Janie and The Gray - Part 2

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I stood with my back to the wall, shoulder to shoulder with the other prisoners — arms hanging at my sides, palms open against my thighs, eyes forward, neutral expression — while they inspected our stations. The naked creatures moved methodically around the room, counting parts and supplies with their long knobby fingers, scrutinizing every part of the line, before turning their attention to us.

Tonight it was Buttercup, as I called her. Inches from me, she stared as if she'd lost her spaceship keys somewhere in the depths of my soul — eyes like Pop Tarts soaked in matte black paint and set in deep sockets surrounded by rubbery gray skin. She smelled like ammonia and burnt fish. I fought hard against the gag reflex. There was the familiar static sensation — the crackly zing zapped in my mind.

Work, eat, sleep, shit, shower. The same work, the same slop, the same cot, the same toilet, the same spray-down. Work, eat, sleep, shit, shower. This was my life now. No privacy. No talking. No music. No outdoors. Work, eat, sleep, shit, shower, work — in the artificial light of the factory.

They marched us to the cafeteria. Feed time for the quiet cattle.

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