some suicides are never recorded. they tell us that it's a sacrifice and we will not die in vain, but i'm not lost in the brainwashed frenzy like the rest of them. i've seen what happens. it's a social aspect really; the less fortunate, less worthwhile. they are relentless and not one thing will stand in their way. no challenge is put up. we're required to put in a circular window with specifications to the millimeter. that's how they get in.
at least you're warned. the letter is a death sentence, but you cannot show your angst, your fright. we're made not to show our expressions. there are no colors outside of the gray spectrum. there are a limited supply of all rations so no social change is supposed to occur, but i know. i know because i once lived outside. i secretly immigrated in, but i digress...
they pull you, grope you, scratch till you're through the circular window. the 'store house' is a seven minute walk from all buildings. design is a large specification here. you'll be drug down the brick laid street. the curtains close, the doors fasten, you go to the south side of your house because it's known that you don't stare. i've seen it multiple times. once to the storehouse you're stripped, cleansed, shaven. not an impurity in sight. you lie down in the room specified to you at birth. you lay as they flog and trounce you only until you're prepared. you're brought before our masted and then, you're gone.
it's a sacrifice. i've been told that they teach you from speaking age. your first words, your first salute. a sacrifice! a sacrifice! there is not sacrifice here, only figmented loyalty. i've longed emigrate back out. however, my letter arrived yesterday.
