5275 wakes up in the morning and makes her bed like usual. Corners tucked in, strong enough for a quarter to bounce off the mattress, pillow neatly patted down flat, and the blanket and sheet folded over right underneath the pillow. This is the last time I'll ever make my bed like this. 

She then makes her way to the interrogation room to rejoin her meat-indulging, ironless handler.

“First things first. What would you like on your identification? What name?” He holds a clipboard in his hand and gives a polite smile.

Maybe he’s trying to look more important today? He looks at me ready to take notes.

“I have no preference. Call me whatever."

He pauses for a moment. Feigning thoughtfulness. I doubt he's had to pretend to think this hard in a long time.

"How about, Rose?" And he throws another big smile my way.

"Really? Yeah, sure." I try to hide my surprise, because there is no way that his choice is a coincidence. He's smarter than he leads on. Rose, I haven't used that name since Julian.

"Where would you like to begin your new life, soldier 5275?

"Feel free to just open the door and let me go.”

“Well, like we said earlier. There will be therapy and rehabilitation. We can’t just let you go out the front door.”

5275 looks at him and looks around the empty office around him. Some desks neatly cleared away, other stacked with piles and piles of abandoned papers.

“Why not? Who will go follow me and find me? Who will track me down? Also, who is doing the therapy and rehabilitation?” 5275 says this coldly. I don't want to leave, but I can clearly tell they wouldn’t let me stay.

The soldier looks and stares and doesn't have a calculated reply to this one. And that was it. The end of the conversation.

A few hours later, 5275 walks out the front door into the familiar scene of every neighborhood of every town, in every city. A desolate and dry and uninhabited city. In her sack, a new identification card, a spare pair of clothes and items to barter with. She doesn't bother to even look at her new identification materials.

As 5275 steps out, the sun, bright and heavy, hits her face.

I can’t remember what my life was like outside of this.

She crosses the open gates and makes her way out past the empty guard station. I guess no goodbye.

As she passes the dirt road to her left, she sees for the first time in a long time a child.

How ironic. Children. They continue to haunt me.

The blazing heat reminds her of that day when she decided to kill herself in the most cowardly way possible. With no effort. No movement. No choice. Just kill herself by not doing anything. The second most cowardly decision of her life.

Her feet had moved her assuredly through town, and now she stood underneath a tree again, taking a break from the heat of the sun. The tree that reminded her of that sin. 

Can I do it again? Should I try it again? Why put the effort in to eat, to drink? If I am not needed by anyone, why do I need to need anything?