We were never this

So, it has come to this. I gaze down at my daughter, sadly watching her as she stands by my side. I remember what it was like before all this, before we had to stand in line at the young age of 5 to get tested. We were just people once, with beliefs and feelings, we never had to choose a side, or we could stand firmly with others who had like ideas, but we were never this.

All the parents in line were nervous; you never knew what the outcome of these tests would be. There were horror stories that everyone had heard. Children getting put to sleep because they were deemed as psychopaths’. Or they were being sent away because they were unstable. No one wanted to hear them just now, but you could see in the parents faces that they were in the back of their minds, filling each person with a sense of dread.

We had come to enjoy the first 5 years of our children’s lives. Most parents would take the full time off of work to spend it with them. Child rearing had become a thing for the rich, as who would have a child today without having the ability to be home with them until they are tested. So much of your time had to be spent with them, teaching them right and wrong, figuring out how to mold them into the perfect little person that you couldn’t step away, not even for a minute. Not if you wanted them to be tested properly, not if you wanted them to survive.


The tests were meant to tell us how our children would perform at first, just to give us a better understanding of their development needs, and how to prep them for life. They were a huge help for many parents and everyone embraced the process completely. But, a few years ago, the testing changed. When the Government discovered that they could figure out exactly what that child would become when he/she grew up, that’s when they developed the new program.


No one knew it at first either. Many people were still happy to go to the testing site, until we started hearing the stories. Just a few at first, about children not coming out, and notices being sent to family members. “Your child has tested positive for a mental disability, he/she will be sent to state ward for observations.”


That is when it began to get scary. They started to send your children away, according to race/religion/mental stability, etc… It used to be only a few would not come back from the testing facility, now, only a few return. There have been rumors that they are sending them to different countries, to live with parents who are “More like the child” I thought they were rumors anyways. Turns out it was true. I had a friend who was ordered to take a child from one of these relocation projects. He was told it was for the Childs benefit, but the child only wanted her mom, and eventually, she was put back into the system.


Now, most of these children are wards of the state. The Government can’t quite figure out how to fix the problem of the attachment a child has to its biological parents, so, they are testing and analyzing, and medicating all the children they have right now, in order to get to the bottom of it.

But, for us parents who are waiting in line, we don’t want to think about it. My daughter is age 5 and must be tested according to the law. She seems healthy and happy, but, that is not for me to say, that is for the government to say. And I am fearful of what their findings will be.

I have spent 5 years of my life molding her, developing her, trying to make sure she gets through these tests. I have spent thousands of dollars on pre tests, psychiatric evaluations, genetic evaluations, and schooling, everything I can think of to keep her with us. And now it is in the Governments hands.
In a few moments, my child will walk through those doors, and I will either see her in two weeks, or I will get a notification through the mail. Those are my only two options.

We are next in line, and as I realize this I reach down to give my daughter a kiss on the check, what could be, my last motherly act of love that I am aloud to show her. I quickly slip a picture of myself and her father into her hand, and place the heart shaped pendant I got her around her neck. We both give each other a big hug, and at that moment, a man pulls her out of my arms and takes her inside.

I am nothing now, I have nothing. My child is gone, and I cannot do a thing to change it. I take out a picture of her and place it next to my heart. This is where it will stay for the next two weeks. And I will be standing at my mailbox every day, all day. Hoping that I will see the government vehicle drive into my driveway, and dreading that I will receive a certified letter through the mail.

How will this turn out? Only you can say. Does she see her kid again, or does she receive a letter?
Majority rules. I will finish this next week based on what the majority of the replies say. If I get any replies. If not, I will finish it my way.

Thanks,
Blend57

Dark.
Moving.

Well done.

Wow, talk about a bold, sharp, slap to the face...

Sadly this kind of future is not all impossible.

As for the ending? Well I would vote for, as would most people here for two reasons; I have kids and would do anything for them, especially in a case like this, and most people here see the government as this kind of gestapo lording it over us crap anyway.

Well written work, S&F

More please..........



As a Parent,I would fight to death.

How will this turn out? Only you can say. Does she see her kid again, or does she receive a letter?
Majority rules. I will finish this next week based on what the majority of the replies say. If I get any replies. If not, I will finish it my way.

Thanks,
Blend57

Just a thought for you. Instead of deciding the ending based on votes, how about doing both as alternate endings? Post them both, and then decide on which is the better tell that way. It could be much more challenging as a writer to see how you could spin sides.

Just an idea

reply to post by 74Templar


I thought about that, but , for me, it is harder to write something that is someone elses story. And I have a hard time writing endings anyway. If you look at my previous short stories, I write mostly around a scene in time, nothing is ever complete, and I depend on the reader to fill in the blanks. But I never finish it. There is always a before and after that is left up to the reader to imagine.

So, really, I am helping my writing skills, because I would probably have just left this as it was. Now at least I am forcing myself to finish it and I am forcing myself to write what someone else wants. Which will hopefully strengthen my abilities over all.

Thanks for your comments so far, and I appreciate the input.

Thanks,
Blend57

Part 2

It takes me a long time to get back to my car. Every few minutes, I have to sit down as my legs feel like jello and can’t support my weight. Every time I think I am o.k. to move, I stand up and sit back down again. Finally, I just fall to the ground in a lump, every part of my body shaking uncontrollably as I just let go. This was it; there was no reason to go any further. What’s the point?


One of the other parents that were in line falls to the ground beside me. I look up into her eyes and can see the same pain in her face. We both grab onto one another and start to cry uncontrollably. Both of us mourning the loss of her child and seeking some support. For what felt like hours we were screaming in protest, demanding our children back and cursing everyone involved in the process. It felt good to have someone to share my grief with, but this was only the beginning of the process, and what was I going do for the next two weeks? What was she going to do?


I look up at the people passing by. All of them looking the other way, some of them shaking their heads, looking down at their feet. People no longer get upset by this type of display on the street. It has become common to see it here, so close to the testing facility. Usually, there are more than two people on the ground and the screaming and crying and outbursts of anger can be heard for blocks. I used to walk right by, not thinking anything about it, not wanting to get involved. Every once in awhile, you would see support groups gathered here, trying to help the parents deal with their grief, but today was not one of those days, it was me and one other, we were alone, and we had no one to help take our pain away but each other.


I knew I had to let go, to get up and go on with my life, but I didn’t want to. I couldn’t bear it. Every time I went to pull away, I felt the urge to pull her in tighter, to keep holding on to the one person who kept my daughter real, the one person who really understood what just happened. She was the only link I had left to my child, and somehow, I felt that if I kept her with me, maybe everything would turn out o.k. for both of us.


But finally, I just let go and stood up. I stood up and reached my hand down to her, trying to help her take the step too. I could see in her face that she couldn’t, she wasn’t ready just yet. She had way too much pain left to sort through. I give her one quick squeeze on the shoulder and turn away, fearing that if I stayed much longer, I would be back down on the ground with her again. I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t just give up. Hope was still there for me and it was the only thing that was going to keep me going. So, I embraced it, filled my heart with it and took my first step forward.


As soon as I rounded the corner of the street where my car was parked, my driver rushed to my side, asking if I was alright, putting his arm around my shoulders and walking me back to the car under the safety of them. He knew me well enough to know that words were not what I needed right now.


Words were meaningless; they helped nothing and did nothing. I had screamed words when I was on the sidewalk a few moments ago, none of them helped. I had begged and pleaded for my child to be returned, no one listened. And right now I was done with words. They were useless.


Now, I was going to focus on hope, for that was the only feeling I had left to work with. It was the driving force that allowed me to pick myself up off the sidewalk. It was the only feeling that got me back to my car. And it would have to be enough to get me through the next two weeks. God, I hope it is enough, for the only other feelings I have to use as a crutch are anger and vengeance, and I do not want anything involving to my daughter to be fueled by such negative emotions. No, hope is all I have left and hope will have to get me through.


The tears are still falling while I sit in the back of the car, waiting for what felt like an eternity for it to pull into the driveway of my home. All I could think about was getting back and playing the home videos that we had taken of my little angel while she was growing up. I just wanted to sit and play them, over and over again, trying to hold on to her in any way I could.

part 2 continued

My thoughts kept going back and forth on this. One moment I wanted to watch them the next moment I was too fearful, thinking it would slide me back down to the place I was at on the sidewalk, the great abyss that swallows you and won’t let you out. I was almost stuck there, in that place where you lose yourself, your mind, your sanity. And I didn’t want to return. From here, I could do something, from here, I can make a difference. If I let myself slip back to that place, I could do nothing, and I want to make sure I do everything I can to support my daughter.


I decide not to watch the home videos. They would not help me much right now; I was too close to the edge. I walked upstairs and pause at my little girl’s bedroom door. I dare not go to her room; this would only make things worse for me. Instead, I walk to mine, fall on the bed, and bury my face in my pillow. This is where I stayed all night, wave after wave of emotions racking my body. After hours and hours of these fits, I wipe my tears away and pull out the picture of my daughter.


Tomorrow, I would be better; tomorrow I will be waiting for you to return. And I will fight tooth and nail to make it happen. I promise you that, little one, I promise you that. After a short while, exhausted, I fall asleep, dreaming of how wonderful a day it will be when my daughter returns.

Thanks,
Blend57

Part3

It’s been three days now since my daughter went for testing. Every day I have been doing the same thing, getting up at the crack of dawn, eating my breakfast, and then walking the short distance to the end of my driveway.

All my staff has been really supportive. They have been managing my household very well while I suffer through these two weeks. My neighbors think I have gone mad; they slow down their vehicles so they can stare at me while they drive by. All of them on their cell phones, talking about the crazy lady at the end of her drive way. I really don’t care though, they have never had children, never had to experience this. They have no idea what is happening to me right now.

I do have a small support group of friends that come by and visit me every day. Always smiling and giving small words of encouragement. A few hugs and pats on the back, with some heartfelt looks of sympathy mixed in. I never knew so many cared about me, so, it does feel good to know there are good people out there.
My family as well has been very supportive. My mom and dad, brothers and sister, all stopping by to make sure I am doing o.k. I reassure them that I will be fine, but as they look into my eyes, they see the truth. These feelings I have are not easily hidden and my family knows me too well to even try. But I do my best to fool them anyways.

One of my friends stopped by today and was talking about one of the support groups meeting tonight. She handed me a pamphlet and urged me to go. I am afraid if I do, I might hurt my chances of getting my daughter back, I mean, what if the government finds out? They don’t like anybody making waves. It could ruin my chances to get her back forever.

Yet, waiting here by the mailbox is not helping either. The meeting is late at night, and the group is not well known, so, the chances of any government official getting whiff of it yet were slim. And I definitely need support. I decide to at least go and see what they are all about. Worst case scenario, I end up leaving five minutes after I show up.

At six thirty I make the short walk back up to my house. No official car showed up today, but, thankfully I didn’t get a letter either. At least I still have hope. Hope that tomorrow will bring my daughter back. I try not to think about the alternative, it has become too much emotionally for me. But I knew what I was going to do if it did happen. That decision had already been made. For some, the decision would seem a little extreme; I mean people lose their children all the time and they get through it. For me, it was the only option left. I wasn’t prepared to keep living without my daughter. I had already lost my husband six months ago, and couldn’t bear to lose someone else; I just wouldn’t be able to go on.

I reach in my pocket and touch the smooth, steel surface of the knife I have been carrying with me the last three days. I had it specially made for me about six weeks ago. It was made out of tungsten steel, and I had it engraved with a short message on both the front and back side of the blade. It was to be my exit strategy if things were to go wrong, and it gave me comfort to know I had it with me.

After a few hours, I grab my jacket and head out the door. I decide to drive myself and leave without telling anyone. My driver has been watching me like a hawk lately, and would never let me leave unaccompanied if he knew what I was up to. I call a cab and sneak down the back stairway, out the door, to the end of the driveway. It only takes the cab a few moments to get there, and, finally, I am on my way.

Part 3 continued


When I arrive at my destination, I have a moment of doubt. The place was dark and dreary, a small building located just outside of town, looked to be in the industrial area. There were no company names or logos on the outside of it, just the address numbers, dimly lit up by the one and only light located overtop the door.

The cab driver turned around to look at me and ask if I had gotten the address right. I hesitate for a moment before answering that it was correct. I step out of the cab and reach through the window to pay the fare, all the time the knot in my stomach getting bigger and bigger. All my senses telling me that I didn’t want to be here. But yet my legs continue to walk forward to the door and before I know it I have stepped inside.

The room was not much better looking than the outside, just one big square with no windows. Metal covered the walls and I was sure it was just an old warehouse used for storage at some point. They had a small screen set up towards the front, I am assuming so they could use an overhead on it. And there were no chairs or tables anywhere, just the one table for the overhead and nothing more.

A group of people had gathered in the center of the room, maybe about twenty to thirty, making conversation with one another. I was just about to turn around and walk back out the door when one of them noticed me.
“Hello and welcome!” She walks over to me and reaches out her hand so I can shake it. I unwillingly offer mine up to her and take a few steps forward.

“Thank you. I am not sure I got the right place. I am supposed to be here for a support group meeting.” I look at her and can see in her eyes that yes, indeed, this was the spot.

“I wouldn’t call it a support meeting really. I would refer to it as an awareness meeting. Of course, we do offer support, but this meeting is more about what the testing facility does, not about how it makes you feel. We want to open your eyes to what they do in there. Let you know exactly what happens to your child when they go through those doors.” She looks at me to gauge my reaction and I can tell by her eyes that it wasn’t good. After a minute, she places her hand on my shoulder and leans in to give her words more meaning.

“If you recently lost your child to the facility, this is not a place for you. The truth would be too much for you to bear right now. You are welcome to stay, but, my suggestion to you would be to go home before the meeting starts.” She gives another small squeeze on my shoulder before she turns around and heads back to the group.

I head back out the door, rushing to get out so I don’t hear even one word of what was going to be said. I in no way wanted to know anything that they were doing in there. I had no wish to hear about any hardships that my daughter was facing. I just wanted to pretend that she was given ice cream every day and hugs and kisses every night. The woman was right, I couldn’t bear to hear anything else right now, I didn’t want to hear anything else.

In my mad rush to leave, I accidentally bump into another person coming to attend the meeting. She falls onto the ground in front of me and when I offer my hand to help her up, I get a glimpse of her face. It was the same woman that I had shared my grief with on the sidewalk three days ago, the same woman that I had left there, on the ground, because she wasn’t strong enough to move on just yet. And she recognized me as well. She got up and with a big smile, wrapped her arms around my neck, giving me the biggest hug I had ever had except for when I got my daughter her pony when she was four for her birthday.

This is pretty dark

“I’m so glad you are here! I was worried that no one would understand, but, I know at least one other person will.” She tried to look as though she was happy to see me. But I could tell from her eyes that she was still void of emotion. That anything she tried to convey was just a veil, and she was just putting on a show. Her heart was still broken, her child was still gone, and she was still in the same place she had been on the sidewalk three days ago. She just had learned to fake it a little.

“I guess we shouldn’t be here. That lady over there just told me to go. You know what this meeting is about?”
“I know exactly what this meeting is about, and I do want to be here. And you do too. You need to know what is going on in there, and you need to know how to stop it.” She takes a step back from me and pauses to look into my eyes to see if what she said had any impact. When she is sure it does, she turns on her heels and walks to the center of the room.

I watch in disbelief as she makes her way to the table with the overhead on it, picks up the microphone, and turns to the small group of people standing before her.

“I want to welcome everyone and thank you for coming. I know we don’t usually gather like this, but, I have some urgent information that I need to share with you this evening. One of our people on the inside was able to take some photos of what’s going on, and I wanted to share with you what we found out.”

My mouth dropped to the floor. I couldn’t believe what just happened. The woman who couldn’t even get up off the sidewalk was now the leader of a small support group. How is that even possible?

It was at that moment that I decided to stay. If this woman was strong enough after just three days to lead a support group, I was going to be strong enough to at least listen to what she had to say. If it got to be too much, I could just walk out. But, what I really wanted to do was spend some time with her after the meeting. Maybe she could show me how to be that strong, maybe she could tell me how to get my child back. I was running on one emotion, hope, and even a little bit of it would be enough to keep me planted firmly in place. Besides, it was a government run facility, how bad could it be?


NOTE:

Sorry, this is becoming a book instead of a short story. I just keep coming up with different ideas on how to end it and can't figure out wich way to go.
I will try to finish it in the next part as I know it is getting too long.

Thanks,
Blend57