Second

Your uniform for the day's tasks arrives through a slot in the wall. Everything our keepers provide us with comes from that slot. They are considerations from our ruling caste arriving with the whispering whirring of machinery. Food, water, and clothing; that which is essential and nothing more. They took away books in the first month of my sentence after "Lord of the Flies" started a riot. Human Resources liquidated their "Approved Reading" department and that was the end of it.

The far wall of the cube, the one facing the walk way, opens. Some rush onto the floor, others drag their feet. Like the cattle we are, we file out and navigate the corridors toward our appointed tasks. The small noises that signal the presence of humanity are all that pervade the circulated air. We used to be allowed to socialize freely, now barely a yawn or annoyed grunt can be heard as the herd is steered toward our labors.

As if to humiliate us further, under the guise of wanting to avoid confusion, we are branded with a geometric shape. Follow the direction the shape is pointing and you'll always reach your destination. You want to move with haste, they're holding every second you're not toiling against you. From the opening of the cube wall to your position as a cog in the great machine, your nose is pressed to the grindstone. Our keepers are owed their dues, like the devil himself, and they will have every cent of the blood money with interest. It's a constitutional right.