down you’re breathing so hard.’

‘Are you gonna have a heart attack?’

‘Fuck you literally sound like a pig rn’

‘Did you find a big mac under the table or something?’

‘Wow I thought I was bad but I’m glad I’m not this loser lol.’

‘Legit I think this guy made me want to turn my life around.’

“It’s the first time I’ve been excited in years, you fucktards. You have no idea how it feels to be this fucking alive again. I have the button anyway so I can do what I want with it. Not like you need to watch.”

I wipe the sweat off my forehead, straining to keep in control.

“Anyway, just so you guys know we have two thousand people viewing this stream. That’s a lot of you losers like me waiting for their turn to yeet off this miserable planet. I dunno, maybe you’ll be braver than me and jump off a building or something. That’s pretty much everything I can tell you about the button. I don’t really wanna pry it open or anything in case it breaks and I lose my chance. Maybe someone else has done that?

“Feels like this stream is gonna end too soon. I kinda wanna say my life story or something here. Get some closure or whatever.” The sentiment doesn’t net me any favours from the anonymous crowd as they start hurling even more insults at me. “Lol just fuck off. I said I was gonna do it. Seriously, like fucking look at me. You think I’m not gonna pass up this chance? What am I, Boogie2988? How did that retard even get so popular? Fucking kids man. Anyway, Jesus, just calm the fuck down. I’m gonna press the button. Where else do you guys need to be? I’m sure like ninety percent of you are in the same situation as I am.

“So yeah, I fucking hate myself. Like, I know like almost all of chat would murder me to get the childhood I got. I pretty much squandered everything. I got a head start at the starting line and still somehow got lapped by everyone else. Like, given what I started with I shouldn’t be this behind. I shouldn’t be like this. And looking at my siblings and like, my ex-friends. Man, they were just as awkward as me, you know? Now they’re, like, normies. How did that happen while I’m now pissing in bottles? 

“I’m sure you know this feeling, chat. Feeling like you’re so broken that there’s no point in even trying to fix yourself. Like, where would you even begin, you know? It’s like an old computer. Better to buy a new one than to try and fix it, know what I mean? And all the effort to try and fix yourself is practically herculean, and to keep it up for so long just isn’t worth.

“Don’t even get me started on the state of the world. What a time to live in, right? Fuck. I mean, we’re dead anyway ‘cause we can’t get our shit together for climate change. We’re so screwed. Why even keep trying when we’re gonna wipe ourselves out anyway? Everyone’s just completely shitty and I don’t just mean us. I mean even normies are pretty fucking shitty people these days. How did we get so fucking self-centred man? Everyone is now depressed and shit and it’s only getting worse. We live in a society. Yeah, inb4 dead meme.”

The chat is now a mix of people impatiently telling me to press the button, people empathising with my feelings and just random hurtful comments. I lean back against my chair, hearing it audibly creek against my weight. I close my eyes, trying to think if there’s anything else I want to say but I draw up a blank.

My life has been so devoid of any actual substance that there’s nothing left to say. Nothing but my shitty life and shitty circumstances. It’s all I’ve ever talked about the past four, five years. The same topic over and over again, a terrible and vicious cycle.

My heart is still beating fast and I can feel it getting faster, but I’m also calm. Some odd wave coming over me making me ready to accept the inevitable.

“Jesus we’re at 3.5k. Well, I got nothing else to say, chat. I think this is it. I’ve been trapped in this cycle for so long, thinking I wouldn’t have a way out, but I got lucky. That’s all you can ever be in this life. Lucky.”

‘2deep4me lol’

‘You are really boring when you talk’

‘Jesus stop whining and do it already’

‘If you’re loaded give us some money.’

‘Where’s your anime figure collection?’

‘Gooooooooooooo’

‘Die already’

‘Gogogogogog’

I take the green button and bring it up to view. I glance at myself on the computer screen.

It looks like I’m smiling.

“See you on the other side, lads.”