An Image of the Moment

by daniel gothard

rifles to propel the prisoners forward.

  'You are here today under the disciplinary code of the One World government. We are still in exile, but we will win the day soon, and as we near victory for the real people, we need to rid this land of the parasites, the ones, such as the three of you, who have controlled our thoughts and movements for too long,' you say the words with a clipped precision, as if you have spent many hours using the same opening lines in trial after trial.

  'You have been apprised of the charges against you. You have been given the chance to explain yourselves and you have been found guilty. Do you have anything to say before we pass sentence?'

  There is silence. You look around the room at the many faces - they are mostly watching the prisoners. You see your wife and son near the doors at the back. Your son is older now. He waves at you. You smile and nod back. Your wife looks as if she has seen too much desolation. She looks devoid of emotion, perhaps incapable of really feeling anything anymore.

  'This is just wrong, what you're doing here. You say you're doing it for the real people, the One World revolution, but you're just as power hungry as you say we are, or we were,' the middle prisoner says. His voice is croaking. 'Please have some mercy,' he says. His eyes are grief stricken. You want to feel hatred for him and all he has stood for and represented, but then you look at your wife and son again and you feel empty. You feel guilty.

  You are about to say something when a voice to your left pipes up.

  'Do not even begin to beg for mercy. Do not compare anything we are doing to all the evil you have done. You are guilty and you will be taken to the taping room, given a message for transmission and then you will be given a choice for your departure. And that is how we are different. We give some choice and justice.'

  You look along the bench towards the voice. It is your neighbour. You remember her kindness as your house burned.

  Sam catches your eye. His eyebrows are raised in question. You know he is asking for your confirmation of the sentence.

  'Take them all to the taping room,' you say.

  You cannot help but look at your wife. She is looking at her hands as if she is ashamed of you. Your son is still smiling. He is watching the prisoners being led away. He is clapping along with the rest of the spectators. Balloons are let loose from a red net tied across the ceiling.

  You try and remember how many times you have been in this position before; how many men and women you have sent to the taping room?

  You glance to your left and look at your neighbour. She gives you a thumbs-up and smiles. You smile back. Her face looks the same, but as you look into her eyes, you begin to think how the purposeful focus in them is not something you would ever want turned against you.

  You watch Sam turn a corner and decide to follow him. You give another wave and smile to your son and wife. You begin to wonder whether your wife has grown to hate you - the look in her eyes says she is disengaged from what she is seeing and hearing. She leads your son out of the hall.

  You walk along a well-lit corridor which ends with two booths - they remind you of recording studios. Two of the prisoners you have just sentenced are pushed into the booths; one of them is sobbing. Sam uses the threat of his rifle-butt to make the man stop. You try and remember the names of these convicts, but nothing comes to mind and you are entranced by the screens, chairs and cameras in each booth.

  The prisoners are made to read a script - a declamatory statement railing against the government elites; telling them to expect to see themselves in the same position very soon - to the cameras; their faces are reflected back at them from the plasma-screens.

  You know it was your idea to make them suffer their last moments alive, watching the broadcast fear grow in their eyes - a mirror of themselves in desperation, the desperation they ignored as the country fell apart. Surely they deserve this?

  You feel guilt again and wonder how you got to this stage; what motivated the decisions?

  You are daydreaming, thinking of the glee on your son's face; his pride in you sitting behind your bench of such righteous justice.

  And then you hear a muffled slam. You look into the booth on your right. The once sobbing prisoner is laying on his side, motionless, blood is dribbling from the side of his head. Sam is smiling at you again. He holds up his rifle in victory. You try and smile back; turn around and begin to walk away.

  You are feeling nauseous. There is a hand on your arm, stopping you. You look over your shoulder to see your neighbour's ecstatic face. You think of her hand on your arm the night you killed a man.

  'You did this and we are all so proud of you. You are going to win this war. History will know you as a hero. Thank you,' she says. She hugs you and walks away humming.

  'A hero,' you say. You glance back at Sam dragging the third prisoner into the booth of death. 'The taping room, how fucking quaint,' you whisper.

  You are angry. Full of anger; the same anger you felt when you filled the sergeant with bullets. But the anger now is all directed at you and what you have created.

  You walk back into the hall. Some people are dancing among the balloons; singing Jerusalem " ... nor shall my sword sleep in my hand ..."

  You pick up one of the balloons, a large purple one, and wonder whose breath is inside. Were the prisoners made to blow up every one of these symbols of celebration, knowing they would never see the mass of them cascading down? Could a last breath be kept locked in such a simple place for eternity - stored in dry ice or perhaps formaldehyde?

  'And now you must take the glasses off,' the balloon says.

  You do as you are told. You want rid of the damn lenses. You toss them towards the stranger. He does not move.

  'What now? You haven't said what to do next,' you mumble the question.

  You feel exhausted. There are so many images and thoughts pounding through your skull, making you dizzy. You still have the nausea from the last vision. And the burning pain around your eyes has not stopped yet.

  'Now get off the train,' the balloon answers in a tone that indicates the answer was obvious.

  'And do what?' you shout.

  You smile contemptuously at the balloon and think of the irony that it is your voice inside it; that your partner - soon-to-be ex-partner - always said you were full of hot air and ideas that never materialized.

  'Open the doors, get off the train and walk towards what you've seen. Go now. The clock will begin again very soon.'

  'So is this day nine years old?' you ask.

  'Yes,' the balloon answers slowly.

  You stand up, rub your eyes; trying to blink the heat away. You put your fingers in the middle-section of the interlocking arrival-departure doors; the thick rubber buffer feels impossible to get through. You push and pull until your arms are in agonising pain. It feels impossible. But then there is a sigh of air dashing across your face from the outside as the doors begin to part. You turn around quickly to say something to the balloon and trip over the Transactioner. You stand up quickly and realise you have cut your hand - blood is leaking quickly from three knuckles. The cuts feel deep. You use the scarf from your neck to create a makeshift bandage.

  You look into the carriage to ask the balloon a last, confidence-building question, but all the air, the voice, is gone from it. It is now a small, drooping thing. The stranger is lying on his side. He is not breathing.

  You see a line of scars across three of his knuckles; on the same hand as your three bleeding knuckles which are now beginning to soak the scarf.

  You leave the train, look around for any other passengers, but you are alone now.

  You begin to walk away, alongside the tracks. You aren't really sure where you're going but you will know when you've arrived.

  You wonder if, knowing you only have nine years, you can change what you've seen, stop the destruction from the elites without becoming like them.

&n
bsp; You are armed with the best weapon of all now: foreknowledge.

  And you realise you've never really known who you were before now or who you could be.

  You were always a stranger.