There is not even a pause between that second scream and the next one of us to jump. Then one straight after that. And another. Until we rain down on the streets. Human hailstones. Thudding and contorting. Some of us spattering blood on bystanders, others only bleeding on the inside.

Within seconds, we have all hit the ground. Some of us die immediately. Some of us die painfully without the ability to scream out loud. If there was even a chance of surviving, the brain would be in such a state of disrepair that no information on The People of Choice could ever be gleaned.

Everybody dies.

Within seconds of the Teacher falling backwards, away from all that potential, there are another eighteen bodies that drop down all around her.

Nineteen of us in total.

There are supposed to be twenty.

It is not our job to count. We do not converse with one another. We don’t have to do that. Our purpose is to stand on the edge and ask ourselves one question. Pretend we have some kind of choice.

We are the message. The spectacle.

This is the theatre of cruelty.

114

240 – FIGHTER

He wakes up at six – before the post arrives – and he’s out on the streets running. He’s wearing black compression tights underneath his shorts and his favourite grey hoodie that he’s had for years. The latest Eminem album blasts in his headphones and blocks out the sound of the birds ringing in the new day.

The music is angry. And so is the fighter.

He is working towards his comeback. Getting himself into physical shape with forty-five minutes of cardio every morning before breakfast, strength training in the afternoon, and sparring in the evenings. He can do most of that himself; he’s motivated, and his coach helps with technique and strategy for the next fight.

Dr Rossi has been helping with his mind.

Something happened in his last fight. Things were going to plan. He was scoring well and was up on points after five rounds. Then he broke.

His hands dropped. He stopped guarding his face and head. And he was crying. He didn’t know why. Breaking down in front of a crowd. His opponent struck him a few times in the face but was visibly uncomfortable about hitting somebody who was clearly in the middle of a mental episode.

The Fighter told his corner not to throw in the towel, tears streaming down his face. His opponent danced around, trying not to get involved, looking over at his own team, wondering what to do.