There was a commotion outside the
ticket office. Two guards held
down one woman, pressing their heels firmly into her back. Her rain drenched hair splayed all
around her and a streak of red ran down her cheek into a single blood soaked
tear. The guards were yelling but
I couldn’t quite work out what they were saying. It wasn’t often we would see something like this happening
in the street. Most of us abided
by the rules but I guess this woman had chosen not to.
The rain was making thunderous claps
against the roof of the ticket office.
It was another dull and dreary day. April was usually much warmer, but not this year. I waited patiently with my
roommates. We were next in line.
I passed my number through the kiosk
into the hand of a pale and chubby receptionist. A screen lit up, acknowledging my ticket had been scanned.
Unit
244, Room 1740. Check in complete.
The
tickets were our lifeline, containing all our information. We would be informed of our work
assignments, our upcoming social interactions and our budgets. In return, the Authorities could keep
an eye on what we were doing.
Every time we entered or left a building, it would leave footprints on
our tickets. Budgets were an
accumulation of points earned from working which we could use towards food,
clothing and other items we may need.
I looked back to the window, the glass
as tall and wide as the far end wall.
From here you could see most of the plaza.
The woman was now being hauled into
the back of the guards dusty truck whilst an onlooker, a Unit, chased after
them yelling.
He looked helpless and desperate, his
arms reaching out to her in one last attempt to touch her. The guards battered him with a long
baton, it’s surface reflecting in the small slither of sunshine that tried to
peer down on Maineport through the thickness of the clouds. I gasped as the guards baton crashed
into the mans skull, knocking him to his knees.
My roommate, Daryl, nudged me in the
side and I tore my eyes away from the scene outside. I turned towards him.
“We’re done, Pearl. Come on.”
Daryl strode over to Medical,
following our other roommates, Cam and Sprite. Sprite hated Medical. Her needle phobia was sometimes too much for her to handle
and she would often pass out.
I went first. The medical assistant did her usual
check up. Tongue colour,
check. Pulse, check. Blood pressure, check. Then blood samples were taken, leaving
yet another pin prick in my arm.
“Pass,” the assistant declared,
scanning my ticket with the update and handing it back to me.
