Ever since they were young they showed so much potential. I raised them through hard work and through many years of just barely enough food. Now that they are stronger they're eligible. Now that The Day is here they are subject. We all dread April.
We're all called to the courtyard. They each sign in with excruciating detail. Each must account for how they came to be, when, why, for what purpose, if the were more business or pleasure, and the gray lines that blur between. They get blood signatures, DNA tests, MRI's, physicals, eyes and ears and teeth checked. Most of this is done ahead of time, but now their paperwork is due. Now they are due.
Names. Their names go into the bowl. I hold them tighter. Little George is the smallest and quite nervous. It's his first time being eligible. Abe grabs his hand and Andrew, much bigger than the others, forms up behind them and rest his hands on their shoulders. All three have always helped each other. They would protect each other from mistakes, keep careful track of what they did, hold each other close. Make sure they never wandered too far or too carelessly. I've done my best to guide them but there's only so much I can do. The law is the law.
The town clock ticks down to The Minute. I see drops fill the dirt by their feet. They remember Benjamin.
Ben was just old enough to be balding early. He took hold of my shaking hand and tried to comfort me after they called his name. I couldn't speak. Couldn't cry. That would come later. He was so close to being too old. There comes a time when he's just too big to be ignored. Ben was always big. They dragged him slowly away. He went peacefully, somberly. It seemed to be in slow motion. He left a hole I haven't been able to fill again. Even with all the other boys.
Each family had to pay. It wasn't that I wondered if one of my boys would be taken, it was a matter of which one. Every year was a sacrifice. Every year the Gov grew stronger. And every year they rest of us lost someone dear. All the work, all the love, all the care and precision just to be ripped so cleanly, so precisely, and left empty. At least I had my other boys. Maybe I could have more by next year. Maybe not.
If I had to pick, I'd hope it's George. I know it's cruel, but it's true. He's the smallest. It's easier to stay alive with the big ones. I found that out after I lost Ben.
We walk into the cold room after our last name is called. We huddle together as much as we can and they pull a name. "George," they say. I sigh, Open my wallet, kiss his flat, green head, and give him to the Gov. Abe and Andrew both start sobbing. I hold back my tears and they escort us out.
Another victim. Another hero. Another boy I'll never see again.
These are the pains of the Hunger Taxes.
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