Final Hours, Part 1

Clara was an average, fair skinned girl of 11 years, her belly soft and slightly chubby, her legs and arms skinny. The adults had told her to take off her school uniform in the prisoner processing room, leaving her wearing nothing but a camisole and panties. A stern faced female guard took a collar and fixed it around Clara's neck. Then, like all death row convicts at the juvenile centre, her dark brown hair was cut short.

As she sat in a chair, a prison barber carelessly shaving brown locks off her head, Clara glanced around, observing her fellow prisoners. Many of them had shellshocked expressions on their faces, as if they couldn't believe they were there. Some were stone faced, not letting a trace of emotion show. Others seemed overly jovial, as if they were covering up their fear with excessive cheer. And in which category did she belong to? Clara looked down at her lap, her heart twisting. She knew she didn't want to die, she wanted to live, to grow up like her sister and mother and father. Clara felt her eyes well up with tears. The young girl had seen enough publicly broadcast executions to know they weren't pleasant affairs.

The boy next to her seat glanced over, and laid a hand on her arm reassuringly. "Hi, what's your name?", he piped up. "Clara, what's yours?", the girl replied, her fears temporarily forgotten as she looked up. "My name is Jack", he answered. Clara looked into the boy's face and felt something stir deep in her chest. His oval face, round, friendly eyes, shaggy brunette hair and cheerful grin radiated friendliness and warmth. "Nice t'meet you, Jack", she said, slowly.

The barbers finished their hack job, and ushered the prisoners out into the yard. Armed guards prodded tardy kids towards the centre of the outdoor area, where an important looking fellow wearing a suit and tie stood on a platform, a microphone in front of him. Soon, about a hundred children were milling about, chatting with and comforting each other. The man made a gesture to the guards, who raised their rifles and fired off a burst of shots into the air. The raucous noise caused almost instant silence and attentiveness from the young prisoners.

" I am William Bronksy, head of operations at this facility. All of you gathered today are here for a very specific reason", the man started in a deep baritone. "You have contravened the laws of our society, and society has deemed it a waste to continue investing resources into raising you". Clara stared at Mr. Bronksy, resentment written on her face. A soft hand grasped hers, and she looked around only to see Jack give her a reassuring look. "Tomorrow, at precisely 12:00pm, we will select the first 10 of you to be executed. This will occur every night until the current group is finished". Mr. Bronksy looked down at his notes, then continued "Those of you not selected each night will follow a relaxed routine. There will be breakfast, lunch, and dinner served, and there will be plenty of time for reflecting on your sins". He looked up and ended his speech with a curt "Farewell".