text: In the auditorium, a spotlight focuses on the beautifully furnished wooden lectern. The old mahogany fixture casts a long shadow that reaches far upstage, disrupting the flat expanse. Dust particles dance in the golden beam, some settling on the modest ridges of the podium, others disappearing in its silhouette. They are shaken repeatedly by the clicking vibration of high heel shoes. The shadow of the valedictorian’s square hat is lined with crisp edges, which permeate the bubble of light, as her dark outline merges with that of the lectern. The structure seems too strong to be made of wood, too welcoming to be made of stone and too freeing to be made of metal; but despite the lack of appropriate material, its tall shape conveys its purpose: to enhance and to create order. The very moment her hand touches it, time starts, and her heart rate quickens. “Every time I find myself at the podium, I forget how I got there. The podium is like a different universe in which materialistic things do not matter; only real human interaction. Unlike any concrete gift, my words speak for themselves; they have a rarely mentioned intrinsic value. Here I am, this evening, in front of you all, and I would like you to receive my words, for what I am about to tell you means a great deal.” She is not supposed to have uttered those sentences. When they found and destroyed the notebook containing them, she was physically reprimanded. Nonetheless, she cannot seem to find it in herself to care; the punishment is over. All she can do is enjoy the dramatic effect she produced. Through the blinding light, she feels the void before her expanding hundredfold with every passing interval, as five hundred minds parse her resonant words. The bright circle of the spotlight is a portal for a thousand keen eyes; the microphone, for a thousand listening ears. Looking at her paper, then at her family in the front row, she realizes she cannot be silent. “I am so fortunate to humbly represent my peers, to have grown up with equal opportunity and to speak on behalf of the group. This place is more than overseas financial safe haven. We are a community that proudly maintains both secrecy from the outside and absolute equality among its people. We feed on the wickedness of the world’s capitalism, and turn it into perfect equality. Those who can find us can join us. I am here to ask your forgiveness, because I have selfishly deviated from this ideal by overachieving, and thus overshadowing the greatness demonstrated by my classmates.” Whereas her first four sentences resonated, the flavour of these prescribed words has been lost after months of repetitive practice. A charming graduation speech is nullified by semantic satiation, in which phrases too often repeated decay into their constituent sounds. Perhaps, in going through the motions time and time again, the statements were subconsciously accepted as monotonous truth. Maybe, as the sound waves are processed by her mind, the brain juxtaposes each word with its antithesis until all that remains is silent void. Put simply, it is meaningless. In much the same way as the perfection of her words causes her not to hear them, the precise symmetry of her face cancels out her features. Large brown eyes tell of neither innocence, nor guilt. Tassels, from a strange hat resting on blonde hair, brush against her cheek, which has been blushed with makeup. The corners of her mouth are drawn towards circular earrings of brilliant gold in an artificial smile. However, beneath her articulate and eloquent demeanor, no one suspects that she is urgently stalling; that her life depends on the continuity of this speech. “With many losing their lives, the elders fought the costly battle for total societal isolation, giving us not only wealth and luxury, but also fellowship. Of course, while our cars are of the highest caliber, our houses made of marble, our people well fed and composed and our crime rate lower than that of anywhere else in the continent, the elders made sacrifices for a different reason. They fought an inadequate system for this lectern, or, rather, for the human right to speak the truth about the Gods; the Gods that gave us this good fortune; the Gods that protect us.” A sharp buzz in her right ear makes her wince. With the characteristic scratchiness of the crude system, her hidden earpiece orders her: “Valedictorian, we need three more minutes. Just keep speaking for three more minutes. That’s all we need.” She continues, “May I offer my sincere congratulations to this year’s graduating class, who has no doubt done them proud. I would like to commend those of you who were recruited into this community. Abandoning corrupt principles instilled in you by society takes courage and conviction. It is my wish that you are viewed and treated as full-fledged members from now onward.” People stand and cheer enthusiastically. Mothers burst into tears. The elders are beside themselves. “And for those of you who grew up here your entire lives, your unwavering commitment is invaluable. Thank you for your contribution throughout your childhood and teenage years. I know the merciful Gods will remember and cherish these moments.” Again, she hears the cultish applause. It causes the microphone to reverberate in repeating loops of feedback. The feedback becomes increasingly louder in a storm of cyclical noise; twisting; turning; morphing; growing. It is the feedback of five hundred cries, of people held captive their entire lives, of generations of falsehood. Her earpiece, too, is screaming. For a moment, she is consumed by the exponential increase in volume and pitch. It brings her back to the night she arrived here at eight years old. In a spacious room with a high ceiling, walls whiter than ivory and three beds, her family rested under feathered comforters and silken sheets with a thread count suitable for royalty. Despite the jetlag, they all slept soundly for the first time in what seemed ages; the dysfunction of months of family deliberation was washed away. Warm air drifted through the open window, gently swaying the blanched curtains. It brought with it the scent of smoke from a distant campfire, the soft sound of joyful song and the faint rustling of both pine and deciduous trees. The next morning, the summer sun reoriented her sleep pattern, as well as her sense of direction. In the following weeks, she befriended people from more countries than she could name, learned more than in all her years at a parsimonious elementary school and attended daily church services. The ambiance here was one of novelty, acceptance and indiscriminate luxury. The Velazquez family felt welcome here. During the months when the sun smiled down on the community, her skin became dark and her hair white. Later, when days shortened and snow fell, her pale body shivered by the fire and donned layers of clothing; she would do anything short of dying to avoid the foreign cold. The cycle of seasons repeated time and time again, until she had lost track, until she was living a life that was not her own. She never thought back to the summers, only the frigid winters. It was on the coldest day of the year that she was selected to represent her graduating class to the Gods. She woke the next morning to find her mailbox overflowing with letters of thanks and long since frozen gift baskets strewn across her doorstep. In her silent confusion, she opened packages, scanned through letters and placed bouquets in water, much to the delight of her family. However, there was one basket that appeared empty, save for some straw. Hours after setting it aside, she heard a small beep emanating from it. In a measly white gown, she snuck it outside, digging in the straw to unveil a satellite phone and a simple earpiece. The phone rang. The sound in her head grows louder and louder until she is brought back to the auditorium. After an infinite moment of echo, it finally stops, and she realizes she must answer her calling. “The reason I have the great honour of being valedictorian tonight is because my sacrifice will render me worthy. Every year, as is customary upon graduation, one student is chosen to be sacrificed to the Gods. When this speech is over, Elder Smith will put a gun to my head to commemorate and pay tribute to the sacrifices made by him and his generation here, and to show that excellence is collective, not individual. It is my honour to enter the afterlife before my peers, and to represent them and this community before the Gods. Now, let us bow our heads in prayer.” As she shuts her eyes, she is left with the image of Elder Smith bowing his head obediently. However, instead of praying, she begins to shiver feverishly, despite the warmth under the many layers of her costume. As her teeth chatter and her arms move toward her chest, she becomes obsessed with the idea of retaining--retaining body heat, sanity and belonging. It has to have been three minutes! Finally, her earpiece screams, “Commence in three... two...”, she ducks down and clings uselessly to the podium. “One.” Heavily armed government soldiers infiltrate the long hall from every entrance. Most of the crowd cries out or drops to their knees. Elder Smith pulls out the gun. “Disarm yourself, or we open fire!,” commands a young military voice. The elder exclaims, “Never! You’re disturbing a religious ceremony.” “Shut the hell up! You’re in violation of our laws! We have a warrant to take everyone in this room prisoner, except for the valedictorian.” There is one last moment of silence, in which one could hear a pin drop. Elder Smith quivers with the gun. “In that case....” He does not finish his sentence. Before she knows what is happening, bullets from his handgun fly through the fourth wall, piercing the useless furniture. Suddenly, in her left ear, she is bombarded with the overwhelming roar of machine guns. In her right, the earpiece rings louder than ever. As the spray of bullets shreds the crowd, she shrinks lower and lower into nothingness with the knowledge that all her loved ones are being massacred, so that she can survive. Part of her dies today, with the absolute conviction, founded on nothing, that she will overcome. Perhaps everyone maintains the illogical, subconscious belief that he or she will survive. It is the persistent feeling of persistence--the nagging emotion of hope. Pervading our instincts, the hope for longevity is an irrefutable prediction; no one can ever be wrong in making it because everyone who is wrong is dead. This stands true regardless of the existence, or lack thereof, of the afterlife. In thirty seconds, everyone in this godforsaken room who somehow believes they will be spared will be proven right. Emilia Velazquez will be proven right.