Chosen

Run.

The voice in my head would not quiet down.

Running was the worst option, a death sentence.

No, I had to stay. She’d only just begun reading the list. I had time.

The crowd consumed the Square. Behind me, people stood in the alleys between the shops. I saw Guards watching from the roof of the tallest building, which, according to some, once stored currency. The crowd’s reflection danced on a large piece of glass dangling from the oversized door frame.

The Judge stood on a tall platform surrounded by the Guard; her white floor length robe tightened unforgivingly around her frail legs as a cool breeze picked up. She turned the pages slowly, each time pausing before announcing the name written. I strained to hear her voice, but there were too many people between her and where I stood. I stood on the balls of my feet to see over the crowd with no success. I finally resolved to just listen to the direction the mumbles traveled. If she’d said my name, the whispers would have delivered the news already.

Exactly five years ago, the woman in the white robe was the oldest living citizen at the end of Fifth Harvest Celebration. As is tradition, she was named Judge and handed a log of everyone who would reach their thirtieth year before the next Fifth Harvest Celebration. For five years, the Judge and her team made notes into The Citizen Formula, a calculation of each person’s value based on factors determined critical to our town’s success—factors like trade mastery, proven fertility, or intelligence level.

Thirty years ago, minutes before midnight, I was born. Those few minutes secured my spot in the Formula. For five years they have been watching me, judging my mediocre trade skills and childless existence.

Run.

A low hum of voices surfed the crowd and I stretched again on my toes. The whispers were barely audible, coming from a group of people not far from where I stood. I saw Jordan exhale a deep breath of relief. He was tall, at least a head taller than anyone in the crowd around him. He used to wear his hair long, I think he liked to run his fingers through it—I’d often wished to run my fingers through it—but now it was cut short, almost down to his head.

I hadn’t seen Jordan since the night before he left for The Guard over a year ago and my stomach dropped when he turned toward me. He must have felt my stare. I watched his eyes widen and his jaw twitch with tension before walking toward me. He stopped two feet in front of me, and his breath became heavy. Watching his lips part and finding his eyes lowered to meet mine, I almost missed the wave of hushed voices approach me.

No. 

I turned to find my mother and father weaving through the crowd toward me. My entire body trembled, my vision became blurry and my breaths became short. “Hold on to my neck,” Jordan said gently as he closed the small gap between our bodies. I complied and he lifted me, “Let’s just get home.” He carried me through the crowd, and I peeked over his shoulder. People reached out hugging those around them, thankful and relieved. I felt guilty for wanting to remind them that fifteen names were left.

My father followed behind us, stoic and focused. He guided my mother, who covered her mouth and kept her eyes shut. Two people too proud to show pain. I pushed my face against Jordan’s chest, “I should have run.”

I knew we were almost home when I heard his boots dig into gravel. The sweet smell of the wheat field tickled my nose until we arrived inside. Jordan set me on a couch. He shrunk to his knees and, using my legs to support his arms, began rubbing his temples.

“Do you think,” I cleared my throat, “Do you think they’ll make you do it?” I asked.

His eyes flew open, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him, “There’s thirty of you.”

“Well, there’s roughly a thousand of us, and here I am chosen. Odds or no odds…”

“I wouldn’t do it.” He leaned forward, laying his head against my stomach, “God, what if—”

Minutes passed and we sat just like that. No words. I rubbed my hands against his short hair and let my fingers reach down to lift his chin, “If the Captain assigns you to me, you do it.” If he refused to carry out any order, he’d be killed. He needed to stay in good graces of the Guard. “Maybe one day this tradition will die, maybe you’ll be able to stop it.”

“I won’t do it.” His hand moved to brush away my tears, then to my neck. I felt the gentle tug as he traced the gold chain. The tug stopped when he reached the heart shaped locket.

“The gold’s a promise, and the heart is mine,” I whispered the words he’d said to me when we were ten and thought we were in love. “Take it--”

Jordan leaned in and brought his lips to mine, seconds passed before he pulled away. He stood but kept his eyes locked on mine, “I won’t.” I watched him hug my mother then squeeze my father’s shoulder. His eyes found mine once more before I watched him walk away.

That evening my mother bathed me and brushed my hair. The only words spoken were her whispered prayers, recited in rhythm with brushstrokes. Hours later at supper, I sat surrounded by all twelve of our house members. My father sat at the head of the table, staring forward. Forks clanked against plates and cups occasionally thumped on the table, but no one spoke. What was there to say?

Time flew as if I’d slept that night. I planned my escape repeatedly. I knew, though, that every soldier in the Guard would be out tonight. Every Harvest a Chosen or two would try to run. They never got far. More than once my eyes fell on the rope tying back the curtain of my window. My life could not be robbed if I took it away on my own. But my family would be punished for my suicide. They’d be punished if I ran. It’d make me a coward. There was no way out. I had to be brave; I had to be selfless. I had to consider my family.

When the sun peaked through the window, I heard the commotion. The Guards arrived to take me. I forced myself to meet them in the hallway where they tied my hands behind my back. Mother cupped my face in her hands and kissed my forehead and my cheeks repeatedly before they pushed her away. We’d almost reached the end of the road when I heard my father scream. I tried not to cry.

The Square looked nothing like the day before. A four-sided stage surrounded by seats now commanded the center. Guards were everywhere. Some on the roofs of the buildings, some walking the perimeter of the chairs. A group of them stood two feet apart around the stage, alert but perfectly still. Their loose black pants tucked into black heavy boots; their long-sleeved shirts met leather gloves at their wrists. They thought the white masks covering their faces kept us from knowing who they were, but I knew the one who brought me here was my uncle. The one standing on the opposite end of the stage, prepared to shoot if any of us tried to run, was my oldest brother.

Neither one of them looked my way once we arrived in Town Square. I could not blame them for their part in this. The New Law granted immunity to the children of those who joined the Guard, and men enlisted in droves once the Law took effect. Everyone knew that only the best would survive training, but the risk was worth the reward.

I watched the other Chosen as we were herded onto the platform, given folding chairs and instructed where to sit. Two had tried to run and were caught trying to cross the wall. My conscience wrestled with the ounce of hope that my odds of survival had grown because of their fear. One chamber would be empty, I was ashamed for hoping that I’d be the one left standing.

Though, I should not have been here. I should have had more time.

I looked ahead at the audience chairs, now slowly filling up with town members. No one looked toward the stage, their focus glued either to the ground or the seat in front of them. They were here to witness tradition carried out. It was their duty. There was no ceremony, speech, explanation of events. It was a quick show, nothing like the day before. The terror of the unknown no longer existed. Everyone knew why we gathered; everyone knew what would happen.

I felt the platform give as footsteps approached and stopped behind me. The breathing was familiar, and I shuddered when a hand pushed between my shoulder blades, encouraging me to stand. My eyes scanned the twenty-seven others, each standing with a Guard on the right. I looked one more time into the audience, now full of wide-eyed witnesses. No shoulders moved from breaths exhaled; eyes barely blinked. Time was frozen.

“To maintain a stable, healthy, and prosperous community, there comes a time where we must weed the unworthy in order to grow our crop,” each of the Guards recited the old verse in unison, “Few suffer for the benefit of many.” I gathered the nerve to look at the Guard standing beside me. I wished I hadn’t. Jordan’s unmistakable grey eyes met mine. Tears slid silently into his mask.

I held his stare for a moment longer, “It’s okay,” I choked, “Take the gold as a promise, you’ll always have my heart.”

I forced my eyes shut. Cold metal pressed my temple.

“May you go with God,” they recited.

I just needed more time.

Bang!