Judgement

'Why me?' Was the first thought that lodged itself in my brain when I tore open the letter on that memorable day in October. I quickly swallowed it down, slightly embarrassed at the triteness of my own subconscious; an abhorrer of cliche, even inside my own head. Settling for a more appeasing, if more thought consuming form of self pity, I considered the percentages.

I knew that the number of people drafted was currently minimal - it didn't take that many people to imprison, or kill apparently. And we live in an equal society now - this lottery was being won and lost every day with the entire population involved. So how did I lose?! Slumping into a state somewhere between melancholy and anxiety, I decided it was time for a cup of tea. My least tea as a free man.

I knew the drill of course, everyone does. Two weeks - if I'm lucky - sat in a brain numbingly bright artificial room, two weeks of listening to people barking orders, requests, pleas at us - the randomly selected stooges - until we don't know our own minds any more. Two weeks in which to weigh up the decisions that must be made, the decisions we must always live with, the decisions which will determine their fate. Of course it could be a lot longer before we're allowed to move on. If we can't make those decisions quickly - if we don't show we understand, if we falter, hesitate or in any way resist the mind games they subject us to then we're stuck indefinitely. We must agree, we must be unified, and it takes only one dissenting voice to prolong our internment. I can only hope they don't deem me a suitable candidate; maybe I can play dumb, or somehow prove that I'm too pig headed to be conditioned. Maybe then I can get out. I can hope.

Of course, there are the positives - once completed, I will have fulfilled my duty. It will be over, and I never have to return. Yes, I have to live with the decisions I make, the fates I seal; but it will be finished and I will never have to worry about the letter arriving again. No-one has to know what happened; how I acted, or what was said. None but those sharing the same torture. Maybe I will be different, but who will care? Those that haven't gone before me will think I've had a nice break. 'Did you enjoy your time off, part timer?' they'll jovially and rhetorically call when I return. Of course, I'll smile and nod and things will continue as normal. Maybe it'll be ok, maybe I'll forget about it eventually, maybe....maybe...

Maybe I'm just overreacting, was the last thought to ring itself around my head, fading slowly as I picked up my case and stepped out to see what fates await me, what decisions are to be made. Maybe I'm just overreacting, as I get into the car and drive slowly - as slowly as possible - out of my road and into the bumper to bumper joy of early morning rush hour traffic. Maybe I'm just overreacting, as I carefully take my seat, straining to see the face of the men accused, interrupted only by the call, "All rise...."