Céala

2. Kaliegh: Then

When a lobster is boiled, the water is first lukewarm and as the crustacean gets comfortable, the temperature slowly rises and, before it knows it, the lobster is turned cherry red and boiled to death. Peluquin came about much the same way. Slowly, almost without the knowledge of its citizens, the United States of America became something unrecognizable. The country of Before was made to hate itself, was divided amongst itself, and soon, people knew hate more than love or understanding. Differences were not tolerated, anything out of the norm was considered dangerous and was subsequently extinguished. Nuclear families were praised whilst anything other than that - whether it was single parents, interracial couples, same sex couples, or anything else - were shunned. The suicide rate of the average gay American spiked to almost 200% more than what it was a year before. The average hate crime against minorities increased to nearly 150% more than the previous year.
Museums were burned to the ground, priceless art burned up and turned to ash, books were first banned, and then burned, music was regulated and “managed”. That’s what the leaders called it, “management”. They claimed art of any kind provoked “unnatural” thoughts and announced it was the reason the country was splitting at the seams. The government said it was better when its citizens didn’t think for themselves, that it was better to let them do it for them, to let them provide and to help heal the broken country. Guards began to appear along streets and in workplaces, in grocery stores and in homes. Bodies littered the streets and those in the Before were taught to ignore them, to not interfere when a standoff occurred between a citizen and a guard, to trust in the leaders of the country.
The flag Before had stars and stripes, representing the freedom of all who lived their lives under it. It was a symbol of unity, of strength. The flag of Peluquin is a deep grey, with three white stripes down the center, and is a symbol of nothing other than fear.

We were taught about the Before in the Pink House. Madame Bradbury explained that the Before was full of selfish people, people who wanted to destroy all that was good and valued in the country. She taught that the leaders of Peluquin were the real heroes, the ones who put their lives on the line to put a stop to the protesters and the “unnatural” ways of life they used to live. This is the world I know.  The world that is more mine than anything from the Before ever was. I was six when I was taken from my home and my family slaughtered in front of me.
My parents were two men, Michael and Alex, and I loved them dearly. Michael was tall, to me he seemed to be at least eight feet, with an olive complexion and long dark hair he always wore down around his face, framing it. His cheekbones swept across his face, ending high by his temples and his teeth were long, wolffish, and white. Alex was shorter, with fair skin and ruddy cheeks. He was cute in a boyish way; his hair was a light blond red cut sporty close to his scalp. Freckles decorated his face and his light blue eyes seemed to dance as he spoke. My parents met long ago in the Before, at University. They’d both knew they were gay, but hadn’t officially came out. Once they’d met each other, though, it didn’t matter who knew what - they both knew they’d found their One. They adopted me from Michael’s sister, who’d had me out of wedlock. She was only fifteen at the time, and to save her from imprisonment or worse, Michael and Alex adopted me. It was done quickly and quietly as the vote for same-sex adoption was impending. Luckily, they’d gotten married three years prior, but even that was eventually undone.
I was a happy child, from what I can remember. Alex was better at tea parties, while I preferred Michael to read me to sleep; he always did the best voices and his own was so soothing. Alex was a chef and he often used Michael and me as his guinea pigs. Most of my memories of Alex are of him in the kitchen, letting me play sous chef for him while he sang silly songs and danced around with a spatula in his hand. Michael was more studious and introspective, but he always had a cuddle and a story readily available if ever I needed one.

The night they were taken from me was my pre-birthday. Every year, a week before my actual birthday, my dads would throw a party. It started when I was three and impatient for my birthday to come around. They decided a pre-birthday was the best resolution, and it became tradition. My sixth year was to be a grand pajama party. I wore my favorite cloud printed pajamas, the fuzzy ones that kept me warm during the cold Northern nights, and my sparkly, fluffy blue slippers. Michael was in something called Speed Racer PJ’s while Alex was adorned in Sesame Street pajamas. My uncle Mark was there too, dressed head to toe in a giant, bright yellow onesie complete with a butt flap. The party was small, smaller than the previous years. I didn't understand it then, but my dads were trying not to draw attention to us, while still keeping up appearances for my sake.
Our house was not the biggest, but it was home and always filled with warmth and laughter. That night was no different. We ate ice cream for dinner, in true slumber party fashion, had tea parties, played board games, danced. Uncle Mark brought his record player and swung me around to the sounds of  Marvin Gaye’s ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’. This was one of our favorites, one that we always listened to whenever my dads were out and it was just me and him. The song itself was banned - it was “too provocative” and definitively not on the government approved list. Mark still smuggled it to me, as he always did, so we could have our special dance. We were dancing in the living room, me perched on Uncle Mark’s feet,  in the space created by shoving all the furniture against the walls. He spun me round and round, laughing as I got dizzier with each passing twirl. It was then we heard the pounding on the front door and the sound of glass breaking. Alex snatched me from my uncle and told me to go hide in the upstairs closet. His voice was tight and urgent, and it sent prickles down my spine. Uncle Mark snapped the record player shut sharply and joined my parents. That was my favorite hiding place, where I always went when we played hide and seek. I hadn’t realized he’d known all along that it was my preferred hiding space.
"Kay, go,” he urged quietly. “Don’t make a sound.” His eyes weren’t laughing this time, they were deadly serious.  I made a wet gasp of a sound and turned away from my father, sprinting up the stairs. The men with guns were elbowing their way in now, and I tried with all of my six year old might to be a grown up and do what I was told.
I clutched my doll Michael had made, the one that was never far from arm’s reach. I’d named her Polly, for no other reason than it seemed to fit her. Her dress was made from an old, flowered blanket and most of the paint on her wooden face had been loved off, but she was still my favorite.
When I made it to the top of the stairs, I crouched low and stuck my face through the railing, curling my hands around the wooden posts that held up the bannister and watching in slow motion horror as the scene unfolded in front of me. All I wanted was for my dads and uncle to be okay. My breath shook when I exhaled and I placed a hand over my mouth to lessen the sound. There were four guards that I could see, all in heavy duty protective wear and black helmets, all with large, automatic weapons. Uncle Mark was kneeling with his hands clasped behind his head, and even from where I sat spying, I could see he was breathing hard.
“Who else is in the house?” A voice asked. It was not a voice I knew.
“No one,” Michael replied levelly. His hands were slightly raised, fingers apart and showing his surrender. The guard struck him in the stomach with the butt of the gun and he let out a heavy “oof” sound, involuntarily bending over. The gun struck him again, across the face this time, and he lay still on the wooden floor for a moment. My eyes filled with moisture at the scene. I’d never seen Michael like that. He was creative and brooding and warm and comforting, but never beaten. Never defeated.
Alex moved a microscopic amount at seeing the love of his life unconscious on the floor before remembering himself and who was watching. The guard in the front of the pack, whom I’d discerned to be the leader, looked to the man standing slightly behind him and gave a small nod, and an unspoken order was given. The man raised his gun and fired, sending a bullet through my uncle’s head. He hadn't done anything to provoke them, if anything, he was the only one following procedure. The shot was terrifyingly loud, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure what had happened. My ears rang from the brutal sound as Uncle Mark fell to the ground, his body landing with a heavy thud and a thick pool of blood surrounding his skull. He’d never been that still, I remember thinking. Uncle Mark was always moving, always energetic, always on to the next exciting thing. It was surreal to see him lying there, unmoving with his arms splayed to his sides. Before I could stop myself, my birthday dinner and dessert pushed themselves out of my stomach and up my esophagus, splattering on the floor in front of me and down my pajamas. No one seemed to notice me yet, still, miraculously. The guards were focused on my family, pointing deadly weapons in their faces, waving their power around.
“Who else?” The guard asked again. He was oddly calm when he spoke, even a little nonchalant sounding.
“It’s just us,” Alex said, pleadingly, panting a bit. His hands were in front of his shoulders, palms out. “It’s just us three.” His voice was wavering and wet, like he was trying not to cry.
Michael sputtered from the floor and rose up slowly, wiping the blood from his mouth. He looked at his brother lying dead on the floor and choked back a sob at the sight. He was doing his best to appease the guards, but he swayed just a bit. This wasn’t the first time our house had been raided, but it had never been this violent; no blood had ever been spilled.
I didn’t want to see any more, I couldn’t watch any more of this awful treatment of people I loved. I turned, heading for the hall closet, when a guard spoke.
“Stop,” He bellowed. It was a different guard from the one who was questioning my parents, but he had an authoritative quality that made me pause. My hair stood up on my arms and at the back of my neck and my stomach dropped in terror. Was I next? Were they going to kill me, too? Or worse? “You, girl. Stop right there.”
“Please,” Alex said, whimpering. “Please, she’s just a lit-” The guard in front pointed the gun at him, stopping him mid-sentence. One of the silent guards broke away from the group and ascended the stairs, dark boots thumping with each step. My heart sped up as I watched him, and I clutched Polly as close to my chest as I could. His gun clicked as he pointed it at me, a red dot appearing on my chest.
“Boss?” He asked over his shoulder.
“Bring her.” The guard waved his gun at me, an instruction to move down the stairs… There was nothing I could do but follow the order. The guard’s footsteps sounded vile, wrong, out of place in our bright and happy home. They were too heavy, too domineering, too oppressive and they stomped out all of the oxygen in the room.
My slipper touched the last stair and I looked up at the imposing man standing in front of my parents. He looked down at me and made a tsk sound with his teeth. It hissed through his mouthpiece and I feared I may get sick again. “You should know better than to look me in the eye, girl.” He told me. I couldn’t see his eyes - his black helmet covered them, along with the rest of his face. The silver mouthpiece was the only indication of a person behind the terrifying cover. “This is what happens when you don’t follow rules,” he shrugged.  “Just look at your parents.” He spat the last word like it tasted bad before unceremoniously firing two shots into Michael’s chest.
“Dad!” I cried as he fell. He made a gurgling sound and a viscous red oozed from his parted mouth. He was in his coziest cream sweater. He’d had it for ages and even let me sleep with it when I was scared. I knelt beside my father, dropping Polly to the floor, begging him to speak, to show me somehow that he was okay, but his unblinking eyes glazed over and his chest stopped expanding and contracting after he choked on the blood suffocating him. My knees felt a warmth seep into them and when I looked down, I saw the pool of blood that was soaking into my pajama pants. The guard grasped my arm and hauled me to my feet, dragging me up.
“Stop your sniveling,” he commanded. He kicked my doll away and placed a gloved hand on the back of my neck.
“This is what happens to those who don't follow the rules,” the guard in front of me said again, condescendingly. He aimed his weapon at Alex next, pausing for a moment and looking him up and down.
“No!” I tried to scream. I tried to claw and fight and run my way to my father, but the guard holding me was far too strong and cemented me in place. I was forced to watch the murder of my last surviving parent.
“This is what happens to unnaturals.” His gun rang loudly through the small house, a finite sound, and one I would not soon forget. Alex fell backward with the force of the shot, laying gasping at my feet. His hand clutched at his gut where he’d been shot and his kind blue eyes were hazy and unfocused. He was close enough to Michael that he could have reached out and grasped his husband’s hand one last time, but for fear of the guards or fear of what they’d do to me, he didn’t.
“It's okay,” he whispered to me. “You'll be okay.”  I wasn’t sure if he was comforting himself or me. I had no idea what would happen to me, how the guards would treat me, what they’d do. In truth, neither did Alex. I felt the warmth of his life seeping from him as my slipper toe soaked up the blood in front of me. Alex looked at me until the light dimmed from his eyes, and in that moment, everyone I loved in the world was taken from me. I was truly alone.