Zach raced towards the docking stations. He glanced up at the massive digital clock that even on overcast days shone almost as bright as the sun. He knew his parents would be waiting at the station and he’d promised them this time he wouldn’t be late. They’d lost credits the past two weeks for his tardiness and although his mother assured him that there weren’t any problems he knew she’d been reprimanded.

He barely slid through the slowly closing steel doors and slipped into the metallic sarcophagus; the whoosh of the lid clasping shut just as he shoved the ventilator over his mouth, the blackness enveloping him.

As the needles jacked into the tiny receptors near his temples, Zach took a deep hit of the intoxicating air from the ventilator and thought, time to sell the perfect life.

One thought on “Six Sentence Sunday: The Perfect Life

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