Young Writers Society

She stared down at the dotted line. She glanced to the left to the small, dark door she had come in by. As she looked to her right she could see the sunlight streaming in through the crack around the big double doors at the other end of the warehouse. Through those doors was a new life. All she had to do was sign the paper.

A life of happiness in exchange for her freedom.

A drop of sweat rolled down the contours of her sunken face. If she signed, They would own her; she would just become another one of them. But the food, that glorious food. Huge, steaming platters heaped with food. She hadn’t eaten in months, living only off the chemicals in the air. She thought that she had perfected her emptiness, concave stomach, every bone showing, emaciated. But the thought of food still made her mouth water uncontrollably.

She was alive but not living.

On the other side of those doors there was everything that she needed; a warm house, water, sunshine, happiness, laughter, her friends, her parents. Her husband.

But not freedom.

As children, her unit had all sworn not to sign when the time came. They would forever be peaceful anarchists, unlike their parents who had signed and never came back for them.

They were all gone now, all beyond those doors; sitting in the sun, eating, drinking, laughing.

All of them had gone in swearing not to sign, but they did. They never came back. And just like her parents, she had never heard from them again.

It had been three weeks since her husband had signed. She was the only one of their unit remaining on this side of the doors. They had all broken the promise.

She looked again at the dotted line.

She saw her husband’s smiling face in front of her, his laugh ringing in her ears, him welcoming her into his open arms, telling her that he had only signed so they could have a good life together. But the faces of their daughter. Their little girl all alone in the city, overshadowed his image with rage.

How could he do this?

Torn, she stood motionless, then determinedly picked up the pen and signed along the line, tears streaming down her face.

She turned lightly on one foot and padded towards the exit.

One of the faceless officials moved over to the desk and looked over the contract. Across the line was her angry script: screw you and your system.

He turned and signaled to the others. As they pulled large machine guns out of their shapeless jackets, the sound of hundreds of spent casings falling to the ground rang out and echoed around the large warehouse.

In empty silence, they dragged her bleeding, mutilated body to the hidden door at the back. The door was unlocked and her body thrown to the top of the ever increasing pile.