The Life Span of a College Application

Chapter 1

It has been 73 days since my inception. In the top right corner of my body, the date was printed Nov 23, 2019. I was able to check my calculation this morning when they reshuffled me. I saw a glimpse of the calendar hanging on the wall where the latest X was marked: Feb 4, 2020.

Around me are the silent screams of others, who are buried on top of each other, waiting for the Humans to breathe life into them. We are voiceless until we are read. Muted, I have been yearning to tell my story. My body serves a particular purpose: to tell the story of my creator, who I will never see. The minute I was born, black jets were pressed onto me, painful incisions through my porcelain white skin; my birth was less than 30 seconds.

These tattooed texts are the life vignettes that I am obliged to tell to alien-like faces, gorging eyes peering through our bodies: they call themselves the Admission Officers. Without the ability to speak, my other senses were heightened, particularly my ability to hear and smell. My woody fibers have absorbed conversations, gossip, and even secrets. I have become acquainted with the Officers, able to differentiate their habits, thoughts, and personalities.

I have been laying here for a while. Long enough to know the diverse lives of others lying above, under, and around me. To spare time, we would read the prints on each other’s temples and speculate where each one would end up. We waited as if we were on death row, either terminated, saved, or rescheduled by a capricious jury.

We have envied, hated, and commiserated with each other. We cheered on our comrades as they were lifted from the pile and brought under the noses of the Officers. We grieved when their frail bodies were tossed into the Shredder. Lying on the table with our perfectly tailored 8 1⁄2 x 11 robes, we held silent funerals and festive celebrations. The Wind which made its usual course from the outside world into the window swept up our cries and carried them along its breeze.

Lately I have been increasingly fearful of the Officers’ submission to the number’s game. I shivered as I heard ecstatic reverence of high test scores while lower ones were tragically castigated. Yesterday, their eyes glued to the test score one last time before they decided to end the life of my colleague. We spent 72 days together. I mourned his death while a part of myself, slightly relieved by another day to live.