They Didn't Want to Leave You But

I’m lucky they just cut out my tongue. I’ve seen much worse done for lesser offenses than mine. You can’t reassure without a tongue anyway. That’s why they did it. When I spoke, people listened. A voice of revolt they called me. Even if it was only a whisper into a child’s ear. Your parents, they didn’t want to leave you but The Order made them. They still love you. They didn’t want to leave you.

But no one listens to me anymore. Missing a tongue isn’t too bad. But I sometimes wish they’d gouged my eyes out instead. I can’t speak, but the bodies—stiffened with rigor mortis and caked in dried blood from their executions—appear whenever I shut my eyes. Trap me in a periscopic torture chamber.

I wish they’d jammed screwdrivers into my ears the way they did McClint. It’d spare me the high-pitched shrieks from mothers trying to recant on their decision. A disposed child that made a run for it. The woosh from sharpshooters’ bullets aimed and fired between their eyes. The last one ran into me as the bullet hit her face. Small and thin. Five years old probably. Before they threw her into the hole, they ripped her locket off her neck and tossed it into the muck. A gold, heart shaped locket they’ll use to make new bullets and kill new five-year-olds.

It’s our fault the world has gone to shit. Overpopulation and few natural resources. All but one of Lady Liberty’s spikes eroded away and what had been The Lower East Side is now underwater. Adventure junkies used to dive down there and explore the old tenements and floating traffic signs entangled in algae and weeds. Before the massive Bonny Chemicals Disaster in ’98, coral made house along the fire escapes and fish carcasses littered the sidewalks. Now, not even seaweed blooms.

New York sinks while the West Coast fries. One of the many pockets around the world where the ozone is completely obliterated. The ground is so hot the locals wear special suits so their skin doesn’t blister. Soon enough it’ll be the way it is below the equator. No one lives down there anymore; The Amazon is the biggest pocket of them all. Lungs of the earth shriveled up as if it’d chain smoked for thousands of years. We have just enough to filter the air around us. But it’s not enough for all of us. One Percenters always have first dibs on a shuttle to the Second World. They aren’t like the rest of us, unlucky enough to be born invisible, poor, sick, grotesque, disturbed. Unfortunate souls like my anonymous mother, unloved and thrust into a life of permanent oppression. We burn and choke on toxic air down here.

I was born invisible. A ward of the state tossed from place to place like hot coal. My last foster mother used to read to me from an old history textbook. There aren’t many of readers anymore. Literacy is irrelevant when all that matters is how strong your body is for manual labor. My favorite page is the one about the first Black president. His image makes me yearn for a moment in time I’ve never known. If I’d been born two hundred years before, if the universe had given me a chance back then, everything would’ve been different. Perhaps my future prospects would’ve been more hopeful. But I’m a ward of the state, born invisible.

Wards, are given two options: Executioner or Guard. Neither too appealing, but I chose the latter. I guard Choice Room Number Nine. Watch families inside wallow in systematic despair. One Percenters could take all their children with them. Parents from the other ninety-nine were only allowed one. Given six minutes to deliberate which kid will join them on the shuttle up top to the Second World. Those with one child are lucky. Two is tough, but simple. One or the other. It gets harder with three or four. The worst is five or more. Big families forced to down-size all because they lack a hefty trust to buy their way. Big families are always in my room. Number Nine. I try to buck up with each new family. But I’ve seen it all unfold too many times to spot a silver lining. Whenever I watch a family in the early stages of deliberation, my heart cracks because they have no idea what the next six minutes are going to be like for them. All I can do is watch, make sure they follow the rules, long to reassure them with a voice I no longer have.

My family—I’ve got this habit of referring to the families in Number Nine as my family—is a family of seven. One of the worst kinds. The parents sit behind a table with a single sheet of paper and a pencil to write the name of the one they pick. Their five children sit in a semi-circle around them, hunched over and small. The parents have an unnatural optimistic look in their eyes. I’ve seen it before and it lasts less than a minute before the clock ticks in rhythm with their heartbeats. I press my nose against the glass, turn my face this way and that to get the best possible angle. Other Guards never look inside. They stand beside the doorframe at attention waiting for the moment they separate the families forever. They revel in it as much as the Executioners. It’s a sickness all Wards share. A fuck you to the children born into loving families.

I can always tell who First born is. They always speak first. This one, stands, walks to the center of the semi-circle with a straight back of confidence. They have less than a minute to make their case and from the bits I catch from beneath the crack in the door, not only are they the first born, they can also work long hours because they’re of age now. Long hours mean better wages, even in the Second World. Their speech is quick and concise and methodical. They list every possible reason why and why not. The same goes for the Second who is taller than the First. They even pull out a piece of paper from their pocket, which I think is a sentimental gesture in spite of the circumstances.

As the speeches go on and the Youngest waits in their seat, feet swinging beneath them, the parents sit still. Their bodies petrified and breathless. Their growing angst is moderated by the Youngest scraping their feet against the damp cement floor. Defeat is in their eyes before they stand in front of their parents and older siblings. They shuffle into the center of the semi-circle and glance my way. I jerk to move from the window but can’t. The look is eerily recognizable. They keep their hands behind their back and head down and say one word: mommy. Sheepish and hoarse and barely there. A voice quiet, but strong enough to penetrate through a night terror and crawl into bed with mommy and daddy.

The Youngest’s voice chills every vertebra in my spine. Flashes of moments I’ve never experienced run me over. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. Hugs. Kisses. Good mornings and goodnights. The Mother wails, collapses onto the floor. Her tantrum makes it harder to peel back the layers and figure out the kind of mother she was before all of this.

The last two minutes is where is always goes to shit. The First usually swings, but I never underestimate the Middle child. They scream so loud their voices merge together like a series of smart bombs. It was civil at one point. It’s always civil the first few minutes. Down to the wire is when past grudges come out. Age gaps reflect loyalties. Us versus them. Shouts muddle with tears and snot and gasps for breath none can find. Each of the children are in a different state at this point. The First is on their knees, arms around the Mother’s waist. The Second has the Father’s hand in their own, forehead pressed against calloused fingers. The Middle and Fourth argue over their heads. A push and shove here and there. A scratch draws blood. The Youngest one is still in their seat with their hands in their lap. No expression is on their face. Wiped clean and reset to its default settings. The Third yanks on their sibling’s arms, prying them away from Mother and taking their place. It’s not long before the First fights back for Mother’s attention.

One minute left. All of their voices melt into one. Please. That word comes up a lot in various forms. In screams and pants and cries and whispers. Some come out in prayers, and others, so quiet they’re almost voiceless. Please, please, please work in tandem with the drips from sweaty pipes above them. Within the last minute, my family breaks down into the most primal forms of desperation. There’s no run for it. The door locks automatically for six minutes or until a child is picked. If no child was chosen, the parents lose them all. Despite this, the Mother sprints to my door, banging on the window until her knuckles split and bleed. Her face contorts beyond recognition. Beyond anything human. I open my mouth to speak and feel the space where my tongue should be. Our eyes lock and her gaze burns a hole through me. Yet I can’t look away. My family, my mother. I know you don’t want to leave them.

The Father comes behind her, embraces her and turns his mouth to whisper in her ear. His hand grips hers and their nail beds bleach white. His expression is stoic, but every other breath cracks the façade, forces a small whimper through his tight lips and tears over the brim of his eyes. His voice slows her breaths and for the first time she resembles the mother I’d seen behind the table: composed, unnaturally optimistic. He lifts her face with his fingers and they stare at each other. Their heads are all that’s in the window like a painting, or a television like the ones people used to have in their living rooms. They kiss and turn back to their children, who by then had quieted down as well.

The last thirty seconds is the quietest. Seconds that eat away at whatever’s left of my heart. The Father gestures for them to come to him and as they do I see the weights bear down on their shoulders. Heavier and heavier, forcing their necks down and faces parallel to the floor. The Mother and Father open their arms to their children and they huddle together. After, the Mother and Father hug them individually. I try to imagine how it must smell between them. How it must feel to squeeze their bodies and be squeezed back in a warm, tight, cocoon. Protected.

It drags on for a while, but maybe that’s just my mind playing a dirty trick, forcing me to relish in imagined smells and sounds and comforts so I’d always remember. Like the stiff corpses that make merry go rounds inside my head.

The children sit in a tight circle. I reposition my head to see better, smear my face against the glass. The Father holds the pencil and Mother wraps her hands around his and kisses them. They close their eyes, put their foreheads together, mumble something. Then, the Father puts the pencil in the middle of the circle, takes an obvious inhale, and flicks it into a spin.

All shut their eyes except the Youngest. They stare blank as paper until the pencil slows its rotation and comes to a stop.