You jerk awake. Into darkness. The spasm explodes in you, and you retch onto the sticky floor.
“What the hell is going on?” You whisper it to yourself because you are alone.
The black is relieved by one square of gray light. You crawl on bleeding hands and knees to the tiny monitor on the far wall.
“Jeremiah Smith,” you read your name on the screen. “Certified: Unpatriotic.”
(Yikes! Is this what comes out of me when I sleep too little and spend too much time looking at political writing before I go to sleep?
And somehow the second person present has a voyeuristic patina to it, don’t you think?
Today’s prompt word could have gone numerous places. It grabbed my hand and took me to a scary 1984-esque land. I don’t know anything about Jeremiah, but I hazard a guess to say he is not a scary man. Rather, his society sounds horrific from just these few words. It could be the beginning of a second person present dystopic novella. I might just have to write it. Someday.)
Izolda T 
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