Trapper Piatt

The Fish Bowl

I just wanted to make you proud, one last time if not the only time. I thought it’d a great honor to give my life for The Community, that it would atone for my sins and make my life mean something, but here at the draw all I feel is fear. I don’t want to die! I know it’s too late now to back out now, volunteered and chosen. The drink in my hand feels slippery as I raise the glass to my lips, the little beads of water that run down it’s side remind me of the tears I’ve been shedding for the past two weeks. These were supposed to be the best two weeks of my life. That’s supposed to be the tradition, but all I’ve gotten are the piteous stares of my neighbors, of the people I pass on the street as I play with the polished heart shaped locket that hangs around my neck, the symbol of my fate. How many before me have run their hands over the brass, the oil on their hands smoothing the metal, their fingers grabbing it for comfort, then rejecting it, reminded why it’s there? Was their time just as miserable as mine? Did they feel just as much of an outcast when they were chosen? I can feel death around the corner, standing in the shadows, waiting for me with open arms.