To say the least, Harold lived in a strange world. A backwards world.
He had no real words to describe it, as it was, in all honesty, indescribable.
It was a world of fear, hate, backstabbing, lying, and just all-around human evil, but Harold couldn't tell. He had lived with this all his life; as far as he was concerned, this was the way the world was meant to be.
For a majority of a given year, men and women alike wake up at precisely 5 AM, jump into a shower, throw on a clean set of clothes, and exit there humble yet no-so private abodes and head to their locales of profession, as to spend 9 hours working as thoroughly as they can on a weekly project assigned to them by a Sector Administrator. They are not paid for their labor; at least, not in the traditional sense, no. Instead, as citizens of Zanzari, they work for the right to live in the homes provided to them by the grand and noble Zanzari Administrative Office of Internal Affairs.
In the event that they are unable to keep up with the assigned projects, they are given only a single chance to bring themselves back up to par, or the 'working standards' as defined by the Zanzari Labor Command, Sector 1 of 3, all three of which are branches of the higher commanding authority of the Zanzari Administrative Office of Internal Affairs, which unto itself is overshadowed by several other Administrative Offices, which are in-turn overshadowed by hundreds of smaller offices, and so on until finally it reaches the Zanzari Grand Council of Supreme Administrative Authority, with a figurehead Council Commander-in-Chief elected biannually, will arrest them and send them to a fate which is feared above all else, known as the Zanzari Assessments.
Harold, just as every other Zanzari, had learned the intricate details of the inner workings of the Zanzari Governmental Body during his senior Grade Academy years, also in which his life-long profession was judged, as per usual, by the Academy President, to be a 'Governmental Document Verificationist.' Not quite as exciting as it sounds, Harold notes as he recalls in his mind the many hours of his life spent virtua-stamping seemingly endless and unnecessary government 'Verification Documents,' in which Harold is instructed whether or not to stamp Permitted or Denied on the requested menial action, of which includes things such as permission to leave a Citizen's Abode past labor hours to take a stroll, most of which are stamped in bright-red letters: Denied across the diagonal length of the page.
It wasn't until one day, quite a dreary day as Harold remembers it, that Harold became wordlessly tired of his job, and simply got up and walked out. Observing his actions, several others followed suite, until finally, by the time Harold had reached the elevator, he had gained a total of 23 followers, all of whom hadn't said a single word to each other.
As they stepped out of the elevator and onto the crowded street, several Peace Officers carrying heavy chain-loaded fully-automatic weapons stalled the entourage in its tracks.
"Halt, citizen!" The lead man boasts.
Harold does so, his eyes level with the leading Peace Officer, creased in a sense of bewildered and angry, yet curious authority.
"You have left your Administrated Locale of Labor 4 hours prior to the permitted time. Explain, or we will open fire."
Harold reached down and grabbed his left wrist in his right hand, and said, "I can feel a pulse."
The leading officers look transforms only slightly, to a look of angry confusion. After only a split-second pause, he lifts his hand into the air, the fully-automatic weapons of his comrades following, almost magnetically, to point directly at Harold and his entourage.
"Every night I would feel my wrist, to check for a pulse." Harold said.
"Every night, I would make sure I was still alive."
The leading Peace Officer simply remained as he was, listening indifferently.
"My wrist told me I was alive. But I didn't feel alive. I have never felt alive."
"Ready, arms!" The Peace Officer cries. The men behind him each cock-back their trigger springs simultaneously.
"Today, I realized my life isn't truly living. Today, I realized I was nothing more than worthless and replaceable."
"Your sentiment is corrupting, citizen." The Peace Officer said, in what was almost a whisper.
"Oblige me." Harold replied.
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