S.E.R.V.I.T.U.D.E

Honestly, I’m just going to be straight up with ya’ll… we are all fucked.

This planet that we are living on is rejecting our kind. We have trashed it and now it is rebelling against us. Mother nature takes her time, but the humans that reside on Earth are quick with their destruction. Time wastes not in this world and a “new beginning” is always raging forward to the next best thing. Greed and empowerment run our people and there is nothing more to them.

In the South, where I’m from; it’s referred to as Ascension, and here really ain’t no place anyone wanna live. No one is really ascending into anything other than their own sweat content. It’s harsh as hell, and equally, if not hotter and more humid than hell. My mama used to tell us that she lived in this house once; real fancy she said… so fancy that they had this thing called an air conditioner. It would freeze the whole house up in minutes, she used to say. She didn’t really talk much of her childhood, and how things changed. I’ve heard about the Revolution, but never from anyone who was actually in it. I could always tell that it lingered in her mind, like it was haunting her. My dad was never there, and when he was, he wasn’t really. It felt like he hated us our entire lives. We were always in the way, and never quite enough, never good enough. Living with him was a personal hell for all of us, but especially our mama.

He was a shut in, hated people; he used to say. That’s why it was strange when he began to leave in the early mornings, coming home in the darkness of night. It was like he was hiding something from us. I would ask mama where he was, but she seemed just as out of the loop as I was. I waited that next morning for him to leave. We only had one vehicle, and it was this old beat-up truck from the twenties. It’s loud and not that hard to miss.

His office was a disaster; I was never allowed in that room; so, I thought it best to start there for that reason alone. Although, when I was actually standing in his filth, I realized the amount of trouble he was in. There was old and new mail thrown everywhere; bills overdue, several eviction notices on the house and the land. He had run that place into the ground, which was not surprising to me, but what the hell was he planning on doing. I rummaged some more through his desk. Some of the drawers wouldn’t open, probably because they were stuffed with over-due bills. I didn’t know what more I was looking for, that was all the validation I needed really. It was just that feeling of something still unturned. Like the space was keeping something from me. I scanned the room, and all I could focus on was the fireplace centered in the room, adjacent to his desk. Unlike the rest of his office the mantel was not cluttered or covered in dust or cobwebs; just the old cigar box my grandfather gave him. I maneuvered myself through the mountains of rubbish that had collected and found myself pulling the cigar box from the mantel. A little weightier than I expected, but as I opened the casing, money came spilling out, scattering hundred dollar-bills all over the floor; what looked like way too much money for my father to have. The bills fumbled through my hands; thousands of dollars stuffed in this one box. I collected it and ran to my room before my mother could see.

Eighty thousand dollars to be exact. What was my father doing with eighty thousand in cash? I couldn’t understand how he got it, from who… all I knew was that this money couldn’t have come from anything good. My eyes couldn’t pull away from the amount of money in front of me. All I could think was would he notice if some of it was missing? Could I take what I needed, and him not know?

“Son of a bitch owes me,” I took twenty thousand from the stack and replaced the rest within its wooden tobacco box. I returned it to the mantel later that evening before he returned home, but I waited and there was no sign of him.

The day I was taken away I was ready for it. I had gathered he was up to something. So, when he was up, so was I. Our schedules had become one, from the moment he opened his eyes, to the second the head lights came rolling down the drive. That morning however, my father woke late. That was rare, which made me anxious. I was up pacing the cramped space of my room. I was fully dressed, shoes and jacket on. Any minute he would be up.

He broke the hinges off my bedroom door and dragged me by the collar all the way down the stairs. There, waiting in the entry of our house were two men; decked out in matte black armor, both towering over me, and my father. The younger one lifted me from the floor, as the older Official marched over to my father. They were speaking to each other like they had spoken before. Laughing and patting each other on the back. For once my father looked happy, thrilled even. The two carried on as the young officer struggled to cuff me. I noticed a little black book was pulled from a satchel that was strapped to his chest. The Official turned to a pre-marked page and had my father sign. He looked up at me to make sure I couldn’t come for him, but I was already restrained and was only thinking of my sister and mother. Where were they? I was speechless, and in shock. I couldn’t call out to them. I know my mother wouldn’t want this…

“Ma!” finally finding my voice. “Mom!” It felt unreal, like a nightmare. I was yelling but it was as if it were muffled to the point of almost silence. It wasn’t until I saw my mother and little sister emerge from the house that I knew.

“Mama, please!”

She didn’t say anything, nothing to me at all. Her head tucked down so she wouldn’t have to look at me. My sister was confused and teary eyed, holding onto the leg of my mother. They met my father at the bottom steps of our porch. He was still conversing with the Official, as I was being forced into the back of the unmarked truck.

“What did you do? What have you done you asshole?” Just as the young officer was about to shut the doors the older Official threw up his hand for him to wait. My fathered staggered his way over to me. Spitting dip with every other step through those his yellow teeth of his.

“You gonna do what ya’ told, hm?” He was so gruff when he spoke, always sounded mean no matter how he felt. “A lot is riding on you. Now is not the time to be acting spoiled.” Spitting a glob of dip to the ground, “Maybe you’ll learn some damn respect… wherever the hell they take you,” he started laughing, the officers joining him. “You aren’t my problem anymore.” They slammed the heavy metal truck doors in my face, cutting me off from making any return insults.

Through the screened window all I could see was my father fading into the distance. Him just standing there with his hands tucked in his pockets, watching his child being taken away from their home. My little sister pushing into my mothers’ side and even worse, my colorless mother doing nothing at all to protect me…

I had never been into the city before. My mama didn’t like it, so we mainly stayed around the house. I knew that is where they were taking me, cause the road felt different; it shifted on to different pavement… you could feel it hum smoothly underneath the truck. It was a more maintained road. No bumps or graveled patches, just fresh asphalt. We were on the interstate, which meant we were going into the city.

Each of the territories are under their own set jurisdiction’s, which means a lot, but in this moment this is about: Section Two, Category one: Work Emancipation; meaning my father just signed over my rights to cover his debts with the house and farm. I will be contracted until I turn twenty to work for whoever and wherever they send me.

We turned off and the truck picked up in speed. Tiny, pebbled rocks were jutting out from underneath the tires. The revving of the engine vibrated louder the faster they drove. Nothing was being said in the cab or it was too thick for me to overhear anything. I looked around, but the truck was barren. Just the metal bench that was welded to the interior of the bed; and a long metal rack above that ran all along the top of the truck ceiling, even above the latched doors.

The young officer shifted around in his seat, he was uncomfortable, his Official could tell.

“You know she will be okay,” the Official spouted out. The young man straightened his back, as to not look unprofessional. “Remember your training. This is a job. Reprogram yourself.” The officer shut his eyes gently and took in one long deep breath.

For miles, upon several hours we rode on rough terrain, and then finally the truck came to a halt. I readied myself for them to open the doors. I gripped tightly around the metal bar, tilted back on heels, gaining strength in my legs. The doors clicked from the outside. I pushed back. The doors flung open and I swung myself forward crashing my heavy-footed boots into the older Official, causing him to crash to the ground. I leapt from the back of the van, hoisting myself on top of the disoriented man.

“Where am I?” My voice cracked in the heat of my adrenaline.

“Brookhaven.” He responded quickly, but in a weak breathy way, like the air was knocked from him. “Take this.” From his front satchel he handed me that little black book. I was confused, but I snatched it from him anyway. He stumbled to his feet, just as three other identical vans emerged from the darkness. He turned towards me with this desperate look in his eyes.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Holding the book up to him, not knowing what was written upon its pages.

“Oxford, The Square,” he looked back at the vans, “That’s were they are taking them.”

“Who?” I noticed the headlights getting closer.

The Official took a death breath. “The children.” The rumble of their engines grew louder. “Run!”

I took his advice; I ran until my lungs wouldn’t allow me to move any longer. It seemed like miles, but I couldn’t tell. There was so much racing through my mind that my direction became lost to me. Why would he give me this book? What could I do? All I had were the clothes on my body, my boots, and the twenty thousand stuffed within them. When I had collected myself, I began to flip through the pages of the book. It was lists of names; some familiar to me and some not, but all of them were below the ages of nineteen. There were ages, signatures, and prices lined with every child. There was my name signed off by my father, listed at eighty thousand dollars. The Official said they were headed to The Square of Oxford… and I have never heard good things about that place. Something was certainly wrong with this. My only thought; are they trafficking these children?