This is a story based on The Lottery by Shirley Jackson. It was written for a school assignment.
On
that morning I found myself at my kitchen sink, fighting the urge to vomit. The
normally inviting suds scalded and chafed at my raw hands, but I couldn’t avoid
pushing my arms into the sink. Anything would have been better on that bright,
sunny morning. I think I would rather have drowned. I knew that on this day, if
it wasn’t me, it would be someone who I dearly loved, a member of my own
immediate family.
Each
year, the same feelings warred inside of me, making my belly a mess. I always
wanted to vomit, to be laid up in my bed, unable to walk. I knew though, that
if it was me, it wouldn’t stop them from coming. I remember too many times
pulling a startled face from its bed and dragging it to the official zone. If
the body could not move on its own, we moved it. The sacrifice had to be made.
I
hated going, but all the same, I felt compelled to go. Even if my presence
wouldn’t be missed, I still wanted to be there. I wanted to feel the risk of
chance, to escape with my life.
I
don’t know if anyone else is truly sure why we still do this every year. I know
that some people think they know, and others don’t care to know. I’m afraid to
know the answer, to admit that my dark side is not only mine, but is everyone
else’s surrounding me as well.
I
know that this year will be no different than last year. Whoever it is will cry
and scream that somehow the game was rigged, that it shouldn’t be him or her
but it should be someone else, someone deserving. And all the rest will turn on
that person, and bring him down with a well placed stone. The broken and bloody
body will likely be collected and cleaned up, and the family will mourn while
the rest of the townspeople drunkenly celebrate their victory in staying alive
through nothing more than chance.
I
remember once, when the chosen one was a small child, too young to really
understand all the events that had just transpired. The black dot held in his
chubby waving hand and his ruddy, freckled grin was almost too much to bear. I
wish that I could say that I hesitated, but my stone was among the first to
strike his cherubic face. I regret that he was not old enough to understand his
sacrifice and his importance in the grand scheme of life, but who really
understands anyway? I doubt that even our resident grump, Old Man Warner, understands
the truth behind the Lottery more than the rest of us.
I
was too lost in my own thoughts. Seeing that it was nearly time for the event,
I took my hands out of the still full sink and began my trek to the village
square. I did not want to be the first person there, but neither did I want to
be the last. There was some awful piece of luck whenever someone happened to be
last.
We
all had our superstitions which grew over the years. A few mothers I knew
believed that if they made their children anything except peanut butter and
onion sandwiches on the last day of school then someone in their family would
be gone by the last of June.
I
didn’t think I was that crazy, but still, I had my moments, much like everyone
else now waiting for the pageant to begin. We all wished that it would be over
soon, but there was still one person conspicuously absent.
You
always had the women who laughed too loudly, or the men who would rip the
papers out of the official’s hand. It was easy to spot a young girl who twisted
the folds of her dress so tightly that she had tangled her fist in it. One of
these people, too nervous to completely hide their feelings, was Tessie. She
was always nonchalant and boisterous; treating everything like it was a game.
But she was also always the most fervent and hateful towards whoever was
chosen. It was the same with any of the truly nervous people. They were the
most fierce and fervent in continuing the tradition.
I
don’t really know how I would act if I was picked, and I hope I’m old and grey
before I am made to wear that mantle. I hope I have no idea what’s going on
like that beautiful baby boy whose mother wept and sobbed and begged to be taken
instead. The officials don’t let people volunteer; because the whole point is
that no one can control the lottery for their own selfish needs. Some other,
far off villages may let people volunteer, but our village is so small, we all
know each other anyway, and hate to drag such a thing out. It’s better to just
have done with it.
I
saw Tessie run up, and she spoke to me, but I couldn’t remember the words
because I saw the black dot that was over her brow. I knew that she was
nervous, and that she had a reason to be. I remember the ferocious, vicious
hate in her eyes when it was her own mother who had drawn that black dot. I
knew other people remembered that scathing look as well, and would not forget
it once her own turn came.
I
barely paid attention as my own husband came and slipped a stone into my dress
pocket. It was his good luck charm against the lottery. He had that tradition
since before we were married, and it would probably continue until he or I were
chosen. It was only a matter of time.
But
this time, it was Tessie. I heard her shrill accusations and her needling tone,
and I remembered her disgust when others had begged. Feeling the smooth stone
in my pocket, I began to run with all the others, and let forth a ululating
shriek of my own. As my voice flew, so did my stone, and we watched the
hailstorm descend upon her as if from Heaven itself. The final broken thud of
her body was a delicious sound. The woman who was once my friend was now something
more, and I was alive. I was healthy, and strong, and not murdered by my
friends and family.
I
grabbed my husband’s hand, and I looked at him with my frank, shining face.
Tonight, much like all of our neighbors, we would have our own primal tradition.
We would welcome the New Year and the new harvest, and prepare the way for new
sacrifices.
So
many babies were always born in February and March in our village. When we were
enjoying the onset of new crops, we were laying aside tithes for our personal
crops as well. Death begets life, whether it’s the promise of new life yet to
be spent, or a life well spent already.
