Pinned

My mother always told me of her childhood in what they used to call "public" schooling. You got to wear whatever you wanted to school every day, as long as it fit a few length boundaries; you could date whomever you wanted to. Oh, and the teachers weren't allowed to shoot you if they suspected you were a spy. The law was put in place to cut down on terrorism, but nowadays teachers shoot whenever they feel like it. Little Timmy was chewing gum in class? Well Little Timmy's a terrorist now, shoot him. Hubba Bubba's pretty damn dangerous, could've been a bomb. 

I was only ten, too young to understand that political differences were the cause of the rift separating my family from the middle and upper class; I didn't understand that they received better treatment and nicer things because they were considered more worthy of it. Because they had money, and money makes you worth something here. Everyone says we're a free country, but honestly? This is a dictatorship. If you talk back, you're shot. If you like to write, play an instrument, are a talented artist, or if you can understand technology, you're shot. Any form of creativity is not tolerated. We aren't even allowed to play monopoly anymore. 

My mom used to hide the board games in a safe under the rug in our basement.  We used to play monopoly every Friday night, with my dad and my sisters. 

I've forgotten what they smelled like. My mother's voice is a figment of my imagination, my sisters' screams a distant memory. My father? He bowed down, with me.

It was three in the morning, mom was putting the games away; we heard a knock on the door. I knew it was the police, so did dad. Mom hurriedly put the rug over the space in the floor where we kept them and answered the door with a shaky hand. The officer was three times my size; his eyes were as black as his hair, his smile wavering. 

"Are you Mrs. Arlie Christian?"

"..yes, sir."

"You need to come with me, your last tax payment was late; we just need to go over some financial details."

My mother relaxed her shoulders. "Okay, just let me grab my purse right quick. Do I need my papers?" She smiled sweetly at the officer as he politely answered, "No ma'am we have your information ready to go, we just need you."

We were okay, the man wasn't here to kill us, and nobody knew about the games.

"Hey sweetie," my mom got down on one knee to talk to me, "you need to make sure Sammie gets tucked in really tight tonight, okay? Go ahead and do that now."

Oh God. 

No.

My sister had a game piece in her hands. She had no fear of the soldiers, she didn't know we weren't supposed to play games. Fearlessly, she half waddled up to the officer, "Monopy?"

"Excuse me?"

No this isn't happening I'm having a nightmare, I pinched myself. It drew blood. 

I ran to my sister, trying to hide my panic, "That's her way of saying goodnight, sir," I laughed, "She's only two, she can't quite talk yet."

"Really? Because it sounded a lot like Monopoly to me."

"Trust me," I tried not to sound tense, "She did not mean Monopoly. That's just her way of saying goodnight. She means 'I love you mommy', she says it all the time" I turned on my heels, hanging to my sister as tightly as I could; I covered her mouth with both hands and yelled goodnight to my parents. Maybe the officer wouldn't get too suspicious; maybe we were safe.

Maybe. Probably not. 

I went to my room and packed the emergency bags; instant oatmeal, water filters, a few shirts, some pants. I did the same for my siblings, quickly and quietly, I didn't even care that the door was open. 

Panic clouded my judgment, I yelled for my dad to come help me. A tall, dark shadow showed up in my bedroom door. I turned around slowly; the man staring back at me was not my father. 

He smiled at my little sister and pulled her close, "Hello little girl!". Before I could react, his gun was on her head; she was smiling innocently at me, her bottle in hand, "Sissy! Mo-" he pulled the trigger. My mom was in the doorway behind him, screaming. My dad was on the floor sobbing, his head buried in his hands, shaking back and forth. Ava had a knife, and was charging the soldier from behind. 

He turned around in a split second and shot her in the chest. My mom was screaming, my dad doubled over with his hands on his head, telling me over and over again "Dont be stupid, Violet. Don't be stupid Violet, get on the ground." . The officer went over to my youngest sister, only a week old today, and picked her up; the entire house went silent. I could hear my parents' heavy breathing, my own heart racing. The man slowly raised my sister above his head and threw her full force into the floor. 

"NO!" My mom dove for Tina, but it was too late. Her head wasn't even a solid mass anymore, her face was unrecognisable. Mother held her in her arms, sobbing, begging the officer to kill her; she couldn't live without her baby, she said. I stared in shock as the soldier shot her in the back, without blinking an eye. Then he turned to me. 

"Now, now; it's okay young lady," he smiled at me and extended his huge, rough left hand, "do you want to come with me for a little bit?"

"You stay away from her," my father started to stand.

"Daddy please, no.. I need you. Don't help me," I stared him in the eyes, cold and collected, "I don't care what happens, I need you. You can't help me." He closed his eyes and nodded, grinding his teeth so hard it was visible. I couldn't lose him, too. The officer grinned, "Well, now, if all of you could've behaved so finely, we wouldn't have had to mess up your house like this," his smile was gone in an instant, he pointed at my father and me," you two, up. Now. Come with me." 

He led us out of the house and into a dark van like dogs, snapping and whistling when he needed to get our attention. I don't know where we went; it was basically a giant warehouse full of crates. When I first got there, we were allowed to talk. We could be social, just not creative. Creativity was not tolerated. 

I was placed in a crate across from my father, in a room full of rats.

Now, at 15, I'm still here. Across from my dad, covered in rat poop, in complete silence.

Locked in a cage.