[Fiction] A letter from S-25F

Another spinoff piece from my novel! Sorry I didn’t upload over the weekend, I’ve had some assignments to do!!!

13th November 2015 – 9:00AM

Alternative Corrective Methods Organisation testing facility

Candidate: #D-20


The extract below is from a series of documented accounts, written by selected criminals. This offender entered the A.C.M.O’s ‘Project-Hunt’. Explain how S-25F clearly demonstrates anti-party attitudes and how their opinions may have posed a threat to A.C.M.O ideology within the United Kingdom.

Three days, my love… How has it only been three mind-numbing, excruciating days!? Living in extortionate pain while serving this fabricated sentence, knowing it wasn’t me. Knowing that it wasn’t my damn fault… What I did was LEGAL. What I did was a human right I was practicing within my own sense of justice. Does this country suffer from amnesia? Are chunks of its brain missing? Were they ripped out with hands tainted by corrupted morality? Ripping apart tissue and flesh, devouring any positive aspects of life within the once fresh organ. As fresh as market peaches or strawberries, but even they eventually rot and decay. They become black, they turn sour, they’re no longer products of God but instead a consequence of the rotting amnesia. People just stopped caring…

I mean. Does anyone actually care now? Are everyone’s minds engulfed and strangled by the regime? Has the corruption intertwined with all of humanity yet, grinding its teeth on every crumb of civilisation? Let me cut to the chase here, our country is gone, finished. But you don’t see it, do you?

Crime rates have decreased. Or so they tell you.

The streets of London, of Manchester, of Liverpool are safer. Or so they tell you.

The return of capital punishment… Is a revolution to our country’s pride. Or so they tell YOU.

It’s fabricated. You have to believe me. Please. None of this is true!

I am witnessing this immoral act of what they call “justice”. I am on the front line naked without artillery, embracing every shot, every metallic bullet. It’s all okay when you’re at the trial, believing your lawyer will manage to get you out of this situation, but even they drown in amnesia. Lawyers don’t exist. Not in the sense of justice anyway… It’s okay when they’re taking you to your cell and you’re staring at your monochrome cell wall, the artificial light suffocating, snatching every last breath your shrivelled lungs exhale.

Then that cell door opens, thinking the truth has finally arisen to the world, freedom awaiting outside, knowing I was finally going home to my husband, my children. My life. But that opportunity is taken away from me. I’m put to sleep and shipped off to this place.

This world.

To be honest. I didn’t understand it either to begin with my love. I remember when we went to London back in 2000 to celebrate the new millennium. I remember crisp snow cascading down from the frozen cotton candy clouds, spinning until it landed on your chilly nose. I gently wiped it away with my finger and we kissed under the display of fantastical fireworks, frosted lips intertwined in that sub-zero fantasy. How I long for those memories to occur once more, I wish I could relive that memory for the rest of my miserable life.

I don’t want to worry you. To make you suffer in anxiety for my safety. It’s not safe here. But I have to tell you this. You have to know. You can’t be engulfed by this corruption fogging over our towns, our cities, our churches and chapels, schools and libraries.

You have to stay AWAKE.

It might not have even been three days darling, it may have been months or years… Outside. It’s a challenge, it’s a game I’m in. they hunt us down, the rich. Bloodthirsty, greedy eyes of coal black matter stalk me every second. I’m in London. But it’s not London. You’ll think I’m MAD for saying this…

It’s a different version of London.

The needles. The restraints it took me to this place. They took me to this place. These people called Stalkers threw me in here. I. I don’t even know what the Hell they are?!


I had to take a break from writing this letter.

I’m on day seven though. A week has passed since I’ve landed here. A lot has happened. I was given a diamond necklace. From this lady. She said her name was S too. That’s all she knew, she’s been here for over a year and she only knows that about herself. She doesn’t have a barcode like me, she must not be that much of a threat.

There’s this restaurant I found too. It’s called “The old Duke of Arch”. It’s underneath a bridge near the centre. I remember us walking past it on the way to Jubilee Gardens. Remember? All the tables were fully booked, full of life and normality, eating divine courses on relaxed weekends, breaking from work and life. Now, there are no tables. No chairs. No pictures or decoration. It’s a tucked away hideout for around fifty people, mainly Low targets, a few High targets – including myself. Around six, including myself, have a barcode and know our letter. There’s myself, K, A, another A, X and F-22. The rest are clueless. You see, we are important. I was told that if they find us, we are their Trophy.

The highest target right now is called Charity-27F. If she’s killed, then the lucky hunter will cash out BILLIONS. They’ll probably decapitate her, the slower the death, the more money they’ll cash out. They’ll slowly skin her alive, whittle her pretty skin away until it forms a pile next to her feet. Use her eyes as diamonds in their partner’s jewellery, brake every brittle bone in her skeleton. Grill her uterus on her saliva and blood until she is no longer a woman. No longer a human being but instead a mangled organism. Nothing but broken bones, devoured organs and her head above the mantelpiece, above the framed photographs of their family, of their relatives. Their friends.

Two days ago, while it was the Safety hour, which is when the Hunters exit the game for a break, I walked along the river Thames, or what was the river Thames. There is no water and no gushing boats, instead the unwanted parts of the Trophies are dumped in there. Apparently, the most typical body parts for the Hunters to take are: fingers, the head, eyes, hair and sometimes their tongues. Some go to the extent of skinning the bodies…

Normally when they are alive.

They use it as a public display of dominance and a message, telling us ‘you’re next’. It is usually a bath full of headless bodies, torsos, severed arms and legs, decaying skin and leaking organs.

I can still see the river though.

In this bleak reality, I can still see the London Eye, where we witnessed the light flurry of snow drift across the skyline during that unforgettable December sunset. Of course it’s not in operation and some of the carriages fell into the body-lined Thames, crushing what was left of those maggot ridden corpses. I’m used to the smell. It is a smell I will never forget though my love. I try to replace it with the smell of your aftershave on your skin, that nostalgic smell is the only thing that keeps me going these days.

The thing is-

It’s been over a month. I cannot remember what I was going to write last month, it must have been important. I lost the necklace in the ambush, a Hunter found us and obliterated Duke. F-22’s name is Felicia-22. She only gained her name after hitting an intruding Hunter over the head with a rock. She’s a threat now.

I had to go.

I headed towards what seems like the Oxleas Forest. Moving in the city was difficult. I almost died once as a Hunter spotted me. It’s difficult to remain stealth around here, but her bullet only scraped my arm.

I’m alone now. Maybe it’s better that way.

I promise my love I will survive. Apparently there’s a sanctuary where they can’t locate us and there’s a way to defeat the game.

 Yes. This is a GAME.

It’s not justice. Let me remind you that there is no justice…

Just promise me. Promise me this. Don’t rebel against them. Ignore what I said about keeping your eyes open. Don’t go digging. Act stupid. Be ignorant to the world around you.

Obey. Please.

Just obey.

I love you.

~ S-25F, 1-London District.


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