No.307

intro*

*THIS IS MY OWN STORY AND IF YOU FAIL TO BELIEVE ME AND ACCUSE ME OF THEFT OF ANOTHER MANS WORK, I WILL REPORT YOU. THIS STORY IS FAKE AND THE EVENTS WHICH ARE WITHIN THIS STORY AREN'T REAL AND WILL NEVER BE REAL, ENJOY.*

Stood in a line of around 400; the line grew shorter as the minutes pass. Tick tock, the clock grew louder the longer my attention was held with it. Blinking at the back of an old woman's head; the only thing I could possibly do without being punished. With my ankles locked in a brace and my hands behind my back in cuffs, my thoughts were all I had. I turned my head very slightly trying not to catch one of the guards attention I looked at the small rounded window far from me on the right. I could barely see the sky, dark and miserably. No, this isn't prison, this is real life. I returned my stare back to the woman's head and noticed it was nearly my turn for my photo I.D, our photo gets updated every 2 years which is a strict law and if you do not obey; the local council and police Will punish you. My mother knew of a rebel; a very rare, brave man he was. He refused to allow a police officer into the bedroom of his sleeping wife, he got his head blown off with one clean shot, the officer left him there for is kid to find. One of the guards grabs me by the hands, dragging me away to a seat; the woman which stood infront of me was placed in the torn seat next to me. I heard the treacherous sound of the shavers and the cry of the elderly woman. I peeked over at the lady but received two large hands either side of my head, twisting my head forwards. I closed my eyes as the vibration of the shaver danced across my scalp in an unprofessional manner. In minutes I was being dragged away slowly down to the photographers room. The guard pushed the door open, pushing me in with him. I stood silent as I looked from one guard to the other until I came across the photographer; he also had his ankles locked in a brace, the only reason I could tell him from the guards. He wore a dark grey beanie which was odd, normally the guard at the door would dispose of any accessories.

"Number 450, come stand on this spot." He pointed to the x marked on the floor with duct tape. The photographer wore a sticker like the rest of us which read the number 307, at this point I didn't know the importance this number held and with one swift shot I was free to leave.