There’s not a shadow in the room. It’s so well lit, the blank white walls, the tiles are glowing in the fluorescent light. The smell of bleach finds its way into my nostrils.

“Why do you try to keep the room as if it’s never been used?” I ask, but am ignored.

Maybe they do it so they can pretend it doesn’t occur as often as it does. Bullshit.

Every 20 to 25 minutes it occurs.

Round the clock.

That’s 96 a day.

34,560 a year.
No. You don’t include major holidays.

34,368. That sounds right.

I watch as the machine silently locks itself into place above my chest. A young woman, can’t be more than 23, stands next to me opperating the device.

“So, do you consider yourself a murderer? Or just a firm believer in justice.” I say aloud.

She’s new. You can tell she still has a moral compass. Pretty little thing. She presses down on a button and the machine inches toward my chest.

“I’m just doing my job.” She manages to say in a low whisper.

That Orwell, man. No one believed the bastard.

2084.