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The
Unterdrückt
What
good fortune for those in power that people do
not think.
- Adolf Hitler
The freezing steel was pressed hard against the
back of my skull, a demented barrel of fury
infringing on my thoughts, treading on my mind.
“What does one question, when one ponders
America?” Sam asked, pressing the handgun
harder into the back of my head. My thoughts
were stationary on the gun, my life, my future,
and not about America or anything else.
“What does one question, when one ponders
America?” He asked again. I didn’t dare be
silent much longer. Fear told me to speak; tell
him what he wanted to know. But, lose myself? I
tried to look back, but I couldn’t. I was on
my knees, hands painfully tied behind my back,
face coarsely pressed against the barren
concrete floor. I had my eyes closed, a
frightening darkness surrounding me.
“I question,” I managed to stammer, “I
question love.”
“Love?” Sam asked, as if insulted, “We
provide love as we provide food and shelter! Our
constitution was based on the principles of
love! Love for countrymen, love for God, love
for the world! Why does one question love, when
pondering America? Is the word not synonymous
with the term?”
I felt the barrel strike my back, sending my
face digging deeper into the ground. I tried to
fall from my knees, but Sam pulled me back up,
grabbing my neck and placing the gun against my
right temple.
“Now, what else does one question, when one
ponders America?”
I could feel my clothes being torn off. Within
moments I was naked.
“Can’t you see?” I asked, “Can’t you
see?”
“Yes. Yes, I can see. You question prosperity,
freedom, crime, life, liberty, justice, greed,
and privacy. Tell me, why does one question
these things?”
“Can’t you see that too? Don’t you know
everything, Sam?”
I felt his hand comfortingly massage my light
blonde hair, my blue eyes strewing with tears. I
was so afraid, too afraid to hold on.
“No, son, I can not. Tell me, why does one
question these things?”
I tightened my eyes closer as the words
whimpered from my lips.
“I.... I don’t know.”
“You, are afraid. Weak.”
“Yes….”
Upon this, Sam threw me to the ground, pressing
the gun to the back of my skull once again.
“As a son of liberty, it is my duty to serve
and protect you. Get up, you’re coming with
me.”
He removed the gun and lifted me to my feet. I
stood there in obedience, naked, as would a
disgruntled dog, glaring at the smoggy gray city
before me. The sky was shrouded in a black cloak
of misery, blood red rain pouring from its
oppressive depths, creating a bitter shield of
shame around me. So this was the world of the
twenty-first century.
Sam forced me forward and began leading me
through the street, the concrete slicing the
bottom of my feet as I dragged painfully ahead.
“Don’t worry, Johnny,” he ferociously
stated, though it wasn’t my name, “we’re
taking you home.”
I continued glaring forward as I saw the flag of
liberty gloriously waving in windy torment. It
had changed in appearance, but had always been
the same. The flag was a symbol of the people,
drenched completely in red, with the sadistic
twisted black cross encircled by purist white in
its middle, gleaming in horrific awe.
“I question the development of humanity, when
I ponder of America,” I stated inaudibly,
shifting my gaze to the concrete below.
But Sam knew what I was truly thinking; it was
there for him to see.
When I pondered America, I questioned myself.
They
Don’t Tell You
And
so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of
the opened door,--the lady, or the tiger? -
Frank R. Stockton
I laughed at the dimwitted stooge with a roar!
“Hahaha! Pull your pants up, kid,” I said,
returning my sight to the scattered papers in
front of me, “And get outta here, will ya?
I’m busy.”
Within seconds he had pulled out the gun. This
was startling. I looked into the cold, black
barrel; I could see his hand shaking, in fury -
no, in fear. Always in fear.
“Hahaha. Come on, kid, whatta ya expect to do
wit’ that? What, is that a pellet gun o’
somethin’? Get outta here.”
The kid didn’t flinch. He was just standing
there with intense power and determination.
But, he wouldn’t shoot. Stupid kid. Couldn’t
of been more than twelve years old. Black hair,
bright blue eyes, pale skin.
“Listen, kid, I don’t wanna hurt ya, but get
the heck outta here, ‘for I gotta.”
He continued to glare at me. Hadn’t spoken a
word since he had entered the room. He was just,
shaking…. Very afraid. Made me curious. I
didn’t know what the heck the kid wanted to
see me dead for - could imagine some things -
but the kid hadn’t said a word.
“All right,” I said, erecting from my
leathered seat behind my desk, “Tell me kid.
Whatta ya want to see a business man like me
dead fer, eh? I mean, come on, can you tell me
what’s the problem here?”
Very cold eyes. Nose was bleeding. Not a whole
lot, but definitely bleedin’. Great, a coke
junkie. The boy looked like a walkin’ zombie.
Cold, shallow demeanor. Something frightening
‘bout ‘im.
I watched as the kid then proceeded to take off
his clothing. He kept the gun on me, as well as
his eyes, unmoving as he wrestled with his
button up tee shirt, his sneakers and his jeans,
still burning a hole through me with those
bright blue eyes.
“What that heck are ya doin’ kid?” I
asked, worried, “Why don’t ya get outta
here? Huh? I got stuff to do, and I don’t
wanna hurt ya, but you’re about to make me!
Now, go home, to whatever creature it is that
feeds ya, and leave me alone!”
Tears were strolling down his face. It was
amazing. He didn’t blink, he didn’t flinch -
he wasn’t crying, at least not on the outside.
But those tears. Something had already killed
this kid. And now he was gonna kill me.
I was becoming too impatient - and too freaked.
These addicts, they’re dangerous. The kid was
freakin’, didn’t know what he was doin’,
and I didn’t wanna be the accident he created.
I grabbed my phone and dialed up the pigs down
on East Main.
Yeah, I got a bit of a problem here. Some kids
got a gun on me, think he’s on drugs. Yeah, ya
better get down here. That’s what I told
‘em, felt like it took forever. The weight
this kid was puttin’ on me, the pressure, it
seemed increasingly oppressive, every second
those bright blue eyes were glued on me.
I sat back down at my desk. Proceeded to look
over my hectic schedule, trying to ignore the
kid. Looked back to the kid and the gun. Looked
to the various papers strewn across my desk.
Looked back to the kid and the gun. Looked to
the clock on my desk. Looked back to the kid and
the gun. Desk. Gun. Desk. Gun.
“KID! Why don’t ya GET THE HECK OUTTA
HERE?!”
I was furious. What was this kid doin’? Why
now? Why now?
“KID! I SAID GET THE HECK OUTTA HERE!”
I grabbed a nearby book off my desk and hurled
it at the boy. Struck him across the right
shoulder, and yet he didn’t move. He was
glaring. Just glaring. The gun, shaking, pointed
right at me. I would be dead as soon as it shot.
I looked into his eyes. His scared, bright blue
eyes. They seemed so horrifying, and yet so
beautiful.
“Why kid?” I asked, almost in desperation,
“What are you doin’ here? Why now? Eh?”
He looked at me, and let out a small smile. It
seemed like hours in that brief moment, as both
of our eyes were locked on each others, constant
in silence.
“Jessica Reuben.”
What? What the heck? Who was Jessica Reuben?
I looked away, pondering the first words the
young boy had spoken our entire encounter.
Jessica Reuben? The name, did it sound familiar?
Yes, but where ---
There was an explosion. A gun shot. Loud,
penetrating, frightening. I should have been
dead. But, I wasn’t. The kid must’ve missed,
got so scared that he missed.
I felt blood on my face. Well, must of gotten
some part of me. Must be in shock. But, I had to
open my eyes. Gotta try and stay alive, gotta
try and fight this kid until those unreliable
pigs get out here.
I opened my eyes and bore witness to the kid’s
ripped open skull, rotting lifeless on my desk.
My God.
The kid hadn’t missed. He had gotten just his
target. And now, his decaying corpse was
covering everything: my work, my papers, my
life. I was covered in him.
I was going to vomit. Panic, consumed me.
And curiosity.
I studied the boy with worrying eyes, as my mind
dipped into quiet contemplation. I pondered only
one thought in my vulnerable whim.
Who was Jessica Reuben?
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