A Mother’s Betrayal

I don’t have much time. I’m writing this from inside the CER, and by the time anyone reads this, I’ll be gone. I don’t know if I’m going to die, but I know I won’t survive. I hope this makes it outside; maybe it will help someone like me. If you’re reading this from the inside, it’s already too late for you just like it’s too late for me.

If your mother ever gives you a necklace, telling you it’s a family heirloom, it’s a trap.

I’ve always been what they call ‘a rebellious spirit.’ My parents always said it was my unusual red hair. Red-heads can’t even conform to the standard range of hair colors, they say. So it’s always expected that we won’t fit the standard in other ways. I guess that was true about me. My eyes (green instead of the standard brown, of course) were always drawn to the splashes of color from the outside world. Even the smallest glimpse was mesmerizing to me. Blue sky, green trees, a red bird.

I’ve received more than my fair share of reconditioning.

It always felt so painfully lonely; the desire to be individual when the law demands conformity. No one can pick at another’s weakness if we are all the same. No one can be ostracized for being different if there are no differences.

It was so painful that the first glimmer of like-minded thinking I ever saw, I immediately clung to. My parents have never been anything but law-abiding citizens, enforcing conformity strictly even in the privacy of our home. You can imagine my surprise when my mother sat with me on my bed, holding a shiny trinket, offering it to me.

I should have known better.

A heart-shaped locket, she said. Not shaped like an actual heart, like you’d assume from the name, but a pleasant shape, simple and round. Like a creased circle. It opened up and inside was a picture. Not the kind you see in textbooks, this one was colorful. An old couple in brightly-colored shirts and the most natural, human smiles I’ve ever seen in my life.

My mother called them my grandparents. This was a secret heirloom, saved and kept hidden from Before Uniformity. Now that I was old enough, it was my turn to be the safe keeper for our most precious secret.

I was thrilled, overwhelmed with excitement and joy. The necklace was easily hidden in plain sight, since unlike the shirts my grandparents wore, everyone now has a standard uniform with a high collar. It’s easy to wear the necklace and keep it both safe and hidden.

My mother asked if I was sure I wanted the responsibility, and I gave an enthusiastic yes. Such high levels of emotion were usually met with a slap and the revocation of privileges in many households, including ours. She didn’t punish me but reminded me to compose myself. She then reminded me how this went against our laws, telling me what kind of trouble I would be in if I was found with such a thing. I learned for the first time what CER actually stood for- but so much has passed since then that I can’t quite remember. All that comes to kind are the fake names my classmates and I would come up with for fun, since no one would ever tell us.

I can tell you with certainty now that no matter what it stands for, it’s as horrific a place as we were told. I should have known better; my mother was giving me one last chance to follow the rules and I ignored it.

The very next day, today, I wore the necklace under my shirt. I went to school as if everything was the same, secretly giddy at my private rebellion.

Before lunchtime, the police burst into the classroom. They came straight for me, as if they knew exactly who they were here to arrest, because they did.

Before I could blink I was stripped of my shirt, exposing the locket, and my arms were cuffed tightly behind my back. I was paraded out of the school, students staring as I passed by. I was in shock.

I was told it was all a trick. My parents suspected I was a lost cause, that I would never conform. They were advised to put it to the test; given a fake heirloom by the authorities to use as bait. Contraband. The couple in the necklace aren’t related to me, and no such heirloom exists in my family. I was told that this works time and time again, weeding out nonconformers. Often redheads; children who look different on the outside. As if our unusual appearance is a signal that we will never fit the standard.

Now I’ve been processed, and I await my fate. I don’t know that I will die, but I do know that I will cease to exist. I’m almost out of time; I won’t see the beginning of another day.

I can only hope this helps someone- anyone. If you’re like me, don’t trust anyone. Not strangers, not friends, not family.

Not even your parents.