Anne got her letter today. There was no warning of its arrival, it was just there, settled in the stacks of papers that cluttered her small, run-down, apartment.

            As she opened the letter, with trembling hands, she had to read it three times to fully comprehend what had happened.

            She had won the case, fair and simple. But the other side hadn’t put up much of a fight. Sure, they were giving her enough money to allow her to never lift a finger again, but it didn’t matter, since she was already weak enough to do so.

            Anne had worked for the factory since she was sixteen. She had quit school, and went on to labor in the sweatshop for years, until now, at the ripe age of twenty-eight, she had been forced to quit.

            There had always been a large amount of fumes in that factory. All of them being questionable, for none of the workers knew what it was. They didn’t know that when they were exposed to these gases for a great period of time, they would infect their lungs.

            In Anne’s case, she only had to work there for eleven years, but she had shown the symptoms after three. It grew for another four or five years, and she didn’t realize it until after ten. At that time, there was no hope for a cure. In fact, there never was.

Over one hundred women who had worked in that factory had it. They were all slowly decaying, watching their bodies fall apart little by little. Of course, none of them knew how it happened. It wasn’t until their doctor diagnosed them, and stated what might have been the cause, that they had the slightest idea. By then, most of them were already dead. Most of them had already given up.

When Anne read her letter, all three times, and when she thought about all that she had been though, she only figured that they were waiting for her to die. They paid her for life, without a fight, but they didn’t have to close down their factories. All they had to do was change an ingredient.

They had called it a humanitarian gesture. They didn’t even have to give her the money, and they didn’t even have to take her seriously. If Anne hadn’t of made something of herself, if she hadn’t of made it onto the nightly news, her case would have been ignored.

She was supposed to be married by now. She was supposed to have her own home, and her own family, and her own life to do what she wanted. But with only a month to live, at most, she had broken it all off, and decided that she wouldn’t even try anymore.

They had claimed that they didn’t know the fumes were dangerous. They claimed that the cancer in the lungs was just a coincidence, and that it had no link to what they were doing. They said there was no proof, until evidence was found. It took forever to find anything, and the corporations did a good job of hiding everything.

Anne didn’t want this money now that she had won. It stood for nothing. The case was hers, but she had lost everything. How many were already dead? How many were going to die? They were all going to die, all of them, before they reached the age of thirty-five.

One hundred and twenty-two lives. One hundred and twenty-two woman had lost their dreams. One hundred and twenty-two women would never have the chance to grow old, have children, and live on for generations.

Anne put the letter down, and sat in the wicker chair next to the stacks of letters, and medical bills, and fees she would never pay. She could barely breathe at this point, and she just waited, wishing death would take her by the hand, and lead her away.

No one would pick up where she had left off. No one would challenge the factory ever again. No one would establish justice, or even comment about it.

Anne died that night, without a single visit from a friend or family. She died with tears dried upon her cheeks, and with blood spotted upon her chin, and with a rosy-red stained handkerchief in her hand.