The Purge
A week ago, Arthur Barclay won the election — a first for the Revolutionary Party.
Today, he summoned us to the Assembly Hall.
I assumed it was the official party summons following his victory. About time, I thought.
When I arrived, the hall was already full. Rows of dark coats pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with polished leather. Men I had spent two years campaigning beside sat rigid, speaking in low, careful voices that never quite rose above a murmur.
The seating was arranged by seniority. I was guided to a modest seat in the middle row, beside a man whose position I never quite understood.
Arthur Barclay entered with armed guards, rifles resting easily in their hands. Conversation died, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Then, Arthur raised his hand, and the hall stilled. He adjusted the microphone and shuffled his papers.
Finally, he spoke.
“Today, I have brought you all here to address something that can no longer be ignored.”
His eyes were cold.
“A group of high-ranking officials has conspired to remove me from power.”
The room froze.
“The guilty parties,” he continued, “are already in this room.”
My skin turned cold. Sweat gathered at my temples.
The man beside me shifted in his seat. Only then did I notice guards stationed at the end of the hall, closing the doors. Locking them.
Footsteps echoed as a heavyset man climbed the stage. I recognized him immediately, Laurence. He had openly disagreed with Arthur during an assembly a month earlier. He stood behind the microphone, unfolded a paper, and began to speak.
He confessed.
He spoke of treason, of conspiring to overthrow Arthur Barclay and the new regime. Arthur took a seat at the edge of the stage, lit a cigar, and watched.
None of it made sense. Laurence had never opposed the revolution.
I wasn’t sure anyone truly had.
But I had.
My head throbbed. I could barely hear the words anymore. That was when I noticed Laurence’s hands. They were shaking. His collar was ruffled, and beneath it, a faint trace of crimson peeked through.
After Laurence finished, the guards seized him and escorted him out through the doors they had locked moments earlier. He did not glance at anyone as he passed.
Arthur stood up once again, unhurried, re-lighting his cigar.
“What should be done with traitors?” he asked. “In this country, there is only one answer. An eye for an eye.”
Terrified applause filled the room. I clapped too. What else could I have done?
“When I read your name,” Arthur said calmly, “stand and leave.”
My legs went numb.
The names kept getting called. The air tightened.
“Me? I didn’t do anything!” the man next to me shouted, rising abruptly. I flinched at the sudden movement, “I swear — on everything I own —”
Arthur doesn’t even look at him. “When your name is announced, stand up and head through the door,” he repeated in a cold voice.
One by one, they were led away. No one was told where they were going.
I noticed names crossed out on Arthur’s list.
I did not want to know what it meant.
Then silence settled in.
“That is all,” Arthur said. “Thank you for your loyalty.”
My name hadn’t been read out.
The room erupted. Men stood cheering, clapping, crying. I stood too, my legs buckling beneath me, my hands clapping violently as tears streamed down my face.
That was when Arthur looked directly at me. He held my gaze and smiled.
Maryam is an engineering student who’s had the privilege of growing up surrounded by stories in every form - novels, films, theatre and television alike. Of them all, writing stood out as the most beautiful, perhaps because of how accessible it was: a way to create entire worlds from nothing but words.
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Wow! Spine-tingling!