Each morning I wake to my own screaming. The sheets of my bed drenched with sweat. And each night my dreams are the same.
The knock on the door that fills my heart with dread. Without answering the door I know that it is they. The two stern officers of the British secret police. Like the two in Kafka's own nightmares, they call themselves wardens. They believe the term to be less threatening, this just serves to make themselves more threatening by comparison. the letter is by my bedside table together with the papers regarding my financial position. This simply shows how pressing this matter appears to me, it's foremost presence in my mind.
They walk gloatingly over to my bed where I lie, stricken with fear, for I know what comes next, I have experienced it countless times before. From a leather satchel the shorter 'warden' produces a glass syringe already filled with an opaque blue liquid. the needle is very long, about four inches, it's length facilitates it's method of administration. The taller, much stronger built warden holds me down by my upper arms while his associate inserts the needle up through my nose. He is an unskilled medic, the injection is very painful. The next ten seconds sees the ebbing of my vision until I am completely blind, and then, I am dead.
Though I am now dead, I see what is happening. I see my parents as they receive the letter informing them that my disappearance has been gravely noted and that all attempts are being made by the police to locate my whereabouts or at the very least recover my body, that they must be prepared for the worst. In another section of this twisted bureaucracy, they are incinerating my body under the guise of confidential paperwork. Though I am now on the missing persons register, my file has already been closed by the police.
I am able to put a value on my life of not more than seventy four pounds and seventy seven pence.
THE END.