The story goes that a man saw one of the last wild cranes before getting his idea. He recalled the old tales about cranes delivering children to their parents and something amazing happened. The CRANE organization began. Nobody is quite sure what it stands for, and neither am I. But I do know one thing, cranes don’t deliver babies. Storks do. For a reason unbeknownst to me, people began to support this mystery character. "Save the children!", they screamed with yearning. This man gained power with his ability to speak publically. Heart-felt “Nobody wants to live like this!,” and “For the future!” won over millions of people. The CRANE’s wings began to spread.
It was a week ago that this program began at my school. Every Wednesday, three names would be called; three faces would be ripped apart from the rest, courtesy of the CRANE’s talons. By the second Wednesday, I am hiding in the bathroom, my back pressed against the inside of the stall door. Which one of my classmates would be gone today? I wondered, who will I never see again? Some of my classmates have knitted themselves into tight groups, always traveling in small packs down the overpacked, crowded hallways. Others distance themselves, talking to no one, eyes always averted. These days, since the announcement of the CRANE’s arrival, I had stayed in the pockets of the shadows. I clung to my handful of friends like a small child does their favorite toy.
A crackling comes over the intercom and I heard a voice that sounded only once before, but everyone, including myself, felt a deep hatred towards it. Then it began to speak in a slow, rasping tone.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. The good fortune of the CRANE program is once again at your school. Today, three lucky students will be able to participate in the program. Please wait a few moments as we prepare for the drawing and the students who win.” The time it takes is enough for a turtle to cross the Northern European Plain about 5 times.
The speaker shuts off, each of its moans like a punch to my stomach. I sink to the floor, burying my face within my hands. I hear shrill laughter outside in the hallway, and the sound of echoing footsteps as people progress down the hall to lunch. Do they not suspect what is happening? Can they not see through the lies that are so carefully knit, but so easily torn apart? I reach a trembling hand to the hard metal toilet paper box, tentative fingers tearing a sheet off and bringing it to my eyes. I can’t stay any longer. Placing a bony arm on the door, I pull myself up, swiping off the dirt on my back. A scared click sounds as I unlock the stall and walked rim-rod straight to the door, never taking one last look at myself in the battered old mirror that is glued firm to the wall.
I am last to arrive in the cafeteria, its dull grey lights reflecting off an institute white linoleum floor. The lunch lady hands me a nondescript apple and a tiny amount of liquid in a recyclable plastic bottle, giving me a curt nod. Yes, even the stolid lunch ladies are feeling sentimental today.
I head to my usual spot on the floor next to a faded portrait of horses, an animal long extinct. Never had I seen one, never will I, but there is a certain longing to when I gaze at them, so free. A skinny boy with floppy brown hair plops down next to me, his eyes have a ring of grey around them from lack of sleep.
“Hello.” He says to me.
“Hello.” I reply, my eyes dancing back to the horse picture.
“Lovely day for a CRANE, isn’t it?”
“Definitely. Lovely day to be murdered, too.” I sarcastically remark.
“I know, I know,” he says back, “I wonder who it’ll be this time... With this many people in the school, the likelihood of one of us being chosen is small.”
“Sure.” I say haltingly.
He doesn’t say anything after that, but we both have the same thing on our minds and it was obvious. The lunch dismissal bell rings but I hold back; there is no point in trying to compete with the crowd. He stayed next to me, a hand placed on the back of my neck.
Once the cafeteria is nearly empty, we head back to class. For three of us, the journey will be pointless, for three of us, it will never be made again. We make it through the metal doorframe just as the intercom comes back to life.
“The wait is over, we have drawn and three lucky students will now be called out.” His gravely voice travels through the room like a ghost, sending shivers down my spine. The names are read, the sounds of footsteps seem to echo through the building as one by one the three stand up, and their heartbeats become my own.
Somewhere, a dull teacher is speaking. Notes are being passed. Whispers are slipping through the air of a stuffy room. I am not there. I am watching, my eyes glued to a window, its curtains carelessly flung open. I can see the shadow of a monster. I watch as glasses are poured, a toast is given to those three. Those three were about to be swallowed by the CRANE. Their faces alight, each downs his drink. Each body drops to the floor within the next minute. Then the lights are put out.
