At approximately 1700 hours, on the date of December 8th, 2014, I was held at knife point by my oppressors and I had reached my breaking point. I was being held captive at a station where money and “points” were being exchanged for goods and nourishment. I, a veteran of such official missions, have been told on many occasion that I can handle anything and that I have “the patience of a saint.” I am overqualified for the things I do and the things I have done but I realize my position in this world – I AM NO BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE. But I hold firm in my experience and gladly accept uniforms of changing colors and rank, my stipend increases with time and incentives. I am the strong and silent type.
That being said, I feel my capacity for towing the line growing exceedingly thin as time goes on. This worries me! Even as my oppressors taunt me and try to steal bags of potatoes, my resolve should always be to travel to The Woods. Every time I dare travel there however, something has changed in my absence – most recently, a small wildfire had crept its way in and is slowly setting flame to everything I care about. I don’t know what’s real anymore.
My platoon consists of both the young and the old. Of the young, I don’t have much to say – they might just make it out of here alive. My older comrades are more sympathetic to my plight, (they’ve only survived here out of pure necessity), and I often rely on their ears. When our oppressors throw cherry bombs at us and flick their tongues at the cost of goods at the general store, I look towards a comrade:
“What are they rebelling against? There are rules in place so it will be beneficial to all! Why bite the hand that feeds? I am but a cog in the machine but I’m not coin-operated! Blood runs through my veins, not oil! When I was in their position, momentarily, I had a choice between literature and nourishment and I always choose literature for that, I felt was my nourishment. It’s all very stupid now, but that’s what I thought! I lived in a tall, gray tower in a cold, gray city, hoping I could accomplish something. But these captors, I speak on behalf of some but not all, are spoiled and have no concept of empathy! They will grow to be the people who put their families in nursing homes and forget all about them as they launch healthy graphic design armies!”
My comrade put a hand on my shoulder. That was all I needed. A resurgence of strength took over and I grabbed the knife held against my throat out of my captor’s hand. My oppressors were scared now as I took a long look at the shiny blade. I threw it in the garbage. The war was over, for now. I removed myself from the station, stepping off of its platform, for a bit – I was laughing, my hands were shaking. I walked it off, because I’m a professional.