Wednesdays Were the Hardest

Thirty-seven people were taken last week but history won't remember a single one. History won’t remember those who were taken in their sleep. No one will know if they tried to fight or if they had submitted the instant they entered the room. Their names will be forgotten, dust in the wind, never passing through the mouth of another person. I’ll remember them, as many of them as I can until my name joins theirs in the memories of dwindling survivors.

Wednesdays were the hardest days. No one was around on Wednesdays, we remained indoors, fearful of the outside world and the horrors that it held. On Wednesdays we were safe inside, safe to live another week inside the walls. We didn’t speak on Wednesdays, it was easier that way. Drawing attention to ourselves was too risky, silence was much safer. Safer doesn’t mean much to us anymore. Nowhere is safe, only safer than the last place you were at. No matter where you hid, if you were chosen they would find you. Off you would go to the dark grey vans which vanished in the night.

Thursdays were the solemnest days. We would slowly allow ourselves to speak again, tentatively breaking the silence. No one wanted to be first, but the one who shattered the stillness of the air was usually safe. Though we could never let the names of the taken fall from our lips. We would be next for sure if we allowed that to happen. No one wanted to be next. It’s hard to know who’s gone when no one can tell you the names. Sometimes you would go for a week without noticing the kid who sat behind you in class was gone. Everyone was noticed at some point, by someone who cared about them. But grief was as silent as the nights they disappeared. No one was safe to mourn in public.

Fridays were the grimest days. I tried to write down the names of everyone who was taken. I had two lists, one of everyone in town and the other of those who are gone. I crossed them names off of one list and transferred it to the other. The second list was much longer than I would like it to be, but if that’s the only way i can remember them then so be it. It was harder to recall their faces the longer they had been away. I tried to write the day they disappeared along with all the members of the group. I haven't been wrong yet.

They would kill me if they found my list. Everyone would merely think I had been taken in the next batch, but I would be dead before the next Wednesday. They like to keep us in the dark, like to make us scared of the unknown and weary of our neighbors. We couldn’t resist if we didn’t know who or what we were resisting. They want us to forget our family, our friends, our neighbors who had disappeared.

Memory makes us stronger, brings us together as one. It's easier to mourn as a whole than individually. Shut quietly in a closet where no one can hear you sob as you realize you lost your parents and your best friend in the same week. Waking up one day and realizing that you’re suddenly alone with no one to turn to.

Saturdays were the cruelest days. People began to forget about the previous week and tried to focus on pretending that life was normal. We couldn’t show how destroyed we were, they couldn’t see that they were winning. Clubs were packed on Saturdays, full of lonely people desperate to make connections with anyone who was left. Saturday nights were when we all drank to forget, hoping the alcohol would fill the holes our loved ones had left. 

Sundays were the quietest days. We all had to sleep through our massive hangovers from the night before. As our heads cleared, our memories came back, making us wish that we had more to drink. It wouldn’t be long until they took that from us as well. There’s more suspense when we’re conscious, aware of our surroundings and fully understanding of our current situation. Sundays were days of quiet brunches and overpoured mimosas. 

Sundays were days where we cried quietly to ourselves, no knowing whether we should be mourning or celebrating. Choosing the wrong one could lead to us being taken. I almost always cried on Sundays. I had nothing left to celebrate. Yeah, I was still here, still in town. But that evil you know isn’t always better than the one you don’t. We were stuck here, forbidden to leave until we were forced out. Some days I wished to be taken, though I would never admit it out loud. You never know who or what could hear you anymore.

Mondays were the tensest days. The days where we had t0 decide. Small blue envelopes were delivered each Monday morning, one for each member of the house, perfectly addressed to everyone. We didn’t talk about the envelopes, but we all knew what they meant. They weren’t the ones who chose the victims. We had to. 

No one wanted to know that they were the ones who had chosen which of their neighbors had to face the unknown. It was the easiest when a person you had written down hadn’t been taken. I don’t know how they tallied the votes or if they were even counted. It could all be just a ploy to keep us in line, make us fear the people around us to keep us. Most people would rather throw someone else under a bus rather than step out in front of it themselves.

It was never announced who “won” or who had gotten the most votes. We didn’t even know who counted them, just that the enveloped were retrieved by the end of Monday. We only had one day to choose which of our peers would disappear. We held a power far heavier than any of us wanted to weild.

Tuesdays were the scariest days. You never knew when you would be taken, only that it would happen and it was inevitable.