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May 2014
It was the worst kind of death. Not the physical death-no, this was much worse than that.

This was the death of souls. Hopes, lives, dreams, crushed, exterminated, obliterated. It was the death of everything it meant to be human.

Emotions didn't exist. Numbness was an inevitable factor of this horrible place. There was no escape.
They didn't have to worry about escape. No person, no soul, no spirit survived the factory of death.
As all factories do, products were made. In this case, the products were the mindless, numb, empty shells of what were once lively, happy human bodies. Every year was a fresh batch, ripe for a more advanced death factory. There was no reason for it, either. Money ended up being lost for the factories of death. There was no purpose. No escape. No heaven. No hell. Endless purgatory.

Suicide was illegal and impossible, since it was  *a crime to destroy government property.
Skye Applebome
Written by
Skye Applebome  Stokesdale, North Carolin
(Stokesdale, North Carolin)   
394
 
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