As I entered the polling station and handed my card to the lady at the desk, I still didn’t know how I would vote. Nothing I’d heard in the run up to the election made me want to vote for any of the parties. I did feel quite strongly about voting against most of the options.

The lady drew a ruled line through my name and handed me a long ballot paper. “Please choose one option and put a cross in the box. Don’t write anything else on the paper. And, when you’re done, just pop it in the box here.” She patted a black steel box beside her.

I gave her a weak smile and I took my sheet over to a wooden booth. A chunky black pencil tethered by a piece of string waited, expectantly. I unfolded the sheet and slowly, deliberately, read through each option, hoping something would click and I’d suddenly feel some kind of rightness about one of my choices.

Voting

Reconstruction, not an image of an actual ballot paper.

Nothing leapt out.

I picked up the pencil. Maybe I should just stab blindly at the paper and leave it up to chance. Or I could scribble NONE OF THE ABOVE in big childish letters. I wished just one of the candidates could be qualified, trusted, to represent me.

At the very bottom of the page lurked a name I didn’t recognise. An independent candidate with no logo next to his name. I knew nothing about him except that he was willing to go it alone. He didn’t feel like he fit in with any of the parties either.

I put my cross in the box.

 

 

This is a fictional story about voting. It’s not about me, or how I voted. It’s about a disillusioned voter recognising they have something in common with a candidate.

Happy voting everyone!

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