Why I even bother goin' down to the square with Joe today is somethin' beyond me; I don't even bother in stayin' for the end
Why I even bother goin' down to the square with Joe today is somethin' beyond me; I don't even bother in stayin' for the end. I always leave, and always at the same time. I don't know why I do this. I clear have no faith in this atrocious tradition. I reckon thinkin' I keep doing this so's I can remind myself why I don't associate with my fellow heathen neighbors.
If I wasn't so old and small-town bred, I would've up and left this God-forsaken place along time ago for somethin' better updated. Maybe I'm tryin' to motivate myself subconsciously.
As the both of us enter the square, Joe abruptly leaves me for the post office ( too embarrassed to be seen with his crazy sister, I reckon ), and I'm left to size up the whole scene myself, and it's almost like nothin' has changed since the last Lottery hearin'.
Miss Bessom, Mrs. Watson, and Mrs. Dunbar are all huddled tightly like a knot, all wearing bright clothin' ( makes me look every outta place in my black garments ), and they are all shooting snobbish glances my way, like they did the year afore.
Little Tommy Dunbar and Dickie Watson lookin' for rocks to add to their pile, .like they did the year afore.
Old man Warner still ramblin' on about how the Lottery used to mean somethin' to people, like he did the year afore.
My brother carrying the black box and wooden paddle and being followed by a townsman with the stool into the square, like they did the year afore.
Everythin' was the same as afore.
Silently, I exclude myself in a corner and keep up with my knittin' the scarf I started the night afore ( I plan on getting' a head start for winter ). I do this so's I can discourage anybody from tryin' to talk with me, but I know none of it is necessary 'cause no one in this town has talked with me voluntarily in twenty years since I denounced this Lottery. It does get sure boring fast without someone to talk to, but Joe is the only thing I plan on getting' acquainted with whom is with this barbaric bunch.
I don't know exactly how long I've been knittin', since I always manage to get lost in the motions and tickin's of the needles as they weave together, but I am soon joined by my brother, which is the first in ten years, Lottery-wise.
I greet him with a forced smile and keep on knittin', not once seemingly interested for what he has to say. I dryly ask him if he remembered to leave my name out, in which he said no. Typical Joe.
I retort about how hard this job must be for him, and I quickly set into makin' fun of what some people think about him. This seems to put him off into a cold mood, since his reply seems to drip with animosity.
"You'd oblige, Belva, by lowerin' your voice a little."
I don't look up from my knittin', so I'm not sure about whether or not he sees me smilin'. He rambles a bit on about what the neighbors will think, and more tommyrot. I can't help but point out that this whole tradition is all superstition, and has no wisdom left to it.
"The Lottery has to be taken serious. People get set in a way of doin' things and you can't change 'em. It's human nature."
This time, I stop knittin' and look at him. He really doesn't know how much of a monster he has become, and I let him know. Maybe it was 'cause of how deep we were talking about the Lottery that I brought in our brother. My brother the monster then brought about how cowardly our brother was for leavin', and I point out to him that it takes a brave man to make his views heard.
Then, he finally brings about the subject I kept help ponderin' every morning on the twenty-seventh of June. He offered to let me go off and find our missing brother, but instead I found myself declin', because I had just found an answer to my everlastin' mystery; I look at him straight in the eye and tell him that I plan on bein' here the day he finds that he has the black dot. With that, he's gone quickly, back to be swallowed by 'em, the barbarians, and I'm left alone again to knittin' and my thoughts, waitin' for the whole thing to start so's I can leave and pity the poor fool who has to bear the bad news.
As I keep up with the scarf and it's progress, I can't help but think that a thunderstorm is a comin'. It's a shrill feelin' that I can't shake off, and I look to the skies to see if I'm right. Everythin' is clear, like before, so I look around the square to see if they are about to start. I see that Bill Hutchinson's wife has come quite late, and look's it, too.
Everyone has lined up now, so I'm assumin' they are about to start calling the family names now.
I stop my knittin' and put it aside for a moment. As morbid as it sounds, I'm kinda curious to see who will be doomed. And another morbid thing is that I hope it'll be Joe.
"Adams."
Why these people believe in this whole tradition I don't know why. It has know meanin' to it and it never did, no matter what Old Man Warner says. But as I listen to more names being called out ( "Allen." "Appleby." "Barrows." "Burgress." "Caswell." "Collins." ), I know no matter what I say or do, my brother Joe will always be right about one thing: People get set in a way of doin' things and you can't change 'em. It's human nature.
These people will never change their views about this whole heathen ritual, the bunch of 'em. I finally feel useless at this point in my life.
" Now that's all." Slowly, Joe raises his hand, holding his piece of paper.
"All right, fellows." I can hear folded paper by the tone being unfolded and looked at, one of them doomed.
" It's Hutchinson! It's Bill! Bill Hutchinson's got it! Hutchinson!"
Too bad for Joe. There is always next year. Silently, I pick up my knittin', decidin' that my scarf was more important. Just a bit.
I take glances at the Hutchinson's as they form a small group outside of the crowd. I feel sympathy not for the whole family, but more so for the boy. First Lottery and just might be his last.
Tessie soon starts hollerin' about how unfair the whole thing was, but was quickly snuffed out by her husband and the crowd. Bunch of heathens. I gather my knittin', ready to leave.
Pretty soon, the whole family is back up at the black box, each takin' a piece of paper. Slowly, they all start unfoldin' their piece.
Davy's……blank.
Tessie…………undecided.
Bill…………….blank.
Joe somberly beckons, "All right, folks. Let's finish quickly."
The crowd starts to move, some with stones, others graspin' for some on the ground. Tessie, like an animal, is trapped.
" It isn't fair! It wasn't done fair!"
I start to walk past the spectacle, not botherin' to even look at what's happenin'. I already know.
Thwack!
Joe is in front of me, throwin' a fist full of stones after another, and I gallantly thrust him outta my way. Bloody heathen.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
" It isn't fair! It isn't right!"
As I walk away, a sudden rush of cold air fills the place, and the sky seems to blacken immediately. A low rumble of thunder follows.
Everythin' was the same as afore.