All The Same.

Every day is the same, the clock rings to wake us up in our side by side beds. In rows we get up, synchronized after years of routine. In tact with each other we make our beds, beat by beat, the same every day. We walk in one neat line out to brush our teeth, our hair, standing up right, sleep long since away from our minds. The mirror we look into are all the same, uniform circles, and the faces we see look so much alike now, that we can look at each other and see ourselves. We put on our white dresses, our clean white shoes. Wide white smiles, plastered on in a row of discomfort, hid away. In one voice we sing, no one sings out of tune, this is what years of singing one song sounds like. That is what they want, perfection. 

My shoes creak slightly, our shoes never creak, they are all made to move silently across the floor. But mine do, i have to walk carefully, putting more pressure on my toes, they press against the hard shell of the shoes, they are too small for me now. I am not supposed to grow. I make up for the shoes by standing rank, rigid in my back, the epitome of perfect posture. 

Every gathering is the same, they stand in front of us, giving their daily speech. Our leader stands in the middle, speaking all the words while they nod along. His eyes are kind, but we have seen what horror those white hands have committed. Seen the blood from a slapped face bleed over them, paint them. We listen as we do everyday, with eagerness, hiding our fear in our perfect reactions. You who stand in the back think you are blessed, but they see everything, they see every misstep. Do not ever let your shoes creak.

My foot moves slightly, I rested on my leg for too long, and the shoe creaks, so so silently that if they hadn’t been thinking of it, it could have been anything, but they are always thinking about it. The girl beside me looks at me, only with her eyes, still unmoving. I see her worry, we all know what happens when our shoes creak. She averts her eyes back to the speaker, unwilling to let my fate hurt hers. I have to put every effort into not reacting, it will do me no good. We know they wait, we know they do not interrupt the speaker.

Before routine, we had mothers, fathers. We know not to think of them, we know they are no more. But every night I lay in my perfect sleeping position, flat down on my back, as we all do, and I think of them, as we all must do. No one moves in their sleep now, I know for I stay awake when they do not, and in the dark I cannot hear even a breath, or a choked cry. We do not share with each other, we do not speak, we know what happens when we speak. 

He was charismatic, he made a good point. Our mothers told us so, before, when they still were. He promised redemption, more than life. They all believed him in their desperation. How could such a kind man commit cruelties? We know he is not kind, we never trust him.

The windows in our room, where our beds stand in perfectly made lines, can not open, and the light that shines through them seem to not be real, it shines with an unnatural hue. Too red to be the sun. I have not seen the sun for years. Month? Decades? We do not know time now, we can not follow the silent glow of the moon with our hopeful eyes, we have neither now. 

We leave the gathering, leaving in a perfect line, everyday it's the same order, they think it is, but they do not see us as different, the line is different everyday. Our only rebellion. If we had not a lamp the room would be dark. We walk, I in the back, too the meal, the only one we get. We do not like the meal, we are scared of their food. They killed our mothers with food.

We sit in our perfect lines, and eat the food with practiced care. We have seen what happens to those who do not take their time, those who do not sit with perfect posture. The meal is the same, we do not know what it is. We eat for it is what we must. 

I have longed for the light of the sun, I have hungered for the page of a book, the sound of my mothers voice. I have wanted to take their pretty white paper, wanted to throw it on the ground to put my less than perfect footstep on it. Let it be torn by the wildness I still have. I have wanted to run my fingertips over the metal wall to feel if it is really as cold as it looks. Do not long, do not want.

Punishments come in evenings, we are all made to watch, if we react we too are punished. We watch the blood unblinking, after years we do not care, when we have long since forgotten our names, we can not care. 

I know what is to come, I know blood, I know pain. Maybe it is all I know. Maybe it is all i will ever know. All we will ever know. 

I remember birds and toads. Remember the trickle of the river, how water looks when sunlight reflects in it. I regret not remembering how my mothers footsteps sounded, how her hair smelled. We can not let ourselves remember that.

We finish eating our meal, and we stand up at the same time, when the clock rings. Not fast, not slow, but perfectly measured. It is more an instinct now, as if the sound creates an automatic reaction in us. We move as we always move. 

Our leader, our speaker, our tormenter, stands in the door and we have to greet him as we leave. We put all the joy on our face that we can muster up. He smiles his kind, disgusting smile and prays for us. I want him to suffer. 

We sit for hours, like statues in a museum, perfectly cut from marble, without flaws. My shoes will creak again, and I will see my own blood.

But we always see blood.

I miss the air, I miss my mother, I miss learning new things about the world. I miss discovering a new crack in a floor board. I try not to think about things, my eyes will well up, and blood will replace tears.

I sit on the stage, see the hundred similar eyes look at me. I think that we’re all different, even if they want to ignore it. We are not the same, we look nothing alike. My breathing is quick, I wish not to show my fear, I want our leader to know he has no power over me. He can take my life, but I live on. He doesn’t know my name, he doesn’t know who my mother was. But neither do I. 

I sit in the metal chair, and for the first time I let my fingers follow the curve of the hand rest, let myself feel the coldness. He, the leader, stands before me, and raises his hand, readying himself to slap me. He flexes his unseen muscles, putting all his strength into it. My cheek fears the slap, but my eyes do not, I will not let them close. I will stare at him, let him see me. See us. My heart pounds so terribly, that I am sure the whole gathering can hear it. Is that allowed? 

I want to yell, I want to make these beings feel something. Fear, pity maybe, we know they do not feel either. 

We have seen necks broken from hands or rope, we have all thought of it being us. I want it to be me, I want to end this. I want it to end with me, I want us all to live again, but this is no life. 

I tie my own noose and spit the leader in his face. I collect all the hydration in my mouth and let it form as a ball, and I let it hit him.

We know he will kill her, but she does it anyway, she ends it.

His hands choke her, we know his temper. Tonight we will mourn her in our secret ways.