Angel Wings: An America 2.0 Tale

Bumping along the crumbling asphalt, the dilapidated bus roughly jostled its world-weary passengers.  Mark sighed slightly, trying not to attract attention, his hands cradling his growing stomach unconsciously.  It’s not like he cared about the parasite growing within him, it’s just that being this pregnant had loosened all his joints, and it made the bumping of the bus that much more unpleasant.  

The only other person in skirts and a bonnet on the bus was sitting in one of the other few seats designated for women, in other words, nowhere near him.  Women conversing in public was technically not illegal, but that didn’t stop the Overseers from stopping you or “correcting” your behavior if they felt like it.  The woman never looked up from her hands demurely resting in her lap.  Whoever she was, she was well-behaved.  He wondered what errand had convinced her husband to allow her to leave the house.  

Jacob had easily believed his “wife’s” lie that Mark needed to buy more fabric for new curtains and proudly handed over a bus token and note of permission, glad his “wife” was finally reliably behaving like a proper woman.  Mark’s husband was confident that he had tamed his “wife” and as he should be.  Mark had worked hard at the feminine facade ever since he realized the way he had been trying to resist was futile.  That’s not to say resistance itself was futile; Mark just had to change how he resisted.

It had been so much easier when he was a child.  As soon as he’d realized he was a boy he had told his parents and had asked to be called Mark instead of Marcy.  He was lucky they were so understanding and supportive.  He grew up as a boy and went on puberty blockers when that time came.  He was happy then, back when he was able to be himself.

He schooled his face into proper blankness after he realized his sorrow was showing, tipping his head down to use the bonnet as a shield against prying eyes.  Public emotion from someone who seemed to be a woman would attract unwanted attention.  Swallowing hard he fought back tears, remembering the last time he saw his parents.  The Overseers had shoved them into a van, hands zip-tied behind their backs.  For his own part, Mark had been bodily hauled away, crying, kicking, and screaming (at least until he had been slapped and beaten enough to shut down in fear of his own life).  He knew he was being sent to a Re-education Center for Young Women and that his parents were under arrest for child abuse, medical endangerment, and brainwashing a child.  He had hoped they would be safe, that he would see them again.

He never did.

The Reeducation Center did its best to brainwash Mark and all the other “students” into behaving like proper women.  They gave him the good, pious name of Mary.  All the “students” were given good Biblical names, even if they had never changed theirs.  He didn’t remember much from his time there, other than fear and always being tired and hungry with no idea when the next correction would be inflicted.  Fighting back in even the smallest ways did nothing other than cause more pain.  He quickly learned to give them the mask they wanted to see because there was no chance of freedom if he was stuck in the Center, or worse, sent away to wherever they sent “women” who couldn’t be reeducated.  The government was never clear on what happened to those people.  

Daily, he cursed his fair skin, blue eyes, and blond hair.  If only he could have been another race or, at the very least, ugly.  If either had been the case, he might have gotten away with being consigned to labor on one of the Health Mind Farms until he died from lack of medical care.  Farm work paid exactly enough for you to live at the farm, but that was it.  Still, it felt like a far kinder life than what awaited Mark.  

Once his hair had grown out enough to be braided to hide under the bonnet, and the breasts and hips on his body had grown and widened with the lack of suppressors, the Reeducation Center started the work of finding a husband willing to accept a wife so broken they ended up at a Reeducation Center.  It had to be an upstanding Christian man with a firm hand, able to keep his wife in line and pregnant, making new white citizens for the good of the country.  Mark, because he refused to ever think of himself as Mary no matter what he was forced to respond to or say out loud, hoped and even prayed to the oppressor’s God once or twice in desperation that the Center wouldn’t find a man willing to take him, but he knew in his heart of hearts his genetics had cursed him.  

Jacob, a wall of a man with a permanent scowl, came to the Center, looked Mark over, and signed a paper committing to Mark’s care.  They were now husband and wife, you may now rape the bride.  That’s all it was, rape and abuse if Mark said or did anything Jacob disagreed with, and Jacob seemed to disagree with most things.  The first day, Mark had tried fighting back, but he had no chance physically against that mountain of a man.  Jacob couldn't care less about Mark as a person, because he wasn’t one.  He was a wife.  He had no voice, no vote, he wasn’t even allowed to leave the house without a permission note.  

It would have been easier if Jacob was poor, then at least Mark would be expected to work in some capacity and would be able to travel within walking distance for reasons other than shopping and medical appointments.  Their God had truly cursed him though, because Jacob was well off enough to support and manage a wife properly.  Mark had to find another route to freedom and soon.  Something was growing inside him like a cancer and he refused to give that monster Jacob the satisfaction of bearing him a child.

All it had taken was several months of perfect behavior no matter what Jacob did to him, to get the man to start letting down his guard.  The man’s ego was exponentially larger than his intelligence, so Mark just played into that.  First, Jacob left some scissors out of the lockbox when he left for work.  Eventually, he’d relaxed enough to not even put his razor away.  Once he found out Mark was carrying his child, his wariness faded even more.  Big, strong man had cowed weak, little woman and filled her with his seed.  Why would such a subservient creature have any issues with the situation?  Jacob fed her, clothed her, put a roof over her head, and ensured she would be fruitful and multiply.  What more could a “woman” want?

It had been simple to convince him that the nesting instinct was starting to kick in and the house needed new curtains in the baby’s room.  Thank the universe Jacob was so stupid.  

It was almost Mark’s stop.  After the bus raggedly bumped to a stop, he demurely exited and walked with tiny, graceful steps along the sidewalk towards the home goods store he was supposed to be traveling to, head down, bonnet and skirts hiding him from prying eyes.  He didn’t turn to go through the door though; instead kept walking towards the river.  While the permission note didn’t explicitly say Mark was allowed to walk to the river and enjoy a few moments of peace, most Overseers would let that slide at least for a minute or two, especially if a woman was clearly pregnant.  Some of them even had an ounce of empathy and compassion, not many, but some.

He stood near the bridge by the bank watching the churning grey-brown water, momentarily grateful for the bonnet since it blocked some of the chill wind.  There was some ice coating the still water by the shore.  The bridge loomed over the water, its safety fencing glinting in the light.  Mark’s hands rested on the roundness of his stomach and he felt a fleeting new sadness, this time for the life growing within him.  He hated it.  He hated its father.  He hated the world that had led to its existence.  But then it kicked and shifted and suddenly, Mark realized it wasn’t the baby he hated.  It wasn’t the baby’s choice to be inside him.  That was chance and Jacob and this stupid country and its draconian misogynistic laws.  The little lump inside him was just as much a prisoner in this world as Mark was.  Neither of them had done anything to deserve the life they were going to have.

If he gave birth to this child, it would grow up with Jacob as a father and a “mother” who wasn’t really one.  A boy child would be raised to be as repulsive or worse than his father and the other awful men who forced him into existence.  A girl child, however… Mark might as well give birth to a heifer calf.  There was no real difference anymore.  A girl child would be cursed with manufacturing babies from the time she was old enough to bleed until her body gave out.  It would be even worse if it were a child like Mark, one who didn’t fit neatly in boxes.  

That final thought slammed a door in his head.  He may not have chosen this, but he’d be damned if he was going to bring a child into this hellscape.  His child deserved to be free of these boxes made of definitions.

Mark turned and, depending on the slight deference given to pregnant “women,” walked up the bridge’s sidewalk to the center of the span, supposedly enjoying the view.  With a side note of thanks that Jacob was so jealous of other men’s eyes touching his “pretty little wife” he had insisted on the most concealing clothing options, Mark took a deep breath and let it out, trying to still the tremor in his gut.  

Before he changed his mind, he quickly pulled his bonnet’s tie, ripping it off and giving it to the wind.  Then he yanked the tie on his skirts, instantly loosening them, and, after shrugging out of the sleeves, allowing them to fall to the ground.  Revealed beneath was close-cropped hair in a decidedly men’s style and some very poorly sewn pants made out of fabric scraps and tied on under his fertile belly.  A ratty, very used, men’s shirt covered his torso with the words, “I AM MARK!” written boldly.  

He turned to the safety fence and, jumping with every single ounce of power he could muster, the fingers of his right hand barely caught the top.  Knowing the Overseers had probably already been called, he scrambled frantically and managed to get ahold of the top with both hands and haul himself up and over.  His feet hit the ledge on the other side.  He spun around, seeing the long drop to the icy water beneath him.  He heard the first sirens start as he launched himself into the air towards freedom.  There was no terror in his heart anymore, only peace, and he smiled beatifically as the water rushed up to meet him.  

Now they were both free. 

Healthy Mind Farms: An America 2.0 Tale

Dig and plant.  Dig and plant.  Dig and plant.  He focused so hard on digging and planting.  He had to.  He wasn’t allowed to think about the dirt working itself into the crevasses of his fingerprints and fingernails until it was so ingrained that no amount of washing would ever make them feel clean, not even after his skin was cracking and bleeding from so much scrubbing.  If he thought about it for even just a moment… DAMNIT!  Now it was all he could feel, and he had to get it off!  

But he couldn’t.  Couldn’t.  Couldn’t.  He had to dig and plant.  Dig and plant.  Dig and plant.  But he wasn’t because of the feel of the dirt.  The plants were untended at his feet.  Instead, he was vigorously trying to wipe the dirt off his hands and onto his “Healthy Mind Farm Approved” overalls.  An Overseer would notice soon.  They always did.  He couldn’t stop though.  He HAD to get the dirt off.  He could FEEL IT everywhere!

In that moment, for a brief flash, he remembered the before times and how much easier it was on his meds.  He had never been on a lot because he had a lot of supports and didn’t need a lot of medical management, but he missed them so much right now. It had just been Prozac daily and a small dose of Xanax for the full-blown panic attacks, like the one he was having now, that’s it.  Nothing hardcore.  Part of his mind was quite coherent and knew this would end badly for him, but there was nothing that whispered voice of reason could do to stop the sheer horror of the feel of the dirt.  He didn’t know why the dirt set him off so badly today.  He’d managed to keep from drawing the Overseers attention for weeks now.  The inside of his cheeks bore wounds in various stages of healing, dug out by his teeth as he forced himself over and over to pretend that nothing was wrong in order to avoid their attention.  

During intake, they had given him a piece of paper with his diagnoses on it in large print:  Autistic, Anxiety, possible OCD.  Then, during introductions, that piece of paper was torn from his hands and ripped to shreds in front of him.  That Overseer, clearly a good Christian citizen with blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiselled jawline, barked at him that he was none of those things, that he did not need meds or supports of any kind.  The Overseers made it clear he’d better not forget that because he wasn’t going to be leaving the Farm or having any contact with anyone from the outside until he recovered from the woke mind virus he was infected with.  

That was after they had stripped him of everything that was his, including his name (he was now Patient # 25937), forced him into the brand new, stiff, scratchy overalls that made his skin recoil, and shaved his head (supposedly to prevent lice).  He’d been off his meds for about three days at that point because as soon as someone was sent for placement on one of the Healthy Mind Farms all psychoactive meds were stopped, cold turkey.  All of that had, of course, caused him to meltdown the worst he had in decades.  At the Farm though, they weren’t allowed to call them meltdowns, here they were tantrums or disruptive emotional outbursts and were viewed as intentional misbehavior.  It had taken weeks for the bruises from the “correction” that “emotional outburst” had earned him to fade.  However, the Overseers found any chance they could to layer on more bruising consequences for any and every possible infraction, so he hadn’t been without bruises since before his arrival.  The Overseers say all of this was to get the patients “detoxed” from the “poison” of the medications that treat “psychiatric conditions” because those conditions don’t actually exist.  All mental illnesses and developmental delays are, in reality, just moral failings.  That was the whole point of the Healthy Mind Farms.  

On the Farms people with moral failings were supposed to have time to reconsider their choices, get good, healthy exercise out in the sun and fresh air, and renew their connection to God.  It was supposed to show the patients the error of their ways and teach them to be good, upstanding citizens.  He supposed it was a good goal, but in the before times, the meds had worked, and here he was, after weeks at the Farm, scrubbing his hands on his pants hard enough to rip skin while convulsively crying over every single sensation he was experiencing.  The funny thing was, since he had been here, he couldn’t remember anyone being sent home because they “got better,” not even the people who he had never seen show symptoms, not even the exemplar workers who were the pets of the Overseers.  The only people he knew who had left were the ones the Overseers “corrected” too strongly for the capabilities of the on-site infirmary.  Those patients had left in what looked like ambulances.  They never came back.  

The blood from his hands was starting to smear over his overalls, and still the dirt wouldn’t come off.  In between wailing sobs that he didn’t remember starting, he started coughing and gagging because he couldn't get enough air.  He was vaguely aware of the hardworking patients near him trying desperately to shush him.  He hoped they would stay away.  He didn’t want anyone else getting in trouble on his behalf, although most probably just wanted him to shut up so the Overseers wouldn’t pay them too much attention.  

On cue, enter stage right, the Overseers, two of them, always in a pair.  The stable part of his mind giggled; he couldn’t be serious even now.  Through his cross-wired mind, he recognised one of them and realised the worst possible future was playing out.  It was HIM.  The Overseers had no names, just Overseer or Sir, but this one was known to all the patients.  The gleeful gleam in the Overseer’s malevolent eyes as he realised which patient was acting up kicked in Patient # 25937’s flight response.  Sobbing and coughing, he ran while still scrubbing his hands on his overalls’ legs, trying to get rid of the feeling.  Even as he ran, he knew it was not just futile, but the worst possible thing he could be doing, but he couldn’t stop himself.

It was mere seconds before he was tackled to the ground.  In the before times, he had some martial arts training, but it’s hard to fight or even fall safely with a 250 pound wall of muscles hellbent for blood, pummeling you as you are panicking and haven’t had enough food or sleep for weeks.  He heard and felt his arm snap as he landed on it at the wrong angle under the man’s weight and screamed at the pain, struggling uselessly to get away, the dirt getting all over him now.  The Overseer roared, “I’ll give you something to scream about, you fucking useless pansy!” as his meaty fist snapped Patient # 25937’s head to one side, the patient’s jawbone and consciousness giving way with a crunch.

When I Was A Girl: An America 2.0 Tale

        The thick, dingy, yellowish-grey air weighed heavily on the tenements.  Once they had been filled with the life and laughter of brown-skinned families trying to make it day to day and have a few small luxuries along the way, like the newest phone or a good steak dinner grilled on the porch.  Those times felt long gone, although she knew in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t that long since she had lived those memories. 

Lots of memories were in her head.  That was the safest place for them.  Keeping them locked up tight, only whispered at night like fairy tales, is what had kept her safe all these long years.  She wasn’t a “good woman,” but she sure was good at pretending to be one.  She’d had decades of practice.

She never thought she’d be one of those women, not even a pretend one.  As a child she had naively thought she would stand up and raise her voice, be heard and have it count.  She had been wrong.  If it had just been her it would have been a different story, but when it happened the kids were little.  Women who stood up and raised their voices disappeared, their families forever under surveillance and quickly punished for any form of deviance.  Many women never came back and those that did were different, changed.  No matter how it rankled, her family’s safety mattered more to her than screaming into the void of impending doom.  

So, she learned to be a “good woman,” wearing approved modest clothing, long skirts, and a bonnet that fully contained her properly braided hair, not speaking in public past what was necessary, keeping her eyes down and demure.  Boy, did that gnaw at her gut for years, but what was she going to do?  Risk her family?  Luckily, she was white, had healthy white children, and had already been a Christian (a “Sunday rollover Christian,” but the Overseers didn’t care about reality only the status quo).  In no time at all it seemed she managed to play the role and get everyone to mandatory church on Sundays, making sure the children learned and followed all the rules.  

Since the factory required twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, she barely saw her husband which meant she took care of the household mostly on her own.  Since they were of the lowest class it was required that she work as well.  Few jobs were allowed to hire women now, and women were not allowed to work farther than walking distance from their homes so finding work was hard and the pay was abysmal.  She ended up working at the local garden when the kids were in school.  The money was necessary to exist, but the veggies she was able to sneak home were what made it a good job.  

That was her life except for the last month of each pregnancy and the first month of each baby’s life.  Since the eldest two were born before the change that meant she got exactly eight months where she was allowed some kind of rest (although she still has the kids to care for and the household to run).  It would have been easier with fewer mouths to feed, but the government wanted citizens and the church condemned any forms of birth control.  Women were supposed to be fruitful and multiply.  It was God’s wish.  She was lucky though, she knew more women than she wanted to count who had died from pregnancy or birthing complications.  At least she was a good breeder, shot them out like clockwork, and never ran out of milk even when calories were in short supply.  It’s not like they could afford any healthcare if anything went wrong.  

As it was, since they were poor, as soon as the children turned eight schooling ended and they were expected to work as well.  That helped slightly, growling stomachs weren’t keeping people awake, but children’s labor was worth even less than a woman’s.  Nothing would ever make up for the loss of her third son to an industrial accident when he was eleven or the maiming of her daughter’s leg though.  At least that one was pretty enough and from good breeding stock so a man with a bit more clout picked her as his wife.  He had enough social standing that her disability wouldn’t mean she would starve to death for lack of work, thank God!

She coughed hard for several minutes and once she caught her breath, sat up in the bed, her frail body almost lost in the old patched comforters.  Since there was no money for heat those comforters had probably saved lives by now, although the fact they had to sleep multiple people to a bed undoubtedly helped as well.  She sighed, lost in her thoughts as usual.  Old brains do do that.  She picked up her crochet in her knobby bent fingers, wincing at the pain, and started work.  Disabled or not, sick or not, old or young, everyone had to carry their weight.  Her crocheted hats and booties kept her family warm and earned just enough to keep her from starving as long as the rest of the family shared a bit of food with her.  Once again, she was lucky.  Her family had never let her go hungry unless they all were.  Some women just got tossed into the street to starve to death when they couldn’t carry their own weight through labor or breeding.

She was just finishing a row when one of her younger granddaughters trudged into the room, fighting to muster a demure, happy smile like a proper girl should.  Little Beatrice was just barely eight and only starting to adjust to the rigors of work.  It was clear she was about to fall down from exhaustion.  The children got the jobs the adults didn’t want to or could not do for size reasons.  Poor thing was covered in dirt which almost made her blond hair look brown like her eyes (her only flaw was they weren’t blue).  Beatrice was one of her favorites, reminding the old woman of herself when she was a girl. The child could use a bath, but it would be a cold rinse in a pail or a scrubbing with a damp rag instead because that was what could be afforded.  

After moving some of the dirt around with an already dirt-stained, damp rag and scarfing down the meager allotment of gruel that was her dinner, Beatrice crawled into the bed and curled up against her grandmother.  In a tiny, tired, secretive whisper in her grandmother’s ear, she asked with her beaten-in manners, “Grammy, could you please tell me about when you were a girl?”

Willing her stomach not to growl (since she had insisted she wasn’t hungry so that Beatrice would be willing to eat without sharing), she sighed and glanced around the shabby room nervously, even though she knew there was no one else around to hear.  “Of course, my sweetness.  Remember, these stories are just for your ears.  Just you, me, and God, right?”  After she felt the girl’s head nod against her bony shoulder she smiled softly, her old, clouded eyes softening with the memories, and she began. 

“Once upon a time when I was a girl I didn’t have to work all day.  I could go for rides on my bike wherever I wanted to go.  And I could wear pants, like the men, so there were no skirts to get tangled up in things.  There were no bonnets either and only braids if you wanted them.  I could climb trees and go swimming with all the kids, boys and girls.  There were people who had skin as dark as night or brown like the mud when it rains, not just white.  Women could go on buses without permission, and it was ok to not get married if you didn’t want to.  In fact, children couldn’t get married even if they wanted to!  Imagine that!  You had to be 18 and agree to it to get married.  And now, MaryAnn is 18 and already has three kids!”  She lowered her voice even more, to the barest of whispers in her granddaughter’s ear,  “Back then, you could even choose to not have children if you didn’t want them!” 

She felt the girl shudder against her at that thought and was unsure if these were happy fairy tales for the child or uncomfortable and scary ones.  Beatrice might be like her, but she had been indoctrinated well.  The girl was so lucky she was healthy, pretty, and well-behaved.  She’d make a good breeder, easily fulfilling her job of giving the government many healthy white babies.  It was probably better that these stories felt like nightmares to the child.  She wondered if it was selfish of her to share these memories at all, even in whispers in the darkness.

Stroking Beatrice’s back softly to calm the child’s fears, she continued, “When I was a girl…”