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Status: Positive
#1
dill616
dill616
Status: Positive Part One
I was born to a woman who never loved me. Never mind that she stumbled into the children’s bank with the residue of my afterbirth still clinging to her leg. I can ignore her turning me over only hours after I was born. It’s the fact that she didn’t bother to give me a name which made me resentful. No child should have to go without a proper name. Having a name is something that makes you feel human. It gives you worth. I was marked as Baby 214. When they adopted me, my parents were told little about her. What mattered most to them was that she waved the one-year retrieval rights, which came at an additional fee. Through nothing more than an exchange of two hundred dollars and four signatures, I became their daughter. The contract was unconditional. My birthmother could never come back to claim me, not that she ever tried.
Her reason for transferal was checked as to acquire additional funds. “Funds for what?” I thought at first. When I was older, I looked through my records. I discovered she had been a new-age addict. Previously, people had filled their veins, lungs, and nostrils with foreign chemicals. During the time when I was born, a trend of stimulating the brain with natural chemicals caught on. From my research, I knew Serotonin and Endorphin were the most popular synthetics. Whenever I could manage to spare her a passing thought, I would be thankful to the woman who gave me up to get high. I would never want to be raised by someone who thought so little of me.
Although it was the truth, my parents wouldn’t allow me to feel like I had been bought and sold.My parents named me Blue because of my eyes. I always thought they were anime-like, but to them I was their little Blue Belle. I don’t remember much about our lives before we moved to the compound. I do, however, remember the night we left. It is one of my oldest and most distinct memories. It’s something I didn’t come to fully understand until recently.
I can remember very little of our life on the outside. To be honest, most of my memories begin the night we were evacuated. The image of our front door is still painted across the back of my eyelids. We lived in a green, three story house with white scalloped trimming and gold accents. I can almost see the decorative gold flowers freckling the front of the house. It was squashed between several others built in the same style with alternating colors. The houses lined the long streets of the major city where we lived. There was a small welcoming room to shelter visitors from the rain before they entered the hall. My dreams are not spotted with images of the sun filtering through rippled glass doors. I see lights, blue and red, waking me, burning my eyes.
I was five when they came for us. Two vintage hard shell suitcases sat in the welcoming room, one navy the other the color of red brick. They were a reflection of my parents; sturdy, reliable and yet a little too overly dramatic for the situation. For three weeks I had passed those suitcases while going in and out of the house. I never saw them opened or moved. They just sat there, waiting for something to happen.
My memories of the night we left always come back to me in slow motion. When I woke, I noticed the shadows first. The noise was secondary. Feet ran up and down the hallway, breaking the light that peeked underneath my door. My parents abandoned any attempt not to wake me. I sat up, wrapping the blue and white crochet blanket around me. My little fingers peeked through the holes in the design.
“Blue.” My father opened the door slowly. I squinted at the light. “Do you remember when we talked about going on a trip? Well, we have to go away now.” He took a set of my warmest clothes off of the chair next to my dresser. “Daddy needs you to be a big girl and help get dressed.” He stopped, thinking. “Layers. We should wear layers.” He knelt down to my level then asked me to hold out my right arm then wrapped bright pink armband around my wrist. “This is pretty. Isn’t it?” I examined my new bracelet. Typed in large print above a barcode was my name: Stevens, Blue Belle. “Don’t ever take this off or let anyone else take it off, okay?” My father held my hands. He wore a bracelet also.
“We’re not coming back,” I said. There was no question in my voice. I knew the answer as much as he did. A siren passed my window. Three short blasts were followed by muffled shouting through a microphone. I only caught he words “evacuation,” “concentration,” and “high chancellor.”
We gathered what little we could carry. I kept my blanket around me as we walked down our front stairs and into the street. My parents each held one of my hands and a suitcase. “Christ,” said my father. He passed his luggage off then picked me off of my feet. The streets were littered with families. Our neighbors and friends stood on the sidewalks. Many had prepared bags. Some stepped out in little more than their nightclothes. We waited as buses marched down the street before coming to a slow, squeaky stop.
“Families, left side,” announced a voice. “Singles, right side.” We headed for the buses marked “Family.” Upon closer look, I noticed the windows cried black paint. The bus had been given a sloppy paint job, resulting in black drips streaking down the white sides. My father presented a man with three papers, including one I knew to be my adoption receipt. I assumed the other to be my father’s immigration record and my parent’s marriage certificate. The man returned the papers along with three tickets. We were then allowed to board. Each family passed through a chain link divider that separated the families from the driver and one passenger seat.
We squeezed onto one of the available benches. Soon, the prisoner transport vehicle was full. The man we had given our papers to returned. Voices cried out, asking the questions we were all thinking. The man closed the door, barred it and began to address us, “I have been given orders by the High Chancellor with all of his authority to relocate you to a new facility, the Southampton Reserve. If you do not think you belong here, let it be known that I do not give a fuck what you lily ass faggots think. You will be given food, shelter and everything you need to live out the rest of your disgusting existence away from the general population. Have a pleasant night and shut the hell up.” The pulled a black curtain across the separation fence. Other than the faint lights positioned overhead, we were left in total darkness.
The bus remained silent. No one had the strength to fight back. I wasn’t afraid of the sirens echoing into the night. They had become typical for our neighborhood. My parents looked at each other. They exchanged three wordless notions we often times took for granted; I love you, I’m sorry, and Goodbye.
My Dad took my Father’s hand. “Where are we going?” I asked. Father let his head rest against Dad’s chest. “Hopefully, it will be someplace safe,” Dad whispered.
My father, who I called Papa, kissed my head. “We’re together,” he said with a broken voice. “That’s all that matters.”
I was born to a woman who never loved me. Never mind that she stumbled into the children’s bank with the residue of my afterbirth still clinging to her leg. I can ignore her turning me over only hours after I was born. It’s the fact that she didn’t bother to give me a name which made me resentful. No child should have to go without a proper name. Having a name is something that makes you feel human. It gives you worth. I was marked as Baby 214. When they adopted me, my parents were told little about her. What mattered most to them was that she waved the one-year retrieval rights, which came at an additional fee. Through nothing more than an exchange of two hundred dollars and four signatures, I became their daughter. The contract was unconditional. My birthmother could never come back to claim me, not that she ever tried.
Her reason for transferal was checked as to acquire additional funds. “Funds for what?” I thought at first. When I was older, I looked through my records. I discovered she had been a new-age addict. Previously, people had filled their veins, lungs, and nostrils with foreign chemicals. During the time when I was born, a trend of stimulating the brain with natural chemicals caught on. From my research, I knew Serotonin and Endorphin were the most popular synthetics. Whenever I could manage to spare her a passing thought, I would be thankful to the woman who gave me up to get high. I would never want to be raised by someone who thought so little of me.
Although it was the truth, my parents wouldn’t allow me to feel like I had been bought and sold.My parents named me Blue because of my eyes. I always thought they were anime-like, but to them I was their little Blue Belle. I don’t remember much about our lives before we moved to the compound. I do, however, remember the night we left. It is one of my oldest and most distinct memories. It’s something I didn’t come to fully understand until recently.
I can remember very little of our life on the outside. To be honest, most of my memories begin the night we were evacuated. The image of our front door is still painted across the back of my eyelids. We lived in a green, three story house with white scalloped trimming and gold accents. I can almost see the decorative gold flowers freckling the front of the house. It was squashed between several others built in the same style with alternating colors. The houses lined the long streets of the major city where we lived. There was a small welcoming room to shelter visitors from the rain before they entered the hall. My dreams are not spotted with images of the sun filtering through rippled glass doors. I see lights, blue and red, waking me, burning my eyes.
I was five when they came for us. Two vintage hard shell suitcases sat in the welcoming room, one navy the other the color of red brick. They were a reflection of my parents; sturdy, reliable and yet a little too overly dramatic for the situation. For three weeks I had passed those suitcases while going in and out of the house. I never saw them opened or moved. They just sat there, waiting for something to happen.
My memories of the night we left always come back to me in slow motion. When I woke, I noticed the shadows first. The noise was secondary. Feet ran up and down the hallway, breaking the light that peeked underneath my door. My parents abandoned any attempt not to wake me. I sat up, wrapping the blue and white crochet blanket around me. My little fingers peeked through the holes in the design.
“Blue.” My father opened the door slowly. I squinted at the light. “Do you remember when we talked about going on a trip? Well, we have to go away now.” He took a set of my warmest clothes off of the chair next to my dresser. “Daddy needs you to be a big girl and help get dressed.” He stopped, thinking. “Layers. We should wear layers.” He knelt down to my level then asked me to hold out my right arm then wrapped bright pink armband around my wrist. “This is pretty. Isn’t it?” I examined my new bracelet. Typed in large print above a barcode was my name: Stevens, Blue Belle. “Don’t ever take this off or let anyone else take it off, okay?” My father held my hands. He wore a bracelet also.
“We’re not coming back,” I said. There was no question in my voice. I knew the answer as much as he did. A siren passed my window. Three short blasts were followed by muffled shouting through a microphone. I only caught he words “evacuation,” “concentration,” and “high chancellor.”
We gathered what little we could carry. I kept my blanket around me as we walked down our front stairs and into the street. My parents each held one of my hands and a suitcase. “Christ,” said my father. He passed his luggage off then picked me off of my feet. The streets were littered with families. Our neighbors and friends stood on the sidewalks. Many had prepared bags. Some stepped out in little more than their nightclothes. We waited as buses marched down the street before coming to a slow, squeaky stop.
“Families, left side,” announced a voice. “Singles, right side.” We headed for the buses marked “Family.” Upon closer look, I noticed the windows cried black paint. The bus had been given a sloppy paint job, resulting in black drips streaking down the white sides. My father presented a man with three papers, including one I knew to be my adoption receipt. I assumed the other to be my father’s immigration record and my parent’s marriage certificate. The man returned the papers along with three tickets. We were then allowed to board. Each family passed through a chain link divider that separated the families from the driver and one passenger seat.
We squeezed onto one of the available benches. Soon, the prisoner transport vehicle was full. The man we had given our papers to returned. Voices cried out, asking the questions we were all thinking. The man closed the door, barred it and began to address us, “I have been given orders by the High Chancellor with all of his authority to relocate you to a new facility, the Southampton Reserve. If you do not think you belong here, let it be known that I do not give a fuck what you lily ass faggots think. You will be given food, shelter and everything you need to live out the rest of your disgusting existence away from the general population. Have a pleasant night and shut the hell up.” The pulled a black curtain across the separation fence. Other than the faint lights positioned overhead, we were left in total darkness.
The bus remained silent. No one had the strength to fight back. I wasn’t afraid of the sirens echoing into the night. They had become typical for our neighborhood. My parents looked at each other. They exchanged three wordless notions we often times took for granted; I love you, I’m sorry, and Goodbye.
My Dad took my Father’s hand. “Where are we going?” I asked. Father let his head rest against Dad’s chest. “Hopefully, it will be someplace safe,” Dad whispered.
My father, who I called Papa, kissed my head. “We’re together,” he said with a broken voice. “That’s all that matters.”
#2
dill616
dill616
We were on the bus for the remainder of the night and the better part of the next day. At first, some of the other passengers made a rough effort to track our progress. Whispers of “two lefts, three rights, down slightly” began to fade away in the late night. The bus soon became a hot, stinking shuttle crawling with restless people, who had been driven beyond the point of exhaustion. We couldn’t open the windows to create any fresh air. The blacked-out glass only magnified the heat.
While we were given enough food and water to keep us quiet, our bathroom was little more than a bucket tucked into the back corner of the bus. Parents did all they could to keep their children from being too frightened. I was beyond fear. A strange calm hugged my body as I sat listening to my parents.
“Think of it this way, Trevor,” said Papa. “They wouldn’t be taking this much care if they were going to kill us.”
Daddy closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. “I can think of worse ways to die than being lined up and shot.” He traced a circle in the opaque window with his finger then dotted the center. “They don’t mean to kill our bodies. They mean to kill our souls.”
“Normally, I’d say you were being dramatic. However, we went over that cliff when we left the city. I just-- I can’t imagine the Chancellery caring so much about us.”
“Out of sight, out of mind. That’s the motto.” Daddy pressed his cheek to the window.
“You forgot the rest,” said Papa.
Daddy looked back. “What?”
“We had a song on the playground: Out of sight, out of mind. Let them die out in their time. Become invisible, become insane. Let them fight to sustain.”
“Something tells me this reserve isn't meant to preserve the species.”
I fell asleep on the way to the compound as many of the other children did. It was quiet when we arrived early in the morning. Like before, a guard opened the door, keeping his eyes turned down. We were taken off of the bus one group at a time. Everything in the area was grey and manufactured. Artificial light stung our eyes and gave us only limited vision. It was blinding after being left in the darkness for so many hours. My parents held on to me from both sides as we stepped down into what was being called the antechamber. It was essentially a gap between two large, smooth round walls reaching 500 feet into the air. There was only a narrow slit which gave away to the night sky. The wall looked as if it could have tickled the stars.
Families clung together as guards prodded them into chain-link holding cells with their nightsticks. The screams of children were masked only by the wailing of parents for justice. Fingers curled over the links, demanding answers. A voice cried out to us, “Trevor! William!” A stout woman with fiery red hair came charging towards us, enveloping my family with her arms.
“Mother!” cried Father. “Why did you come here?”
Grandma Ruby’s eyes brimmed with tears. “What would have been left?” The slightest accent could be heard as she pronounced certain vowels. Father whispered words into her ear that I couldn’t understand.
“Come forward! Come forward!” shouted a large man in black. Guards holding nightsticks began to prod people from all sides. We were wedged into a space no more than twelve feet wide. It was a room connecting two thick, metal doors. The door from which we had entered stood behind us. No one paid too much attention to it. The height of the Wall entranced us all. I looked left then right. I could see nothing but smooth, grey-white cement that seemed to sprout from the ground and disappear into the sky fifty feet over our heads. My Dad, called Trevor La Mer in a former life, placed his hand onto the surface. “Seamless,” he whispered. Indeed, he was right. Exhaustion played with my eyes, causing a blur that tricked me into thinking the rough mixture was really one solid piece of carved marble, melted together to form a circular barricade.
A guard who appeared to be in charge called us to attention with the call of a whistle. “This is the antechamber,” he shouted over the hum of voices. A suspicious black object dangled around his belt. My father held me tighter as he stepped away from the man. No one was anxious to move closer. “Soon,” he continued, “you will be given physical inspections, numbered, sorted, and assigned to housing. All provisions have been provided. You do not need to take anything with you. Now, listen for your names.”
“How high do you suppose they make prison walls?” asked my father, William Stevens. His black hair gleamed with a blue tint under the moonlight. Before my dad Trevor could think of an answer, my father William replied, “I’d say nine feet at the most.”
Dad reached out one arm while holding me with the other. They pulled each other close so that I could feel them both shaking. “Trevor,” father whispered. “Prisons were designed to remind you of what you’re missing; narrow windows with thin slats to let in the smallest amount of light. Wire fences that remind you where you stand. This place was designed to make you forget you’d ever existed.”
Dad shook his head. “You’re not making any sense, Will.”
“I am making perfect sense,” Father snapped. “It’s happened.”
As they spoke, a pair of hands clawed at my arms, ripping me away from my parents. “Papa!” I howled.
He tightened his hold. “No! You won’t take my daughter!”
A guard dug his fingers into my skin. “All children must be marked,” he said.
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
Dad stepped between the two. “Let Ruby hold her.” He looked to the guard. “Would that work?”
The man considered him for a moment then nodded. I all but jumped into my Grandmother’s arms.
Another guard with three stars on his collar came up behind us, shouting, “What is taking so long? These people need to be marked.”
“Sargent, there was a hiccup, but it’s solved now,” the guard said.
“I don’t care what there was,” barked the Sargent. “You have these pieces of faggot filth marked for all the world to see what they are.”
“You can’t do this to us,” Dad protested. “We have rights! We’re people- ”
“You have nothing. You are nothing,” the Sargent said. He nudged his head in our direction. “Take him. Show the faggot what we do to his kind.”
Another man grabbed my Dad by the arm and presented what looked like a branding iron covered in needles. The guard pressed the iron to his arm. The skin sizzled and smoked. I watched as my Dad, a grown man of over thirty years, fell to his knees with tears dripping down his face. He screamed as the needles jutted out and stabbed ink into his arm. As the man brought the iron away, the mark began to form just below Dad’s wrist. The design was in the shape of an up-side down triangle with a P in the middle. The ink slowly faded away, leaving red welts where the tattoo had once been.
My Father’s muffled cries could be heard as my Grandma took me away. “We’ll be brave for Papa and Daddy, won’t we?” she asked me. My lip trembled and yet I didn’t let myself cry. I nodded then waited in line until it was our turn to be marked. I winced as the iron touched my skin, but I would not yell. I felt as if my arm had been set on fire. It took only a minute, but the flames lasted much longer than that. When the guards were satisfied, both Grandma Ruby and I were left with the same familiar triangle. Unlike my parents, ours held an N in the middle. I held my arm away from me as a guard called out, “Status: Negative to the left. To the right, Status: Positive.”
While we were given enough food and water to keep us quiet, our bathroom was little more than a bucket tucked into the back corner of the bus. Parents did all they could to keep their children from being too frightened. I was beyond fear. A strange calm hugged my body as I sat listening to my parents.
“Think of it this way, Trevor,” said Papa. “They wouldn’t be taking this much care if they were going to kill us.”
Daddy closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. “I can think of worse ways to die than being lined up and shot.” He traced a circle in the opaque window with his finger then dotted the center. “They don’t mean to kill our bodies. They mean to kill our souls.”
“Normally, I’d say you were being dramatic. However, we went over that cliff when we left the city. I just-- I can’t imagine the Chancellery caring so much about us.”
“Out of sight, out of mind. That’s the motto.” Daddy pressed his cheek to the window.
“You forgot the rest,” said Papa.
Daddy looked back. “What?”
“We had a song on the playground: Out of sight, out of mind. Let them die out in their time. Become invisible, become insane. Let them fight to sustain.”
“Something tells me this reserve isn't meant to preserve the species.”
I fell asleep on the way to the compound as many of the other children did. It was quiet when we arrived early in the morning. Like before, a guard opened the door, keeping his eyes turned down. We were taken off of the bus one group at a time. Everything in the area was grey and manufactured. Artificial light stung our eyes and gave us only limited vision. It was blinding after being left in the darkness for so many hours. My parents held on to me from both sides as we stepped down into what was being called the antechamber. It was essentially a gap between two large, smooth round walls reaching 500 feet into the air. There was only a narrow slit which gave away to the night sky. The wall looked as if it could have tickled the stars.
Families clung together as guards prodded them into chain-link holding cells with their nightsticks. The screams of children were masked only by the wailing of parents for justice. Fingers curled over the links, demanding answers. A voice cried out to us, “Trevor! William!” A stout woman with fiery red hair came charging towards us, enveloping my family with her arms.
“Mother!” cried Father. “Why did you come here?”
Grandma Ruby’s eyes brimmed with tears. “What would have been left?” The slightest accent could be heard as she pronounced certain vowels. Father whispered words into her ear that I couldn’t understand.
“Come forward! Come forward!” shouted a large man in black. Guards holding nightsticks began to prod people from all sides. We were wedged into a space no more than twelve feet wide. It was a room connecting two thick, metal doors. The door from which we had entered stood behind us. No one paid too much attention to it. The height of the Wall entranced us all. I looked left then right. I could see nothing but smooth, grey-white cement that seemed to sprout from the ground and disappear into the sky fifty feet over our heads. My Dad, called Trevor La Mer in a former life, placed his hand onto the surface. “Seamless,” he whispered. Indeed, he was right. Exhaustion played with my eyes, causing a blur that tricked me into thinking the rough mixture was really one solid piece of carved marble, melted together to form a circular barricade.
A guard who appeared to be in charge called us to attention with the call of a whistle. “This is the antechamber,” he shouted over the hum of voices. A suspicious black object dangled around his belt. My father held me tighter as he stepped away from the man. No one was anxious to move closer. “Soon,” he continued, “you will be given physical inspections, numbered, sorted, and assigned to housing. All provisions have been provided. You do not need to take anything with you. Now, listen for your names.”
“How high do you suppose they make prison walls?” asked my father, William Stevens. His black hair gleamed with a blue tint under the moonlight. Before my dad Trevor could think of an answer, my father William replied, “I’d say nine feet at the most.”
Dad reached out one arm while holding me with the other. They pulled each other close so that I could feel them both shaking. “Trevor,” father whispered. “Prisons were designed to remind you of what you’re missing; narrow windows with thin slats to let in the smallest amount of light. Wire fences that remind you where you stand. This place was designed to make you forget you’d ever existed.”
Dad shook his head. “You’re not making any sense, Will.”
“I am making perfect sense,” Father snapped. “It’s happened.”
As they spoke, a pair of hands clawed at my arms, ripping me away from my parents. “Papa!” I howled.
He tightened his hold. “No! You won’t take my daughter!”
A guard dug his fingers into my skin. “All children must be marked,” he said.
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
Dad stepped between the two. “Let Ruby hold her.” He looked to the guard. “Would that work?”
The man considered him for a moment then nodded. I all but jumped into my Grandmother’s arms.
Another guard with three stars on his collar came up behind us, shouting, “What is taking so long? These people need to be marked.”
“Sargent, there was a hiccup, but it’s solved now,” the guard said.
“I don’t care what there was,” barked the Sargent. “You have these pieces of faggot filth marked for all the world to see what they are.”
“You can’t do this to us,” Dad protested. “We have rights! We’re people- ”
“You have nothing. You are nothing,” the Sargent said. He nudged his head in our direction. “Take him. Show the faggot what we do to his kind.”
Another man grabbed my Dad by the arm and presented what looked like a branding iron covered in needles. The guard pressed the iron to his arm. The skin sizzled and smoked. I watched as my Dad, a grown man of over thirty years, fell to his knees with tears dripping down his face. He screamed as the needles jutted out and stabbed ink into his arm. As the man brought the iron away, the mark began to form just below Dad’s wrist. The design was in the shape of an up-side down triangle with a P in the middle. The ink slowly faded away, leaving red welts where the tattoo had once been.
My Father’s muffled cries could be heard as my Grandma took me away. “We’ll be brave for Papa and Daddy, won’t we?” she asked me. My lip trembled and yet I didn’t let myself cry. I nodded then waited in line until it was our turn to be marked. I winced as the iron touched my skin, but I would not yell. I felt as if my arm had been set on fire. It took only a minute, but the flames lasted much longer than that. When the guards were satisfied, both Grandma Ruby and I were left with the same familiar triangle. Unlike my parents, ours held an N in the middle. I held my arm away from me as a guard called out, “Status: Negative to the left. To the right, Status: Positive.”
#3
General Specific
General Specific
I want to read more of this, post more, Dill!
And I am not just saying that because you are my Fonfon Ru
And I am not just saying that because you are my Fonfon Ru
#4
dill616
dill616
I will never sleep with your superior officer, but you are required to like my stuff and things and junk or something. I guess I'm saddened by the fact that I no longer have the peer reviews that were available in undergrad. Le boo. SOMEONE LOVE ME.I want to read more of this, post more, Dill!
And I am not just saying that because you are my Fonfon Ru
#5
General Specific
General Specific
I love you! 
#6
Dave
Dave
Interesting. A tad heavy-handed, but the message of an anti-gay dystopian future is something that is a possibility if some would have their way. I would be interested to know if the positive portion was HIV/AIDS or being simply homosexual.
Is this the story or the beginning of a larger piece?
Is this the story or the beginning of a larger piece?
#7
dill616
It is. It's the beginning section of something I worked on in undergrad and want to use for my MFA thesis. This will be the first book in a quartet.
Also, you'll have to wait and see what happens.
dill616
Interesting. A tad heavy-handed, but the message of an anti-gay dystopian future is something that is a possibility if some would have their way. I would be interested to know if the positive portion was HIV/AIDS or being simply homosexual.
Is this the story or the beginning of a larger piece?
It is. It's the beginning section of something I worked on in undergrad and want to use for my MFA thesis. This will be the first book in a quartet.
Also, you'll have to wait and see what happens.
#8
Azurephoenix
Azurephoenix
Booooo!!! Hissss!!!Also, you'll have to wait and see what happens.