Who Am I?

A line-up for Identity

Dormant. Idle. Dead.
This is what they must have seen. Bodies among bodies. A junkyard. Reddish-black smeared, marinated on scrawny, life-ridden faces. This is what happens. This is as usual. A blind eye is what we give in return.
We did not have to see to know what happened in those rooms. Word spread fast even before the war.
We were told to walk single file to our station. Not a word spoken; we obliged. What would you have done? Speak up? Don't lie. Sirens, pillboxes with men watching, holding their machine guns, and a spotlight scrutinized our every move. Everything we do is probably on some kind of chart somewhere in someone's filing cabinet. I have a filing cabinet of my own. Not physical. Not real. It's in my brain. Stored in the crevices of my mind. A slimed-filled membrane that holds only one question. Why them and not us?

    I shouldn't be having those thoughts.
"A distraction to God's capital virtues." That's how Reverend John described it. "The Devil is in those thoughts and he will manipulate you! Blind you! Guide you on a path straight to Hell!"
He said that in one of our lectures at the Rehabilitation of Truths Centre. Everyone went there when the war ended. The one I went to was once a homeless shelter. Homeless shelters are useless now. The homeless don't exist. Yes, there are people who lie on the streets begging for someone to give them anything they could spare. But they are not homeless.
"Those people live with the Devil, and he took 'em to Hell. That's where they belong!"
Reverend John reminded us all that God gave us the privilege to live on this Earth. There is no need to try and help others for they are already long gone. Just be happy you are not in their position. Praise be.

     So, I walk on.
Head tilt towards the ground. I take one leading step. The line seems longer than normal today.
"Hey you! You know where card reader thingy is on selecter machine?"
I stand there silent. I can't allow the head covering of my robe to escape the space between the person's feet in front of me. If I do I will be noticed. He is definitely not from around here.
"Can you not hear me? I asked question."
What is this person thinking? Do they not know the consequences of speaking during specialization period? I can feel the stares. Everyone knows what is going to happen. One of us will be made an example of. We will be no different from the scarecrows that hang on the walls of city hall.
"I new here-"
I'm well aware-
"You help me?"
"I-I-I can't."
We are lucky to not have already been taken and put into the rooms by now. I keep my position. Head down looking at the black boots of the person ahead of me. Although, I can still see the shadows of the soldiers peering down on the concrete floor and lying on the toe box of my boots. I know anything can happen. Whatever does happen is not in my control.

    We are only allowed to speak in whispers.
A quick, "Hey," or "See ya tomorrow." Anything longer than that and you will scare the fully armed men. Only giving them one more reason to put a few rounds in your brain.  No reading or writing is allowed either. No, that leads to learning, which would follow with rebellion. Even the soldiers follow those rules. I can not remember the last time I held a book or put pen to paper. I yearn to bear the weight of a hardcover. Pages upon pages. To feel each gush of wind blow by my thumb and down my wrist every time I flipped a page. To be held; felt again. To be reminded of its smell and the way it always knew what my favourite passages were; opening to them of its own accord like a friend. Like Family.

    How I was so ungrateful.
God gave me the gift to read and I spent that offering scrolling. Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. I wish I could reach out through the glass. Wrap my ash-painted fingers around the semi-spread collar of the blue dress shirt I used to wear. Grip it to a choke and utter,
"I hope you are enjoying yourself. Mindlessly scrolling from teenage millionaire blogs to ads of a facelift done by someone who is "definitely" a professional and "certainly" living in America legally."
A lot hasn't changed I guess. I realize that while in line. I am still passing many less fortunate people. Pretending to not see them or know where they are headed. And at the end of the line lies a giant screen where you scroll through many shapes to clock into the section that you will be working on that day. They took away our words and gave us symbols instead but they still can't take away the scrolling. They must want us to be absentminded. Leave it to men to take pride in building this world and blatantly disregard it while it is crumbling. If boys will be boys then men are just overly hormonal, hairy, stretched out, reflections of their school-aged-selves.

    The thought fades.
The stares gone. We are now much closer to the Specialization screen. Close enough that the glare on the glass makes it hard to look ahead.
"Sir, I need your help. Please."
He says it in a whisper but the room is so quiet it sounds like he is  yelling. I can feel the hopelessness in his voice. He needs someone. Me, but why? He went through the same training as I. Everyone does. Certainly, he should know how to use the machine. Even if he were new, it's not my responsibility to help. Even if I wanted to. Remember your duty.

   

The boots in front of my view are now gone.
Left is the sharp black shadow of the army men watching us. It is now my turn. I lift my head to be greeted by the screen. Lay my card on the scanner. Presenting a piercing beep and a red star. Yesterday I was on blacksmith duty. A yellow hammer filled the screen. I have never seen this symbol, however. What could a red star mean? How do I not know what it means? Was I not taught everything I needed to know? Time clicks on. With every second I spend thinking is another second I waste. I can feel the impatience of the room. Everyone wants to be in and out. I step out of line.

    I have nowhere to go.
Surrounded by militia I walk with each pounding step well aware that at any moment I could be stopped. Questioned. Taken in for not presenting to my station. I am a wolf in wolf's clothing; paint splatter on a blank canvas. But I walk on, why? The giant yellow hammer becomes larger and larger as I walk towards it. I am a nail that is about to be dug into the plywood of my lies. A single soldier with a gun strapped to his shoulder guards the section. Hands shaking holding my I.D card out like someone trying to open a lock with the wrong key. Obviously, I won't be accepted into this section. My I.D says I should be in red star, not yellow hammer. The soldier grabs my I.D. He swipes the card on his scanner. I'm done for.

    "This card is not authorized by the ministry of the governing nation. Please report to your sanctioned officer."
I am too ashamed to even look at the guard standing in front of me. I hope I go quick. I continue to peer down at the toes of my boots. I can see the reflection of my sunken face looking right back at me. What have I become?
"Help!"
I've heard that a million times. But this time it is different. As I turn around to see a couple of officers dragging away an old Asian man I see what this whole thing is. What I am full-knowingly a part of. I then realize that the man they are dragging away is the same man who asked me to help him with his I.D card only a few moments ago. All those people I walked by with my head bent down. Pretending not to notice their need for help and now I am no different. I am no different than the homeless beggars. Than the Asian man. Although, they aren't fools.

    I walk towards the guards carrying away the Asian man.
Each step faster than the last; sequentially turning into a run. I don't even think of grabbing my I.D. card. I am not that identity anymore. I am more than a red star. This will probably be the last decision I ever make. Go back. Turn yourself in.

No.