Johann: Writing for FreedomMature

My room was small, a bed and a chest to hold my clothes with the shoes on top, a short table and a chair, there were no windows, there were no colours. My room is my prison. The supervisor bot watched me as I scratched words onto the sheafs of paper with a quill and ink. I caught a glance as its face turned towards the door and put the word in a slight italic, "fight". I checked it to make sure it wasn't too obvious then went back to the shapeless, soulless writing style I was supposed to adopt.

The never-ending beating of the clock reveberated through my head making thinking an impossibility, at that point I used my signature line, my favorite party slogan "Rise To Power, rise above emotion. Fight For Freedom, from love and attatchment."

I wrote for what seemed an eternity, until my hands were sore, then I stopped. It was for but a moment, to relax my hand, but the supervisor bot picked up on it.

"You are not authorised to stop!" it said in a raised, monotone voice. The bot came over to me, pushing me off the chair and onto the floor. I fell heavily. Then it was on top of me, beating my face, breaking my nose. I didn't bother fighting, it was pointless, I just took it.

I was a writer see, I write propaganda novels designed to portray our authority as heros for the younger ones to appreciate. But I like to add subliminal messages, highlight certain words so I can take the beatings because I know some how, my message will get through.

Eventually it stops and I am but a broken shell on the floor, flecks of blood like tears on the floor. If they ever caught me I'd be killed.

The End

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