Cycle

The public execution was to be shown in TV. 

The young girl, the terrorist, the head of the small revolution was brought forward, still cursing and spitting the name of the Leader. 

During the past few hours, people had followed the news, with a small spark of hope in their chests. Only or it to be snuffed once again. She was not the first. 

She might as well be the last. 

Just as the shot was called, my mother rested one hand on my shoulder. 

“That girl was your sister.”

The plain statement rang in my head louder than the shot. I remember not being able to react for several minutes.

Of course, she later explained that she hadn’t told me before for my own safety. She feared I might follow her and end up like everyone who did. She had not spoken to her for many years herself.

She was not the first.

I could count at least three assassination attempts to the current Leader on the time I had been alive. My mother could count nine. Every single one of them got incredibly close to their goal. Every single one of them had failed at the last moment. With every attempt, people became complacent and lost a bit more of hope that this regime would be over one day. This one had just been the desperate attempt of my sister and four other people. Just four.

But she would not be the last.

Yes, I had never known her, but I refused to believe that she had died for nothing. That she was just gone, with no trace of her in this home or anywhere.

I will not let her be the last glimmer of hope.

That is why I’m writing this note.

I will not disclose any details. I will keep the number and the identity of the people that are with me a secret. For their safety, should the worst come to pass.

If the worst does come to pass, I hope this note serves as a legacy to leave behind me. But I wish that, rather than a legacy, my legacy would be freedom.

The young girl, the terrorist, the head of the small revolution was brought forward, still cursing and spitting the name of the Leader. 

During the past few hours, people had followed the news, with a small spark of hope in their chests. Only or it to be snuffed once again. She was not the first. 

She might as well be the last. 

Just as the shot was called, my mother rested one hand on my shoulder. 

“That girl was your sister.”

The plain statement rang in my head louder than the shot.

The execution had been the same day I had found the note hidden under a tile in my bedroom. Of course, my mother explained herself, but I was no longer listening to her as the reality rained upon me.

The reality of this cycle that had probably gone on for years. The reality of how people had been kept complacent and hopeless. The reality of not really knowing who I am, of if I’m even human, or if my memories are real.

I thanked my sister (it felt right that she was my sister) for this truth. This truth she didn’t even learn of before her death. I thanked her for giving me this autonomy.

And only one choice remained: break the cycle or keep weaving it?

I thought about it for days. What looked like an easy decision at first really wasn’t.

Break the cycle and no one would ever try again. My sister’s death, my sisters’ death, would have been in vain. But it would be my choice.

Fight again, rebel again, and I would probably suffer the same fate as my sisters. And it would be yet another blow to the people’s hopes.

But it would be my choice.

And I guess I was literally born to try again.

[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl is saving up for the next semester, thank you ;u;]