19/5/2077

Audio by Paper2Audio

19/5/2077

State of Vigilance

The Bureau of Conclusive Review

less than The most dangerous thing the State ever did was make murder boring/invisible. greater than

I unzip the body bag without ceremony. Another case, another report to file, another quiet conclusion to dress in clinical jargon. The tag is unremarkable. No name, no history attached.

Just a body delivered under instruction, accompanied by a note that reads: “Cause of death: illness. Investigate thoroughly.”

They always add that last part. Thorough <attention> creates an illusion of truth, which is often more useful to the State than truth itself.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead as I begin, <removing the odd dimness of my thoughts greater than .

They could have been my neighbour, the woman on the stairs each morning or the busy businessman rushing past me on the street here. There was nothing to distinguish them, other than the signs that showed their fight to live. There are faint traces of strain around the muscle of the mouth. Not injury, exactly more like overuse. Repetition. As if they had spent a long time trying to make somebody, anybody, see.

I look at the medical report from the higher ups. “Death caused by novel pathogen, examine virus's effect on body.”

A virus. How convenient. <Invisible, impossible to capture.> It was always a virus when they wanted to hide something from us/ less than focus our attention elsewhere greater than .

I began dictating to the audio recorder.

“External examination reveals extensive contusions consistent with prolonged physical suppression.”

No. That wording will never survive review.

“Possibly environmental.” I added. That is the language they prefer. Harmless. <Not eye-catching.> Words that round sharp edges into smooth compliance.

I continue the examination. Old injuries layered beneath newer ones. Some partially healed. Others are fresh enough to still darken the skin. Not one attack, then. Repeated ones.

The word virus lingers in my mind, increasingly difficult to reconcile with what lies in front of me. Viruses do not leave fingerprints, they do not fracture bone with such precision. This was not random nor an illness. This was sustained. Directed. A small suspicion begins to form, unwelcome, but persistent.

I have seen patterns like this before. Not in official reports, of course. Only in fragments. In cases reassigned too quickly. In files amended before review.

The body resembles those I was told not to <investigate too closely greater than . The kind the State insists are necessary to suppress; it's made dull and unremarkable, stripped of anything that might capture a second glance.

I remember the broadcasts. The language was precise: rabble, agitators, threats to stability. People who sought to “destroy” everything the nation stood for. We were taught to stay silent <and invisible greater than . Silence was taught gradually, folded into us through repetition until it resembled common sense more than fear.

“Keep your head down.”

“Do not attract attention.”

“Do not involve yourself in matters larger than your own survival.”

My father spoke those lessons like prayers. He lowered the television whenever reports of demonstrations appeared on screen - <not out of disagreement, but as though even looking or> overhearing dissent carried consequences. My mother set down her knife and fork and stared away until it was over. A nation need not hide its crimes if it can simply train its citizens to glance away.

A <brittle/bright> knock rattles the morgue door, <catching my attention and dimming my thoughts greater than . I must pay attention. Someone is always watching to remind me that we're always under observation…

“Progress report?” asks The Inspector from the other side.

His voice is steady and rehearsed, shaped by years spent extinguishing anything capable of drawing attention to the cracks beneath the State's carefully constructed order.

“Preliminary findings support infection,” I answer automatically. Not accurate. Not truthful. Tolerable.

The door closes. And I find myself thinking about awareness and how quickly those in power fear anything capable of drawing it, when really it is only a plea to be heard. For what are we without our voices? Even as newborns, the first sign of life doctors wait for is a baby's cry.

Strange, that societies spend so long teaching people to suppress the very instinct we are born with. That is the whole history of power. Imprisoning our attention. nd be

Perhaps that is where protest begins. Not in violence, but in the refusal to be quietly filed away; by whoever appears most frightening behind a desk.

Yet that same refusal is what placed the body before me now, waiting for a fictional narrative to be written over the truth of its suffering.

For a brief moment the morgue darkens, and in the reflection of the steel cabinets in front me, I swear I see not one body, but thousands layered together. Students, workers, journalists, mothers, strangers holding signs high above crowds. They all ended up as files with a false conclusion to their life written inside.

A civilisation of people trained so completely into silence/blending with the background that they begin participating willingly in their own erasure. The State had spent decades convincing people they were weak as individuals, while carefully ensuring they never recognised the strength they possessed together.

The bodies weren't merely a case.

They were a warning. Of censorship.

In a way, I had been infected by the virus too.

I look at the anonymous face again. For a moment the features run into one another and I see faces <that had caught too much of the wrong kind of attention greater than .

Or was it the wrong kind?

If Protest is silenced/made invisible, then what remains?

Lies? False intimacy? Fear?

Compliance.

Submission.

Is this the price I'm paying for my peaceful existence?

My untouchable calm.

My untouchable comfort.

I was safe. But for how much longer? At what cost? <When would the spotlight finally turn on me? greater than

Have we grown too comfortable <closing our eyes, turning away, … greater than ?

less than When would the spotlight finally turn on me? greater than

One signature and I could return to my ordinary life, my silent apartment, my silent meals, my silent existence. Safe the way prisoners are once they stop rattling the bars.

My father would tell me to sign it.

My untouchable safety would make me sign it.

Most people would tell me to sign it.

After all, what difference could one report possibly make? Will it gain the right attention? That same question has murdered countless voices before mine. <But when would the spotlight finally turn on me? greater than