'Exordium' Excerpt

Here's an excerpt of a story that I've been working on in my spare time.  The story is called 'Exordium.'  I hope that you enjoy it!

Half of the names on The List had already been crossed off.  Was I next?  Silently, I said a quick prayer that I, Lena Phifer, would be the next name called, the next name eliminated.

The woman in the olive green jump suit reached into the rusted metal canister, pulling out a small vanilla strip of paper.  On that paper, a number.  A number to represent one of the five hundred citizens of Freeport who hadn’t reached the maximum age of resettlement, twenty-one.  She unfolded the crinkled strip, calling out, “498.”  A boy in front of me, no older than thirteen, breathed a heavy sigh of relief as his mother, eyes welling with tears, flung her arms around him. 

This scene continued for another hour, parents and grandparents weeping from happiness as their loved one’s numbers were called.  My father, hands dry and cracked from years of hard labor as a Builder, squeezed my hand tightly as the last five numbers were drawn from the old coffee can, mine not among them.

“That is all.  Those who have not been called should report to the Resettlement Offices in 48 hours to receive their Resettlement Assignments,” the Selection Officer mumbled solemnly into the old microphone in front of her.  She picked up the rusted canister, half-full of papers, and emptied the little slips into the fire burning in the stove behind her.  I watched them as they fell like the ashes that they would become, imagining my number, 233, incinerating in the flames.

I didn’t feel anything.  Unlike those around me who hadn’t been called, I was not breaking down into a clump on the ground, soaking the dirt floor of the Community Building with hot, salty tears.  I was not holding on to my relatives, my best friend, my boyfriend, scared to let go.  I was empty, absent of emotion.  My father’s hand had drooped slightly in mine, but he hadn’t let go.  He stared blankly at the stove, flames gnawing at the iron bars that could hardly contain them.  He hadn’t said a word, just let out a little gasp after the final number had been called.  Yet, I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that he would be alone.  No wife.  No son.  Now, no daughter.  There was no fairness in the selection, no way to predict who would be scheduled for resettlement.  It just was.  And there was nothing that anyone could do about it.