Krisztina Kotsy

Murder

The old conveyor belt kept on carrying goods tirelessly. Ever since he had learned
that he had grown old, he had been straining himself all the more. For work and
performance are no fun and games.
He had not taken heed of the pain due to some worn part. He went on spinning faster
and forced himself to ever greater speeds, not realizing that he rattled, moaned, whirred
and clicked more and more loudly day to day. He did what was wished of him but he
became a caricature of his old self. Just like when he was brand new. He had to do so,
lest curious eyes should find out he wasnt the same old thing anymore.
The factory kept on swallowing days, one after the other, mercilessly, without
ceasing, just the way children would swallow candies if they were allowed to. The
factory could do so; it had been doing the same for ever; and anyway there was no-one
to smack it on the mouth if it carried gobbling too far. No wonder some expressed the
opinion that the factory had changed. It had become conceited. Its apparent superiority
first showed in that everything and everyone in it was replaceablein accordance with
the supposed order of things in the world.
The work never stopped, and the old belt ran and strained and pressed on. He
stopped here and there to catch his breath, to peer around whether the eyes had taken
notice of him, whether they had acknowledged that he could still be as productive as the
new ones. Whether he was still considered to be worth his price. Whether they were
aware that he had accumulated the most hours of labor of them all. Whether they had
realized in the slightest how valuable an experienced laborer is.
The eyes saw, knew, and realized all this. Not that they cared. They avoided the old
things unpleasant gaze. So far his presence had been tolerated, and they shut
themselves to what he was. They didnt have the patience and motivation to use him in
the short time left, before the factory discarded him once and for all. They knew he
hadnt been his old self for a long time. He was not only noisy and irritating, but now he
stank, too. Worn and tired he carried the unmistakable stink of age and offended the
new ones noses.
Surely he wasnt a fashionable make, but he worked, did his best, carried out
whatever was required of him. Only such things mattered. Staying competitive.
Pushing. Meeting the demands by all means.
Then on a warm summer day the old thing broke during the shift. Just like that. It
happened rather inconspicuously. He collapsed into a dirty plastic chair standing close
at hand and grabbing his shirt, wheezing, he tried to catch his breath.
He was caught unawaresred-handed even. Previously he had not noticed
something had been wrong. He was taken aback: how could this be happening to him?
To his excessively strong, youthful body How terrible! The time had surely not come
yet
but still his lungs wouldnt suck in and blow out the air properly. His face
reddened, he croaked some, spittle bubbles appearing in the corner of his mouth. His
glassy stare was directed at a faraway place, searching for someone to save him. Still
the eyes kept their necessary distance.
When the world went rather black, as if by some magic, a great big movie screen
2

appeared before his eyes on the brick wall (where the table had been), and a familiar
movie started playing by itself, a film about none other than him. It was somehow, some
time ago made for him, so that one day, when an opportunity arose, he could inspect his
years spent at the factory. Not until today had he realized that the factory had been
wired. He hadnt suspected it, but in his heart of hearts he hoped he was such an
important worker in the factory that someone would make a movie of him. Him? He
liked the idea, but he also felt embarrassed. He wanted to say, you didnt have to
but then kept quiet. For once he didnt mind the rest in front of the silver screen; the day
had started quite exhaustingly.
The experience was something new, as he had never visited a cinema before. Yet
quickly he grew bored and fumed, since after a time, as if the tape had got stuck, the
same pictures were repeated movement after movement, day after day, year after year.
The old thing was squirming in agony, fidgeting in his chair. Unusually for him, he
almost wanted to open his mouth to complain. He almost wanted to express his concern
that something was amiss with the movie, would they please run a check on and fix the
tape because this was unfit for enjoyment But soon the final frames rolled by and
the words appeared: THE END.
He was glad it was over. He wanted to go on with his work that had been cut short.
He opened his eyes and blinked. He smiled in relief. Peering around he realized the
screen had gone, but all the other things remained where he had left them. He shuddered
with the bizarre experience, arranged the shirt on his chest and sighed, but after the sigh
all the air left his lungs. And he expired. The conveyor belt stopped.
The old thing slipped out of his body without any effort. What had happened had by
then become all so evident to him. He sensed, nonetheless, that he had surrendered too
quickly. There had been some things left to do.
For a short time he hovered above his old self. He lingered. For two full minutes he
pondered over how the factory would receive his call in the morning saying he would
not come to work anymore, because he was cooked.
Then, with a sudden shift, he shook off his sense of duty, recovered himself from the
stupor of human life and decided to work out what had indeed gone so wrong. And
when it had happened. Looking for answers he glanced investigatively at the old body,
the tattered clothes, the great filth and the huge amount of nothing surrounding the old
man, and he was ashamed.
What was the reason for my being here? he asked himself brooding before he
escaped the vicinity of the corpse.