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Infinite, unholy memories embodied in white, pale, shapeless, skeletons gloom, all their bald heads bowed, their glossed over eyes, sucked into their seemingly hollow sockets, staring at their bare, pasty white feet. Their toes are swollen and void of the rosy tint live flesh sustains. The water that the soles of their feet have absorbed from the moistened concrete, causes a most painful deterioration of their skin. Rugged and rough, the surface of the concrete tears at the bottoms of their tender feet, causing the flesh to rip and rub off, or to hang in chunks or scraps.

The stale, sombre air, lacking any warmth, cling heavily to their chilled skin. Their skin, seems no more than an encasement of paper machete. They were clothed by nothing more than stained, pale gray, sheet like hospital gowns. A crack of bare skin can be seen, running up their backs where the gown ties and parts. It seems as if this were on purpose to show their sharp and bony spines, prominently protruding sickly from their sagging skin, craned over, as if bent at a high point.

These molds of what once used to be people line up, one by one. Ropes run along on either side of them, disappearing at the vanishing point. These shells are even more infinite, one after the other, over and over. The heights of these soulless beings vary; some the height of small children, some of young men... but all indistinguishable of age, for each expression a copy of the last.

The line moves forward, each pathetic excuse for existence taking an absentminded and drone-like step forward. With the feel of an echo, the entire line shifts forward in unison, then sets as stone once again. Following the line up, past the miles of these statues, far past the vanishing point, sits three men behind a large desk. They sit upon chairs which make them cast down their gaze upon whoever steps in front of them. They are all dressed in uniform, donning the same rich, velvety purple. Many pendants cling to their chest, claiming success and honor.

These men are all of varying ages. The eldest sits in the middle, his chair making him tower above the other two. His hair is the color of salt and pepper, his aging barely showing upon his clean-shaven face. His eyes are dark gray and authoritative. The aura he holds about him is strong and cold. His gaze is harsh as an ice wind upon the mindless being in front of him. To him, these beings are sheep and he their shepherd.

The man to his right is middle-aged. His hair is dark brown. His chair is lower than his respective elder's but higher than the youth's. His face is hard, as if carved from stone. His eyes too are hard, ice blue. His face is not as clean-shaven as his elder's and seems to have been affected by age with stress. He looks upon these beings in front of him with both annoyance and duty.

And last but not least is the youth that sits tall in his chair, which is lowest and to the left of the elder. His hair is light brown, his eyes the color of a venomous green. His face is clean-shaven and remains all his youth. He air is a proud and arrogant one, his gaze almost filled with a sick, sadistic entertainment. Out of all, he is to be feared the most.

In front of them stands one of the soulless. They look upon it with disgust. The middle aged reads off a number, then the youngest determines "left" or "right." This is number 759. 759 is destined to go to the left. And so 759 goes where told. This process is a long and arduous one.

"760," is called forth. The line shifts, but the being does not and is pushed forward by the line and stumbles forward. The eldest looks upon 760, the routine having been flawed calls for suspicion. "760," his voice booms. 760 does not look up, its eyes still upon the floor. Then after a pause a very soft and quiet voice stings the cold. "I used to have a name," it says. Then 760 looks up, gently repeating, "I used to have a name," mumbling it over and over. 760 is female. The being behind her, one of short stature, like that of a child, tilts its head up ever so slightly, and looks upon 760, the rest dare not raise their heads in wonder.

Before even the eldest had to mutter a word guards streamed out of both sides of the room. 761 looked to its feet once again as one of the guards thrust the butt of his rifle into the woman's- 760's face. There was no cry out for help. No cry of anguish or pain, but rather a calling out, a message, a warning. "761," 760 said, her voice growing loud.

The eldest judge raised, pulling a hand gun from his belt, pointing it towards 760. A trail of smoke rose up from the tip of the barrel of the metal gun. 760 collapsed, her head cracking against the concrete ground, splitting her skull open. Her eyes faced 761, their eyes meeting.

"Ancelin," her voice weakly called to 761, "Your name is Ancelin." Then another blast reaped the life from her brown eyes. She stared blankly up at Ancelin, who hung his head, pretending not to even have heard. Her body was then taken and transported out of the room by two guards, her glassy eyes staring at Ancelin the entire time.

"761," the middle-aged man's voice called out. Ancelin, 761, stepped forward, 760's blood pooling around his feet, staining his skin.

"Right," the young man called, telling 761 his fate.

"Wait," the eldest interrupted, "You are 761."

And if he had a voice he would have said, "I am Ancelin." But he instead walked quietly, heading towards the right, his bloody foot prints making a trail to be followed.