Every day they chain us hand and foot and lead us out to the graveyard. We walk in time and hum to ourselves in rhythm, to keep ourselves sane, and to distract ourselves from our work.

It’s our friends and family we’re burying. Our race has been utterly conquered and the dead outnumber the living. We have only shovels, and the graves are dug to prevent or slow the spread of disease.

The jailers are of our people as well. There are no attempts to revolt, no argument, no defiance. We understand why they operate the prison and we don’t resent them for it. They run the prisons to keep us alive until the invaders deem it acceptable for us to be released.

I’ve adapted myself to digging, developed hard calluses and my body moves to it like it was made that way. The day moves quickly, the sun marching across the sky as the piles of bodies disappear and the ground rises around us.

I murmur words to myself, telling stories, going myself names and playing out imaginary conflicts. Sometimes it’s all I can do to stop myself from laughing and breaking my rhythm entirely, the silliness and spectacles I imagine.

I wish I could talk with my comrades and share my stories, but we aren’t allowed to talk with one another. The overseers pass through and remind us of our agreement, and we continue our work.

One day the clown appears. Big red squeaky shoes, a colorful outfit, a horn, dancing his way down the aisles of men.

I look down at my pile, ignoring the spectacle. This has to be an hallucination; no entertainment could survive in this grim existence. The honking horn draws closer and he’s in front of me.

He reaches out to me and pulls a flower to me out of my ear. I stumble backwards away from him and confetti explodes around me. I almost shout but stop myself; where are the overseers?

I look around to my comrades, who continue their work without stopping. The clown is juggling now, and there’s a music box playing somewhere. I’m losing my mind, I’m dying.

I’m dead.