50/50

By: Audrey Yeung

The number of people is three. The room is boxy and dimly lit. The Supervisor is also there, sitting in the corner with a pen and pad, studying the room through horn-rimmed glasses.

“Go ahead, do it,” he said.

I sat, bounded by ropes, on a chair hastily painted white. My mouth is sealed with duct tape. I had already given up crying for help anyway. Opposite me, a few metres away, was another man. He, too, was confined by ropes and tape. His chair was painted black. He looked at me with worried eyes. He knew what was coming soon, and so did I. There was nothing we could do to stop it.

Words and phrases like ‘population control’ and ‘a great sacrifice for the country’ plagued me my entire life. Billboards and commercials advertising gruesome deaths under the guise of ‘making the country better’. I imagine nobody would choose to do this, yet the sign-up sheets are always full. They do it for the money, I suppose, like me. They do it for their family like I am doing as well. If you die, the money goes to your family, with most of it spent on your funeral. If you live, you walk away, safe in the knowledge that you did something for your country. The odds are fifty-fifty.

I glance at the man in the middle, standing in between the two chairs. He looked nervous, like he didn’t want to be there. He held a gun in his left hand and a coin in the other. The coin had been coloured white on one side and black on the other side, the paint starting to crack with overuse.

“Do it,” the Supervisor repeated, voice flat and emotionless.

I blink.

My hand tightened around the gun. My thumb brushed across the rough surface of the coin. I look to the sides, at the man in the black chair, then at the one in the white chair. They both look exhausted and frightened. I am too. I am doing this for the money, which pays a little less than if I were sitting in one of those chairs. At least I wouldn’t have to die. I was lucky to have gotten this job, but standing here now, I wish I didn’t. I am doing this for my family, who remain oblivious to what ‘sacrifices’ truly go on in this room, like the rest of the population. The Supervisor’s gaze pierced the back of my head, as his words rang in my ears. I flipped the coin, sending it flying, almost touching the ceiling. I caught it as it landed and opened my palm to see the result, afraid of what was next.

White.

The man in the white chair’s eyes widened, registering what had happened. He tried to break free from the ropes, without avail. I raised the gun toward him, my finger hovering over the trigger.

“Go on,” the Supervisor prompted. “You know what to do.”

Why was I doing this? I am not a killer. I couldn’t do it. But nobody knows what happened to the people who didn’t do their job. To those who couldn’t bring themselves to shoot an innocent person. Even if it was for the ‘sake of the country’.

“Do it now,” the Supervisor said. His tone remained cold and steady, though I could hear him growing impatient. The man in the white chair’s eyes signalled to me, do it quickly so it won’t hurt.

“Remember, this is for the country. You are doing what’s right. Now shoot.”

No. You are doing this for your family. You have to do this for them. Do it quickly, and maybe it won’t hurt as much. But you can’t. Of course, you can’t kill an innocent man. But what is the Supervisor going to say? Is he going to kill you for insubordination? You have to shoot.

Bang!

The number of people is three. The room is boxy and dimly lit. The Supervisor is also there, sitting in the corner with a bloodstained pen and pad, studying the room through lifeless eyes.