Eighteen

Enough was enough.

I remember the smell of the air. The tannoy crackling with her voice, she spoke with passion, one of them. A dancer who’d been pulled from the villages to the north and been promised the best of the capitol, and instead been given table scraps and made to perform. She took the education and promises and rebelled, cast off the sanctions and rules. They loved her, she danced for them, she lead their charge, she was their hope.

She had to die.

They wouldn’t have done anything otherwise, and we needed this to happen. I felt sick afterward, watching former comrades being dragged into the streets by the rioters. Two days later and I met with a new contact. God knows how these people communicate, he was exactly where he should be. He handed me a new life, I felt sick again.

“Do you regret it?”

“No… sometimes.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what keeps you human.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

He lit a cigarette, the ends of his fingers stained black.

“Are we done?”

“You know we’re not.”

My stomach sank as he walked away, the air smelt different now.

It wasn’t enough, not yet.