Beyond Enclosure

Our country has always been split in two - the lefties and the righties. Whilst people go around using this to describe the hand they write with, it's different for us. Because those two words mean more than you could ever imagine. // A story about the power of love in a society where differences aren't accepted.


6. Chapter Five

As I walk past the wall this morning, more offices guard the wire fence as usual. I'm just strolling along the path next to it when I spot someone lying on the floor between the fence and the wall, seemingly dead. Wincing, but totally curious, I shuffle up as close as I can get to the fence to take a look. It's a man. His bright, almost white hair stands out immediately and his eyes look sunken in, staring into space. His pale skin and still chest prove my statement - he's not alive.

Officers are crowded around him, possibly paramedics. One of the officers shoves their hands into his pockets and pulls out any available evidence. Squinting, I notice he's holding some sort of diary. He flips the pages continuously, before landing a finger on the last page. The other chubbier looking officer pulls out his phone and dials in the number. 

I turn away. I've heard how they do it - report a death to the family. Someone from school told the whole class that their Father attempted to climb the wall, and when he was shot the officers rang their Mother saying: 'Mr Longdale has attempted a serious crime involving the wall. He has been shot and his belongings will be left in the container outside the wire fence for retrieval. If you don't collect them within 24 hours, they will be burnt.'

I remember the hysterical reaction from the class, the uproar of students claiming that it was horrible and that they felt so sorry for the poor girl. But I just stood there, so surprised I couldn't gather a reaction like the rest of the class. All I could think about was, was it really true? It seems that although the Government are supposedly trying to make our country a better place, they don't actually seem to care at all. 

I hadn't spoken to anyone the rest of the day, as if I'd been mourning my own Father not left speechless by someone else's story. My Mother was worried about me that evening when I refused to eat, and when I went to bed early at seven. But by the next morning I was relatively fine, like I always am, although there was, and still is, a lot on my mind.

"Excuse me?" A loud voice suddenly thunders through my eardrums, shocking me out of my skin. I step back, realising I'm stood before an enormously tall security guard. He looms over me, just a short brown-haired skinny child, and his eyes are transfixed on mine.

"What do you think you're doing?" He asks, looking pointedly at the dead man and then back to me. I gulp.

"Er, looking at" I stammer, heart hammering.

"The grass? This is no time for lies, and this," he says, wavering at the man, "is none of your business."

I take a sharp breath before attempting to speak my thoughts. But he gets there before me.

"Now run along."

I stand for a second, taking one long last look at the rotting body. I can feel the guard's presence wafting over me like an unwelcoming head teacher - trust me, I know the feeling - but I continue to stare, perhaps just to annoy him slightly.

"Go!" He suddenly shouts, right in my left ear.

I quickly scramble down the path as soon as I hear his word, hair flying out behind me, bag clunking against my knee. It's not long before I reach the school grounds, swarming with teenagers, and the unnecessary feeling of panic rises in my stomach. Crowds. I try and get here early every morning, to avoid the effects of my claustrophobia, but I guess this time I got a little distracted. Surveying my options, I realise there really is only one. So sucking in a shaky breath, I duck my head down, and walk quickly through the mass of people.

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