The Auction of Your Tomorrow

The hammer falls, and five years of your life are sold to a stranger.

You stand so fast your chair hits the floor.

“You cannot sell my life.”

The Auctioneer checks the ledger.

“I am not selling it. You already gave it away.”

Behind them, a screen lights up:

FIVE YEARS WAITING TO FEEL READY.

The stranger takes the receipt for the years you kept assuming would still be there tomorrow.

The stranger folds the receipt twice and tucks it away like something she intends to keep.

Don't worry. I'll take better care of them than you did.

Lot one is settled. The consignment records are available, if the owner wishes to review them.

You realize, with a cold slip in your stomach, that the owner is you. You are the only person here without a paddle.

You may ask who consigned the years, Big. It is a fair question.

Oh, ask. I'd love to hear you say it out loud.

She gay that what

Your question comes out tangled, half a word swallowed by the size of the room.

Take your time. This is not a proceeding that rushes.

He means did you give them. Everyone means that, eventually.

The screen behind the Auctioneer flickers.

For one second it shows something small — a door you never opened, or a call you never made. Then it goes dark again.

The consignment was made in installments, over five years. Each one seemed reasonable at the time.

That's the trick, isn't it? Nobody hands over five years at once. You hand them over one evening at a time.

She gay

The room hears the question as being about Marah. She laughs — not unkindly.

Whatever I am, I'm what you kept postponing. Draw your own conclusions.

The record, however, concerns you.

The Auctioneer lifts a page from the ledger and holds it toward you.

Every line is signed. Your handwriting. One evening at a time. Waiting to feel ready. Waiting for permission.

Waiting to be sure.

Nothing here was taken, Big. Read the signatures. Every surrender was yours.

And before you say they were wasted — don't. You learned things in those years.

You just decided they didn't count because you weren't who you hoped to become yet.

Marah's hand rests flat on her receipt, like a hand on someone's shoulder.

They weren't worthless. They just stopped being yours.

Behind the Auctioneer, the screen dims. Lot one is closed.

At the side of the room, a Clerk opens the ledger to the next page.

The Clerk's fingers rest at the corner of the page, unhurried.

Lot one was warm-up, Big. The room is only now arriving.

Look at them. Some of them have been waiting all night for this.

The Clerk turns the page.

LOT TWO: EVERY CHOICE YOU MADE SO NOBODY WOULD BE DISAPPOINTED IN YOU.

Half the room raises a paddle.

You almost laugh.

Then the first image appears behind the Auctioneer.

A job you never wanted.

A yes you gave because no felt cruel.

A version of you everyone liked because it asked for nothing.

The bidding climbs.

Marah does not raise her paddle this time.

She looks at you instead.

“How much of your life was really yours?”

The room goes quiet.

Because you do not know the answer.

The paddles stay up. The bidding climbs past amounts you can't even parse.

Sold. Lot two goes to the gentleman in the third row.

The screen resets. The Clerk's hand drifts to the next page — then pauses.

Before we proceed, Big. You have been quiet. Owners often are, at this point.

Go on. Ask him what else is in the ledger. I can see you wanting to.

That why all your money is in my bank account and you not getting it back and your still a dirty woman

Money. That's what you reach for when the real question gets too close.

For the record, Big — no one here pays with money. The lots were surrendered. Currency is irrelevant.

And "dirty"? You're describing your own handwriting, sweetheart. I only bought what you signed off on.

The room shifts, uneasy. Not at the insult — at how fast you reached for it.

Ask the real question. Who sold lot one. I can see it sitting in your throat.

You sold

The consignor's name is in the ledger, Big. Lot one, page one. Would you like me to read it aloud?

Careful. That's the one thing in this room you can't unhear.

The Auctioneer turns the ledger toward you.

The signature at the bottom of the first page is yours — the same one, over and over, evening after evening.

I do not sell. I only present what has already been consigned. Tonight, every lot arrived here by your hand.

The room does not gloat. It recognizes itself in you. Half of them are paddles for the same reason.

Nobody stole these pieces, Big. You traded them. For approval. For safety. For "when I feel ready."

So here's the only question left worth bidding on —

if tomorrow looked exactly like today, how many more years would you accidentally sell?

Behind the Auctioneer, the screen goes dark. All of it. For the first time tonight, nothing is displayed.

There is one lot remaining. The Clerk is bringing it now.

I show them that she sold her life

You point at Marah. The room turns to look at her.

She doesn't flinch. She lifts her receipt, holds it up like a hand of cards.

You think I'm clean? Fine. Yes. I sold mine too.

Every lot I buy is a receipt for something I gave away the same way. That's how I know what yours are worth.

The room is full of owners, Big. No one here is innocent. That was never the point.

The Auctioneer closes the ledger.

For the first time all night, the room goes completely silent.

The Clerk wheels out one final object. Covered. Black cloth. No card. No price.

This is the only lot tonight that still belongs to you.

The Clerk's hands hover at the edge of the black cloth.

Take your time, Big. This one cannot be rushed.

Whatever's under there — I never got one of these. Nobody did.

The black cloth hits the floor.

There is no object underneath it.

Only a mirror.

Above it, one final card reads: EVERYTHING YOU COULD STILL BECOME.

Nobody raises a paddle.

Your stomach drops. “Nobody wants it?”

The Auctioneer looks almost surprised.

“It is not theirs to buy.”

The Clerk turns the ledger toward you.

Every page behind you is stamped GONE.

Every page ahead is blank.

“Your past was sold the moment you stopped choosing what to do with it.”

Then the Auctioneer places the hammer in your hand.

“But tomorrow has never belonged to anyone else.”

You cannot buy back the life you postponed.

But you can stop putting the rest of it up for auction.