The Stone Room

Style: Short Story

Statement: In this piece, I wished to explore a dystopian society of the United States, and if it became a pure meritocracy. I wanted to use a writing style that had fragments of memory slipping through the piece to give the reader just enough information to piece together a vague, though rough idea of the narrator’s life. I tried to achieve this by giving the piece a heartbeat with specific enumerated sections to create tense moments for the reader, up until the very end.

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The guards come every day. Arriving before the sun graces the sky, they take two of our number into a dark room. Loud popping noises emanate from within it in resounding crackles, ranging from one to six times. And of the two that enter, only one leaves. 

‘Tis no secret what occurs within the confines of those pristine stone walls. From the moment you are thrown behind unforgiving bars, every fragment of what you once knew is gone, for you are thrust into a world where blood flows as freely as the very air itself, where betrayal sings the song of heroes, where honor goes to die. 

A loud clang stirs me from my fitful sleep. Wiping the grogginess from my eyes, I shakily rise from my rickety bed before squinting at the door. Behind the bars of my cell stands a guard, his body illuminated by the flickering hall light. I sigh, breath heavy with resignation before shuffling towards the door. No one here will mourn me; no one ever mourns in this accursed realm, for attachment is weakness, devotion crumbles like dust, love spells certain doom. Only two things exist in this fragmented society: survival and blood. Which side will claim me today? Only one will give me release. The other? Simply prolong the torture that is existence. 

My feet slap along the chilling floor, scrubbed pretentiously to conceal the numerous splatters of blood. The room is small enough to be traversed from one end to the other in five paces, or seven for a child. In the middle, mounted upon a stool, lies a single revolver that gleams with a silver malice. On the other side stands another man, ragged, broken, a medley of bones and skin too stubborn to let go. A canopy of matted gray hair sits along his scalp as wrinkles swim down his worn face. His irises, surely once radiant with the hue of the thrashing sea, are now broken and tired. So broken, so tired, so utterly unafraid to die. Perhaps that is his curse.

As I grasp the cool metal handle, shivers spark down my spine. My thoughts drift to the numerous times I’ve held this gleaming atrocity, the blood spilled on my hands—and yet, no fragment of shame or guilt pierces the cold shell of my heart. 

My hands tremble as I hold a thin piece of paper, droplets of sweat crashing down from my forehead to the page. A tight, nauseous sensation oozes into my gut as my gaze flickers to the phrase, written in a bloody, eerie red. 

United States Bureau of Citizenship

Performance assessment (Sept - Dec): 

Virtue: Forty-ninth percentile Income: Thirteenth percentile 

Overall: Thirty-first percentile 

Verdict: Unfit for Society. 

With a flick of my finger, the barrel whirls in a malicious revolution, ticking rapidly as it flies. Calmly, I halt the spinning as I bring the weapon to my head. 

Without a moment of hesitation, my finger clenches around the trigger, pulling it leisurely, as if it were a light switch. A forceful blast of air expels from the shining barrel, slashing itself harmlessly along my skin. Click. 

One.

My skin brushes against his as the weapon is transferred from one owner to the next. Malnutrition picks at his flesh as he shakily raises the firearm to his head, the mechanism whirling. Click. 

Two. 

I take the gun back and press it against my own head. Flashes of previous memories so distant that it might as well have been from another life swirl through my brain like a devastating cyclone. 

Luscious glimmers of raven locks curl around a stunning woman, her slim figure enveloped in a flowing white dress. Two children cling to her pure porcelain wrists, tears flitting down their cheeks like gleaming jewels that shimmer in the sunlight. Her soft brown eyes meet my own as we exchange a wordless conversation, the spectres of love and loss crackling through the air. And then I am taken away. Click. 

Three. 

My eyes dart to a camera tucked away in the top right-hand corner as I meet the unfeeling lens with a defiant glare. As the icy air whips around me, I can only imagine what occurs on the other side of that godforsaken camera. Laughs and curses alike surely fill the guards’ room as chips spill on the table, flowing as freely as a roaring waterfall. Food and drink are passed around amiably, the cheery atmosphere born of our suffering. To them, we are even less than animals, mere sport to satiate their sadistic boredom. My fists clench—from anger or desperation, I know not. Does it really matter anyway? Click. 

Four. 

At last the gun is back in my possession. I raise it to my head, the barrel’s metal sending a chill down my spine. The fifth shot. Rarely is the gun still deadly at this stage of the game. I glance upwards, my gaze flickering around the inky trenches of the room. A light red tint coats the walls, too deep to erase. My children are probably still wrapped in their blankets, surrounded by warmth and love. I’d give anything, everything to see them one last time. 

Click. 

Boom.