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.”
