This is an entry for the Finish the Story Contest - WEEK #18.
Here is 
She picked up a resignation form today. She had been thinking about it for a while, handing in her notice, taking her last year. Every day is just the same, different faces, different flavours, but underneath, it was all the same. Was there any point in the endless forward march, the slow decline into ill health, unemployment and poverty? She didn’t have children, no friends who came to visit, and it was at least three years since her last match.
She sat on the corner of her single bed, in her single room, the thin long window illuminating the bare floor. She pushed a loose strand of mousy blonde hair behind her ear, and picking at her thumb, she wandered in thought.
She could travel, she could see the ocean, she could stand beneath trees, she could sit in silence. For one year. It was as good as it got, some people only got 6 months. But was she ready?
She couldn’t keep going, not like this. She had seen the lifers, the people who worked for 65 years and collapsed, decrepit, into the hands of hapless, half-hearted “help”. She had even been that half-hearted, hapless help, she had worked for minimum wage, clearing up bodily fluids, spoon feeding, doing what she could, but it destroyed you, seeing all your future had to offer.
A lot of people who worked there handed in their notice; you had to do it between 40 and 55 to get the year. Some people applied for special circumstances after 55, but generally they got less time.
She was 47. A lot could change in her life still. She could meet someone, she could have children, grandchildren, she could grow old. Couldn’t she…? Did she want to? She turned it over in her mind. She had accepted a lot in her life, but she just couldn’t face the rest of her life, playing out, day by slow dragging, hardworking, lonely, day. Night after empty, starless night. If she took her year, she could get away from the cities and their thick rank pollution. She could escape the crush of the masses, the regimented flow of preoccupied people. Her parents took her to a forest once, before the regulations changed, and closing her eyes, she could almost hear the hushed whisper of branches, almost feel the dappled sunlight on her upturned face. Almost. She opened her eyes, was there ever really any question? She had dreamed of it for as long as she could remember, and in that moment, she realised, she was always going to quit, it was never a question of did she want to, just when. Was she ready?
She flopped back onto her bed, bouncing back against the overly springy mattress. Relief coursed through her. She was going to quit, maybe not today, but she would do it. The digital display in the wall flashed, green numbers ticking over, 23:00. Instinctively, she felt around her bedside tablet, and pressing the button, retrieved her small blue pill. Blue before bed, white before work. It dissolved on her tongue, and she felt the thoughtless relaxation wash over her.
The next morning, she woke before her alarm had chance to rouse her. She stood at the window, watching the constant ebb and flow of people and traffic, the living city beneath her never slept. Her resolve had only hardened overnight, it felt right. She retrieved the form. She would quit. She would take the year. One good year, then call it quits.
And this is my ending:
She was lying in the shadow of the fake tree, looking at virtual clouds through the still leaves.
It had been the best year she could have hoped for. She read novels, traveled, met people, had fun. She lived : something, she realized, she hadn't been doing before.
Now it was over. She'd had the meeting, signed the papers, gulped down the black pill. All that was left was the wait.
The old lady found her half-asleep. The wrinkled face suddenly appeared in her field of vision, obscuring the digital-sun-kissed leaves.
"Hello, dearie," the lady said. "You can call me Grace. May I sit," without waiting, she opened a handkerchief, placed it on the plastic grass and sat down.
She observed her. Grace was a seventy-ish woman wearing a dispassionate frown. She resembled the lead in that old-fashioned murder show, or, a German chancellor.
"Grace... Nice name," she muttered.
"Not my real name," Grace replied, "but thank you kindly."
That woke her up. "I'm sorry, are you with the Agency? I was told we were done with the procedures."
"I know about that," Grace said, "and I apologize for wasting more of your limited time. Have you planned out your last day?"
"Down to the minute," and she told her. Lunch with Andy and maybe something more, sauna, her favorite comedy show, poetry, meditation. She'd decided to stay lucid in the final moment.
"I love poetry," the old lady proclaimed. "Evoking beauty, and meaning, where there is absolutely none. Do you know Yeats? His Irish Airman is my favorite piece."
She knew that one: way too morbid for her taste. "Grace, sorry to cut this short but, how can I help you?"
Grace's mouth tightened. "Well, I'll be blunt. Tomorrow, you will be dead; nothing can be done about that. You can go gentle into that good night... Or you could leave a smoking crater half a mile wide."
Her head started spinning.
"You're not with the government." Shiiit.
"I never said I was."
"You're suggesting I become a suicide bomber."
"I'm offering you an explosive device, yes."
"But... Why would I do that?"
The old lady chuckled. "Why wouldn't you? Got anything to lose?"
"I have no reason to--"
"Girl, I could explain about pills, depression, policy to euthanize the ageing workforce, private longevity treatments... I won't waste my time. Educating yourself was your responsibility and you failed miserably. All I have for you, is a very destructive loudspeaker, and the question: any last words?"
Grace's speech was a slap in the face. A sudden realization entered her mind and would not budge. That perfect year spent hugging trees, and chasing sunlight, was as futile and selfish as the previous forty-seven at minimum wage. She hadn't made any difference; she had given back nothing.
What results could she achieve? Did she want to? Was it too late?
Grace added mercilessly, "Don't expect me to do your homework for you."
The clock was ticking.
