satire

Twenty seven and desperate for help, I stepped from the office building, wrapping my jacket tightly around myself. The air was bitter, a sign of the winter to come. I began to walk, as quickly as I could. Twenty minutes to home, if I was lucky. If my foot held out. If I didn’t run into trouble.

The streets were dark and empty and I berated myself for not leaving sooner. Arguing a little longer hadn’t helped meĀ  anyway.

The wind whipped past me as I walked, finding every threadbare patch in my clothing.

Walk faster Lia. You’ll be warmer then. Ignore the pain.

I lied to myself, but what else could you do? There was no money for a bus, certainly no money for a taxi. Two children at home with my elderly parents, all hungry.

Mental inventory. There’s two potatoes, flour and some tins of corn. If I’m lucky, the animals won’t have discovered the new shoots and we’ll have greenery too.

We’d be okay, tonight.

Half way home the buildings started to fall apart. I ducked my head and tried to look invisible as I limped past, the pain in my foot increasing.

It wasn’t enough.

“Hey love!” The coarse shout rang out from behind me. “You want a good time? You look like you need a fuck.”

I walked faster wishing I could afford a gun to make this walk easier. But then I’d be just as bad as everyone else. Struggling to survive. Muggings at gunpoint. Rape. Worse.

If I just keep walking…

I pulled my head even deeper into the jacket, trying to shrink.

Footsteps behind me. A hand on my shoulder. He spun me around.

“Oh boy, you’re a looker too.”

“Let me go.” I snapped.

His fingers dug in deeper, harder. I tried not to wince.

“What’re you doing, limping round here at this time of night?” His voice was hard. A man protecting his turf from the danger of the crippled woman. “You looking for work, love?” He grinned at me. “I’ve got all the work you could want right here.” He grabbed his crotch.

I didn’t respond. I could still get out of this.

“I’d even pay you. How about that, love? You come over here for just a minute and you walk away twenty bucks richer.” His eyes roamed over my clothes. “You need the money, dontcha love.”

God forgive me, I considered it. Just for a moment. $20 could buy food for the week. We could eat. Survival prostitution. We all sell what we’ve got until there’s nothing left. How would this be any different?

Common sense kicked in. There wouldn’t be $20 at the end. Just a cold bleeding out on the frozen ground after he was done. I gritted my teeth, squared my shoulders and looked up at him.

“You don’t want me. I’m disabled.”

I hated it. I hated to say the words, but there they were. Truth, stark in the face of reality.

He snatched his hand back off my shoulder, looking at me, trying to find my problem. Sometimes it isn’t as visible, and thank god for that or I’d never have survived this long.

Three steps backwards, he looked me over again. I could see the gears turning in his head. The limp. The poverty. “You’re an abomination, woman,” he hissed “you should have died at birth. They should have taken you away.”

He turned away, disgusted.

I walked away, faster now, before he got together a gang to try and right the wrong my parents had committed in hiding me.

A warm living room in late Autumn. A woman screaming and straining on the floor, blankets and newsprint between her legs. A midwife crouches between her legs.

“Come on Imogene, just one more push. One more push and you’re done.”

A man sits behind her, whispering encouragement. A steady stream of positive energy.

You can do this, the baby is almost here, you’re strong, you can do this.

Another midwife in the corner wrings her hands, glancing at the mother to be. She’s too old, she thinks. She should never have fallen pregnant this late.

The woman screams, the sound torn from her as the baby emerges, as I emerge into the air, shouting my displeasure.

The room falls silent. The woman pushes herself up onto her elbows.

“What’s wrong? Give him to me. Give him here.” Desperation in her voice, she tries to sit up.

The midwives glance at each other.

“It’s a girl. And there’s a problem.”

The story goes, they bribed the midwives into silence. My birth is written as a death and I am hidden away while they try and fix the mistake nature has wrought with my legs. The twisting mess left behind by a fault somewhere along the way.

Not my fault, but I’m the one suffering anyway.

Nine months later, a faked pregnancy. They forge me a new birth certificate. My autumn birthday is turned into a summer celebration. Suddenly I exist, albeit my legs bundled tightly. Will I ever walk? Will this be the biggest mistake ever?

The charges for hiding a deformed child are harsh.

Is it worth it?

Twelve years old and I am sitting at my desk in school. The agony shot up my leg, making it hard to concentrate. My father was testing a new brace to try and strengthen my ankle.

Loose pants hide the bracing around my leg. I hate them. I hate myself. Why am I alive?

The lesson continues, drumming itself into my brain. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be the child who lived.

“Now class, a history lesson. Many years ago, women weren’t able to call on the Collectors to take a child who wasn’t whole. Women kept their children, no matter what happened.”

Mark, eleven years old with freckles, interjects: “But what did they do with them?”

The teacher shook her head sadly. “They tried to pretend they were normal children, with the chance to live.”

Suddenly I am screaming inside my head. “But I deserved a chance to live!”

The dual mental states of a child who should not exist: I demand to be here, I demand to survive, while simultaneously being told I shouldn’t exist.

I don’t say anything, my head down, breathing through the pain. My left leg had straightened easily. My right one, not so much.

“And what are the Collectors, children?”

Mary shouted from the front. “They’re there to Collect any problems nature gives us. Just like a baby bird without wings won’t survive in the wild, so should not a deformed child be allowed to live.”

Mary’s father was the Mayor. She knew all the rules. I hated her.

The teacher continued. “Many people throughout history exposed children who were deformed, making humanity stronger. There’s no room in a strong society for disability. Remember that children.”

My leg throbbed. I wondered if she was right. My mother called this brainwashing and promised I was perfect just as I was, but I didn’t believe her.

The bell rang and my class flowed outside for lunch. I limped after them. The teacher noticed, concerned.

“Are you okay Lia?”

I nod. Drummed into me my entire life. “I just twisted my ankle, Miss. It will be okay.”

She frowned. “You twist your ankle a lot, Lia.”

“My mother says I’m a clumsy child.” I lie, straight faced.

Nineteen and walking down the street with friends, their skirts swishing around their thighs. My limp is barely noticeable.

“Why don’t you wear skirts Lia?”

I shrugged. “I don’t like them much.”

They teased me for a minute. Did I have scars from being whipped as a naughty child. Did I have ugly knees? Had anyone ever seen me in a skirt?

I try to smile, but it’s hard. Society says I shouldn’t exist. I hide who I am.

There’s a group of activists I’ve heard about. Trying to change the perception of disability. It’s not working, but they try anyway. The Collectors are after them.

all for one
and one for all
until we stand against the wall

Society had become stricter. Firing squads. Children taken. A three year old who couldn’t talk was removed from my street last night. I could still hear his mother screaming.

The conversation flowed around me. I am a rock in the middle of the stream, here, but not a part of things.

I want to join the activists. I want to change the world.

The sun streams through my hair and I keep walking, down the street, safe in my perceived wholeness. Invisible in my disability.

Twenty five and watching my life fall apart before my eyes.

“I know you say you just sprained your ankle again Lia, but you’re always limping. It looks bad. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go.”

Shock. “You’re firing me for spraining my ankle?”

“No. I’m firing you because you’re perpetually limping.” He lowered his voice. “I like you Lia. I don’t know what your problem is, but I suggest you hide it better. I’m sympathetic, but not many people are.”

Unspoken words. You’re not whole, you can’t stay, you make us look bad.

I leave. No job, no money, no way to feed the foundling children I worked to save. No social support.

Twenty eight and hiding in a basement, a candle in the middle of our group, the light flickering.

“We can’t keep going like this. We have to fight.”

I’m the only disabled person here, the only one left. My leg screams at me every day now.

Around me are parents who had their children removed.

“We have to make a stand. Disabled people are exactly like everyone else, you just have to give them a chance! Let them be part of society.”

The shouted whispers get louder. We can’t be found here, huddled and plotting.

“Things have to change. We used to support the poorest in our society, now we murder them.”

“You don’t know they’re murdered, Anna.”

Anna rounds on her. “They certainly don’t return to society when they’re all grown up, do they? Murdered. The lot of them.”

Her five year old had been taken six months ago after a virus left him a paraplegic. “No use to anyone” they said, and drove him away in their van while she screamed her throat raw.

The despair is thick. How far we’ve come. That an idealistic reform for The Good Of The Country could do so much damage. Could break people’s souls.

We used to support the weakest in our society.

Where did we go wrong?

 

 

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Burning down the country

by Veronica Foale on September 8, 2013

in politics, satire

“Burn it down.” The Boss stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at the Trees in front of him. “It’s in the way. It’s gotta go.”

“But sir!” The Foreman gasped. “There are people living in there! Whole families. We can’t just burn it down.”

The Boss turned to stare at The Foreman, who quailed under the dead eyed look. “We can. And we will. If Jesus didn’t want these people to die, then they would have been born into CityDweller families like we were.”

The Foreman swallowed, nervously. How much was his job worth? His life?

“Sir …. I just don’t think …. surely we could warn them?”

The Boss spat. “So they could flood into our towns, hoping for a handout? No. Burn it down. The problem with our country..” He paused, sweeping his arms out in front of him “… is there are too many Trees. Sacrifices have to be made.”

The Boss turned on his heels and walked away, sliding into the backseat of his car, before calling out to The Foreman. “If I find my city flooded with Tree People, it’ll be your head that rolls.”

The Foreman watched him leave, wondering how he was going to sell this to the workers. Some of them had family in the Trees. Hell, most of them had come from the Trees originally.

But that wasn’t the point. Not anymore.

The last round of politicking had cemented the divide within this great country. There were CityDwellers, and Tree People. No middle ground. The fear and loathing of Tree People had started small. A headline here, a subtweet there. But it gained traction. Humans, as a whole, were only ever a few tiny steps away from complete xenophobia and The Boss had played on this since his rise to power.

The headlines grew, as headlines were wont to do. “No more trees!” “STOP THE TREES”. Anything to make the Tree People seem less human. Whatever it took.

Tree People stole my job! screamed one paper. I tried to escape, but couldn’t find my way out: A horror story of loss in amongst the Trees slashed across a tabloid.

Fear and loathing, carefully manipulated for greater political power. No one knew quite where it started, but The Foreman knew where it was going to end. Bloodshed and violence, refugees and poverty.

It was sheer luck whether you were born in the City or in a Tree, but who cared anymore? God decided where people were born, not men. It was by his grace that you lived or died.

The Foreman shook his head sadly and went back to his trailer to get ready. His people had been Tree People, long ago. They’d moved to the City in search of a better life when drought was killing everything. They’d made a go of it, and no one had thrown it back in their faces. Why was it suddenly so different?

Making a few phone calls, he assembled the men, and mounted the small podium that he used for giving work orders each morning. The men looked up at him, fear on their faces. They knew what was coming. Progress had to continue, and they’d been moving towards the Trees for weeks now.

The Foreman cleared his throat. “Men. It’s time. You know what The Boss wants. We have to decide now whether we’ll do as we’re told, or die doing the right thing.”

One man called out: “He ordered it then?”

The Foreman nodded. “He gave the order this morning. Burn the trees.”

At the words, the crowd in front of him collectively began to mumble, a sound that soon turned into a dull roar. The Foreman held his hands up to ask for quiet. Slowly, they quietened.

“I know you’ve got family in those Trees. I know that you don’t want to do this. But whatever we do, we need to act as a group. We can’t be divided, not now, not ever. They’ll jail us for not following orders.”

A shout, in the back. “I don’t care what we’ve gotta do. Tree people ain’t nothin ta me.” The sound of fists silenced his yelling. The foreman coughed. Silence returned, waiting for the order.

It’s now or never the Foreman thought. Are we men, or animals?

He called out. “I want runners sent to every corner. Let the Tree People know what’s going on. Tell them the truth.”

They’d been preparing for this he realised, as the men broke off without looking back, heading for their vehicles, running for their extended families. The Foreman stood there on his podium, the space in front of him empty now save for the one man who’d disagreed, lying bound and bleeding in the dust.

This was it. He’d just started a revolution. Men were going to die on his words. But better than thousands dying because of his actions.

A shot sang out, loud in the silence. It took a moment for him to realise what had happened, his hand over his chest. Blood blossomed through his shirt, as his mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

Slowly he fell, hitting the ground with a dull thud. The Boss filled his vision, as everything narrowed to a point.

A boot in his ribs. A gush of blood. His dying breath.

“Dammit all to hell. If you’d followed orders, I wouldn’t have had to kill you.” The Boss kicked him again, viciously. “It’s not a Democracy anymore. You’ve got no say.”

The Boss put away a small gun, and nodded to his goons.

“Fire kits are over there. Sort it out.”

He stood there for a moment, looking at the dead man in a puddle of blood without remorse. Stepping over the corpse, he walked towards the bound man in the dirt. Eyes big, the man, his mouth filled with sandy grit, blubbered softly. The Boss cut his bound arms with a small knife and pulled him to his feet.

“Can you walk?”

The beaten man nodded.

“Good.” The Boss pointed him towards the City. “Walk that way. Don’t look back. Tell everyone what happened here today.”

A good evangelist was worth a hundred headlines bought and paid for.

The beaten man walked.

The Boss turned around, surveying the work site, before turning and getting back into his car, the driver smoothly taking him back towards the City without asking questions.

Behind him, the country burned.

 

 

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