The announcer unfolded the small, white piece of paper he had just drawn. Looking up from the podium, he glanced at all of the faces in the audience, my face, anxiously awaiting the name to be read.

“Rosalie Amira.”

In complete shock, I stare past the rows of people in front of me, past the podium, and into the eyes of the announcer. I hear the sound of cheering and clapping all around me, but it is muffled and far away, like something from a dream. I simply must have heard him wrong. There is no other explanation.  I know I must have heard him wrong, I know, I know , I know. But I am wrong. I couldn’t have misunderstood him. I’m only fooling myself. My name is not a common one. My first and last name are both very uncommon, I have never met another person with the same name. No. It couldn’t be a mistake. I had heard my name, and now my life would never be the same.

I wake up to a stony silence. The only sound I hear is the slight, but constant buzz of the cameras that fill my every waking moment, and that I can never truly escape even in sleep, for my dreams are monitored too. The concrete around me only adds to the feeling of discomfort and isolation. The government began building houses out of cement nearly a hundred years ago. They claimed that although it may not be as fashionably desirable as the glass high rises we see in old photos, it is more practical and safe in the case of a natural disaster. But it is not a comforting place to live. There is nothing homey about the place, except for the few personal belongings we are allowed to keep. For example, my room only has my dresser, small plush bed, and a small chest that lays at the end of it. The chest is my most personal possession because it contains everything that has ever been important to me. This includes the few birthday cards I have received over the years and the rewards I have gotten from tests and school.

The rest of my room, and most of my house is just empty, except for the cameras. The whole world is filled with cameras, always. Watching everything, missing nothing. The pieces of demon filth fill every room and every silence, they make it feel as though I am never alone. In truth, I’m really not. There’s someone always watching. The people behind the cameras are what bother me. The cameras themselves are fine. In fact, I find their technology fascinating, but the fact that someone is watching my every move from behind that camera.

Our houses, the ones down by the river, and all of the other houses of little importance, are on rotation. Someone’s not always watching, but there is no way of knowing when they will be. I think this is truly what terrifies me. Thinking that in a moment where I am truly being myself may be a moment that I am being looked at. I suppose that we have it easy, being one of the middle class families, not so poor that we are tracked for fear of crime, but not so rich that we are of great enough importance to be seen.

I’m not dumb though, I keep my guard up most of the time. The only place I can really let down is at the edge of Bloodsong River. The beautiful place where a very bad thing happened. Years ago, before the government stepped in, a large mass execution occurred on the very bank of that river I stand upon each day. Over a period of one year, famous singers were stolen from their homes and held for ransom, but when the ransom was paid they were not returned. They were stolen and executed for their talents by a group of rough n’ toughs who thought their money and fame was unfair. Hence the name Bloodsong, in honor of the blood spilled of some of the greatest songs in history. The Bloodsong Massacre, like the Boston Massacre of long ago, is what brought on this new type of world we live in, a world where there is hate and distrust between the rich and the poor and cameras everywhere, to try to prevent something of the like happening again. And the addition of the drawing. That too was brought on by this occurrence. In some sick attempt or tribute to replace those who died, every year, one young person who is the average age of those who died, is selected. The selected person will be turned into a rich diva, with no taste, no style, and no life. They’re practically brainwashed and turned into a government pawn.

The drawing will occur tomorrow. I have been counting down for months. Why, I am not sure. I can’t pinpoint whether it is from hopefulness and excitement or dread. Is that even possible? Is it possible to be excited about something and to dread it? Either way, it’s an unsure feeling. I have never felt so uncertain about anything in my life. I don’t think it is the fear of the unknown. I have never been one who is scared of the future or what may be to come. I know I don’t want to lead a life of shallow uncertainty, but I’m not sure I want the life I have either. The way I was raised was to live in the moment and the now, and worry about the rest of your life when the time comes. I had never been as present as my parents are, but I have never thrown myself into the future or the past. I have always just been me, special and different than the rest.  That’s what I’m scared of losing if I were to be drawn. More than just my privacy, but my humanity and myself.

Whatever happens, I know I can’t lose myself in hatred, whether it’s hatred for the selected, or hatred for what I might be turned into. But by this time tomorrow, my life might never be the same.

My alarm goes off early. It and the red eyes of the camera in the corner pull me from my slumber. It is early, earlier than I would usually rise, and still silent. Only those in the drawing attend. It is meant to be something that we alone experience, watching a life you once knew, end.  For many of us, it is the most beautiful thing we will ever see. Not the drawing of course, but the building in which it takes place. The Palace theatre in New York, one of the oldest building still standing. The name and the gorgeous inside only bolster the importance of the event and increase the pressure surrounding it.

I drag myself out of bed, and put on the same plain lightly worn blue jeans and simple flowing black top that I wear to school every day, as do the other young members of society. Whatever the outcome of today is, I will be throwing these jeans away and trading them in for the clothing that marks me as an adult. It is yet to be determined whether that will be even simpler white clothing, or pearls and high heels.

As I dress, I try to slow my racing heart, and look to the only constant in my life, the cameras, and the people behind them. And for a moment, I wonder what it would be like to look into someone else’s world every day as an outsider. I think it would be depressing, but of course not as depressing as it actually is to live in this society. Still, seeing all of the moments that family and friends share that you never get to be a part of. I am sure it must be like the dramatic soap operas the rich watch on tv. The ones where the women dress in big tacky outfits and the men are always pretending to be gentlemen but are really trash. I think that’s how it would be. And I am sure glad that my life is not like that. The lonely person watching, not the soap opera, of course I don’t think I’d like that much either. But as I have thought of before, my life just might turn into show soon enough.

I pull myself from my stupor as I break eye contact, I guess that’s what you call it when you are staring at a camera, from the screen, and very quietly hurry to the front door and throw it open. The wide asphalt outside my house is cramped with hundreds, probably thousands, of kids wearing the exact outfit I am. They all rush towards the main road and the line of buses waiting there to shuttle us off into adulthood. I see a head bob in the crowd, a shining head with curls the exact opposite of my own raven ones come from the crowd and a shout, “Rose, come on, we’re going to be late. You’re always the last one out and I wish you would hurry.”

My face breaks into a smile. There is only one person that hair and that voice could belong to, my Best friend Amy. Soon enough her whole body has emerged from the crowd and before I know it, I am being drug along at breakneck speed and am pulled onto an already full street car, which proceeds to slowly make its way down the road. I would attempt to talk to Amy, but the car is too loud with the sound of feet and voices breaking the still morning air. Besides, I am way too nervous to talk to anyone.

The voices subside as our bus pulls up behind the others in front of the theatre and we all file out, nodding our heads at the driver, and proceeding toward the entrance. There are so many of us that we can easily fill the theatre. In fact, there are barely enough seats for everyone to have one, and that’s even with some of the smaller girls sitting two to a seat. I take a seat in the very middle of the theatre, right opposite of the podium and center stage. Amy sits on my right, with some of our other friends filling the seats in front of, next to, and behind us. Despite the amount of both people and seats, the pure grandness of the theatre allows noise to travel very well, so when the announcer comes out practically yells, “Good morning!” very cheerily into his microphone, the sounds resonates off the walls and through my brain. Seriously, doesn’t he know that we can hear him perfectly fine and there is no need to shout into a microphone, it is called that for a reason.

“Good morning my beautiful people!” he repeats. Honestly, could this guy get any more tacky. With his jubilant excitement, boisterous voice, and loud magenta suit, he would stand out in a sea of, well, anything.

A large laugh comes through the speakers and the man continues talking, “Well, I would like to lead by introducing myself to all of you. My name is Adrion Shonteen, and I am your master of ceremonies. Now, without further ado, let us get started. It is a very big day for you all.” As he talks, his large belly shakes violently and his perfectly slicked back grey moves slightly out of place.

With a flourish of his hand, Mr. Shonteen beckons a stage hand to bring out a large crystal bowl filled to the brim with small folded papers. In the moment before he reaches his hand in, I am distracted by the red light of a nearby camera reflecting off the angular edges of the bowl and back into my eyes, just as the camera lights at home did. Because of my distraction, I miss the moment in which Mr. Shonteen shoves his pudgy hand into the bowl, selects a slip of paper, and calls my name. I look up, alarmed and thunderstruck. I have been chosen. Out of the thousands of names in the bowl I was chosen. In complete shock, I stare past the rows of people in front of me, past the podium, and into the eyes of the announcer. I hear the sound of cheering and clapping all around me, but it is muffled and far away, like something from a dream. I simply must have heard him wrong. There is no other explanation.  I know I must have heard him wrong, I know, I know , I know. But I am wrong. I couldn’t have misunderstood him. I’m only fooling myself. My name is not a common one. My first and last name are both very uncommon, I have never met another person with the same name. No. It couldn’t be a mistake. I had heard my name, and now my life would never be the same.

In a blur that I doubt I will ever remember, I walk up to the podium, stunned, accept his outstretched hand and congratulations and am ushered off the stage and behind the theatre where I am met with paparazzi. The cameras flash in my face, blinding me. I can’t believe that before this moment I ever thought I knew what it meant to be in the public eye and to be in the spotlight. This is unlike anything I have ever seen before. In this moment, I am seen in a way I have never been before. The whole world will see me. My life will be full of cameras and fame for the rest of my life, and someday, I might want it to end desperately, but in this moment, I am as radiant as the sun.