Dystopyum (The D-ot Hexalogy Book 1) (5 page)

“Oh no, dear,” said Salom when Rebecca rolled a zero. “We should
let her roll again, since it’s her birthday party, too.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Just let her have another chance. That’s what it’s all
about, isn’t it?” Hais said, smiling in his sarcastic way. He was leaning
against the wall, now. He generally shied away from joining folks, unless
it was fellow drunks in the local pub.
Salom tried to ignore him, but knew he would try again.
“Never mind, I don’t want to roll again,” Rebecca said, dully.
“No,” said Martha quietly. “I like Salom’s idea. This is a very special
night. She looked up at Hais with great sadness. “They should have
whatever they want tonight.”
Hais was caught off guard by recognition of something in Martha’s
eyes —
what the…?
He quickly averted her gaze by looking down. He
started feeling woozy. Out of nowhere, he got angry. “You’re all weak!”
he yelled. He stood away from the wall, defiant, trying to think of
something else to say.
Salom saw what was coming, and got up to take him home.
I can
come back for Rebecca later,
she thought. “Hais, dear, let’s go home and
rel —”
“I’m not finished! You all need to hear this!” Hais continued, “We all
hate love, but I hate it more than any of you! Salom, you are too soft on
this girl, and, well, just look at you!”
They looked at each other, wondering what he meant.
“Come on, Hais,” Salom pleaded, this time tugging lightly on his arm.
“You’re all weak! Love has done this, don’t you see? They shouldn’t
allow it at all, even if some babies die! Then we wouldn’t have to go
through with this school!” Hais argued, callously pulling his arm back
away from Salom. “You all need to be stripped of your love. It has to be
beaten out of you!” His voice was shouting now.
Salom tried once again to get him to go by pulling on his sleeve, and
he swung around and punched her, hard, in the left eye.
Oh brother, here it goes.
“Well, I’m ready for school, and I’m ready
for you!” Martha roared from behind Hais, as she had positioned herself
and was prepared for this. With that, she grabbed the last ten inches of his
tail with all her might, and bent it hard backwards on itself so the fifth
bone was just about to dislocate from the sixth. Hais tried to escape as
expected, and she was ready. She bent and twisted it even more and it
cracked.
Hais dropped to the floor, “OK, OK, let go.”
“No fucking way!” Martha shouted, and she barked, “Get up!” as she
bent his tail even more. He cried out, and submitted.
Griswolt had just come in to see what the commotion was about, and
seeing that Martha had things well in hand, simply stepped out of the
way.
Hais tried to say something to Griswolt. “Griswolt, tell this —
Arggggg, OK, OK, I’m going.”
Martha forced Hais all the way upstairs, and gave him one more hard
shove, directly from his fifth tail bone, which elicited one more big
“crunch”, and sent him flying out the door, falling in the gravel in his
ignoble departure.
Hais was groaning on the ground, pain radiating in electrical pulses
up his back from the injured tailbone. He slowly got up. Then his face
changed. His attitude changed. He wasn’t done yet. He turned around to
head back to into the front door and was surprised by Griswolt standing
there with his arms crossed, feet relatively wide apart.
“Just try it,” Griswolt growled. He had enough of this stick and
watching Martha at work put him in the mood to do this gendra-ass some
violence.
I need to unload some stress too, you know,
he was thinking to
himself. Griswolt was a big Aletian. At nine foot five inches, he was
fifteen inches taller than Hais, and at five hundred and sixty pounds, he
was seventy pounds heavier.
Hais looked up at him and with a wave of his hands shot back, “To
hell with you all!” He turned around and started for his house, bellowing
all the way, “I wish they could stay away longer! I hope they never come
back! I’m tired of paying for those ungrateful keesh!” And so, his last
night together with his wife and daughter ended.
Griswolt just shook his head, and went back inside. Martha had already invited Salom and Rebecca to spend the night.
At least I can give
them one quiet night before
— her thought trailed off into that blind spot
of the invisible mind where such things must be placed — if they are to
remain unseen.

artha was in a fog.
Perhaps I’m in shock.
She was standing
with the other mothers, looking around with her eyes, not
turning her head. They were all there at the Temple of the
NOV’s love-deprogramming school, which was one of twelve

such schools place around the country. They were standing outside of the
top floor of the building, which in typical fashion was the only floor
aboveground. The cold black paint on the building’s exterior did nothing
to help allay her fear. As the wind swept to-and-fro, she could catch the
scent coming from the building. It was difficult to identify. If anything,
the smell reminded her of an old hospital for mentally deficient children
and adults she had once visited as a child. The sunny day did not have its
usual effect. It gave a surreal aura to the moment — a misplaced
disparity. It did not belong here, not today.

How can I willingly submit to what they are going to do to him? To
me?
In spite of herself, Martha was hypocritically looking at Jan. Her son
stood motionless and quiet with the other five year olds.

Jan turned his head to look back for her.
I told him not to look back,
she thought to herself in frustration. She
looked away. She had told Jan to be tough, to act tough.
Show no
weakness or it will be that much worse.
Martha’s thoughts flitted to the
others.
What about Salom and Rebecca?
They had been split off into
different groups upon arrival.

Martha knew the drill, sort of. Those in charge were looking for emotional people. They were not looking for emotions like rage. They were
vigilant for signs of softness, gentleness, tears — anything betraying love
or hope. Lingering looks between mother and child made them easy
targets.

When Martha was a child, all love was illegal, before, during, or
after childbirth. Because of that, love-deprogramming school had not yet
been invented. Love-destruction prison was non-existent as well. Anyone
found guilty of the heresy of love was simply executed via DeathBT. The
primary concern of the Love’s Epiphany Requirement Network was to
remain hidden, and had not deviated in time.

The NOV suspected, (but hid,) the fact that a large proportion of the
surviving babies had mothers who were LERN members. The simple
mathematical construct of this was that LERN members would eventually
outnumber the non-LERN members. This was unacceptable. The NOV
then developed the plan of allowing love to be used in the child’s first five
years of life, culminating with love-deprogramming school.

The guards were cold, showing no emotion. They appeared to be
NOV nobility by their calm detachment. Martha tried to look them in the
eyes, but ended up just staring at her boots. The chief guard exited the
building, walked up, and addressed the twelve mothers in this particular
group.

“You know why you are here,” she said. “Up until this moment you
have been citizens of the NOV. You have been protected by the laws of
the NOV. That ends for the next four weeks. You are now our property, to
bend as we wish. Be prepared. We make no apologies for what we must
do to destroy the virus you have in you. We start, now!”

The plentiful group of guards held guns on the mothers, waiting for a
reason to shoot. They were only to hit the legs at this stage. The mothers
stood there as the guards went from one mother to the next. Martha
watched in revulsion as the first mother was held and beaten on the head
by the main guard with a flexible metal device called a “bauger”, until the
screaming mother was unconscious. The mothers were petrified, watching
as each one’s turn came up. Then the guards then went into faster action.

Two of them grabbed Martha from behind, and a third one came up in
her face.
She had already given up. She did not struggle, but she kept a toxic
eye on him.
What’s the use, fucker?
The guard had no expression as he
raised his hand with his bauger. In the last millisecond, Martha caught a
gleam of rage in his otherwise dead eye just as the bauger came down at
an acute angle, striking hard on the side of her head with it. Martha
screamed, still propped up by the guards. The next blow was muffled, and
the next — not noticed at all.
Martha awoke with a pounding headache, finding herself in a ten by
ten foot cell
—
her home for the next four weeks. As she slowly regained
consciousness, she felt the coldness of the room.
What? Where am I?
She realized that she was strapped to a toilet,
naked. She woke up in this way — and she was cold in the damp musky
room.
“How heavy
is
this thing?” The pounding of Martha’s head increased
as she attempted to lift her hands to feel what was on her neck, but
discovered her arms were bound to her sides. She moved her aching head
around, feeling a large heavy object wrapped around her neck. She was
barely able to look down at the equally heavy cylindrical devices attached
around her wrists and ankles. Her face stared back at her, warped, in the
pretty, chromed metal.
“Well, here we are,” she said to herself with a resigning sigh. “I wonder when the first one will come.” Martha was still slowly regaining
consciousness, and pondered the blank white projector screen in front of
her. The area was dimly lit with a single small wattage light bulb. The ten
by ten foot room she was in was coated with porous ferrist, and looked
like it had never been painted or washed. Her space reeked of stale urine
and overwhelming body odor. Random screams from various directions
startled her.
Look at those stains on the walls
—
they look like old dried
blood.

She searched down more closely, trying to see the devices on her
wrists, and traced their wires to another larger unit mounted on the wall to
her right. “I guess — GGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAA!” Everything
stopped but the pain. Martha’s entire body convulsed and her neck arched
back, along with her arms and legs, straining as far as the restraints would
give. The twenty thousand volt shock lasted ten seconds. She found
herself limp, disoriented. “Oh my God, wh — GGGGGGGGGGG
GGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAArrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggg —” She
convulsed again with the tetanic contractions, her face contorting into a
grimace that had the ghastly look of a broad smile, with eyes that wanted
to pop out of their sockets. That session was twenty seconds long, and left
her gasping.
Just let me breath!
Her arm felt like it had been stabbed by
something. She looked down, and saw blood coming from the side of her
elbow.

“What have I gotten myself into?” Martha cried out. “How many of
these do they do in a day?” she desperately asked the malodorous air, still
catching her breath.

A dispassionate male voice came from a speaker in the room. “When
set on random, ten per day, up to seventy per week. Sometimes more,
depending.”

“Depending on what?” Martha asked aloud, still asking herself.
At
least the voice sounded reasonable.
“Depending on if I think you are passing or failing. I have a stake in
your successful completion of this school. I am accountable for my record
of failures. Failures greatly decrease both productivity,
and
my chances
for promotion. You
will
pass my class.” What he did not tell her was that
he was very experienced, and could “play” a “student” like a finely tuned
string instrument. This hot mama was going to pass, but it was going to be
his way, and for that, she had to fail — temporarily at least.
What about Jan?
Martha thought, and picturing him in the same state,
started sniffling. “GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGgrrrrrrrrrrraaa-aaa
aaaaaaaaahhhh!” Her upper lip sprouted blood, snot shooting out of her
nose.
“How dare you cry in my presence?” Her torturer revealed emotion,
but then he caught himself and toned it down, “You will learn about tears
here.” He hit her with another high surge.
“GGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggggg
gggggggggaaagaga,” Martha was starting to pass out from lack of air,
caused by the spasming. Her muscles were racked with pain. She was
barely holding her head up now, in total exhausted agony.
The four by four foot projector screen lit up in front of her, and
caught Martha’s attention. It displayed a picture of a mother tenderly
holding her baby. A recording started. It was a female voice. Like the
others there, she spoke in the monotone of the royals,
“Repeat after me,
‘This is death. This is death. This is death.’ Whenever you receive the
electricity, remember this is death. Love is the reason for your pain. Love
is the reason for your pain. Whenever you receive the electricity,
remember, love is the reason for your pain. What is the reason for your
pain? What is the reason for your pain? What is the cause of your pain?
What is the cause...?”
and so it continued. Countless words, countless
repetitions, countless pictures of loving images would continue night and
day, with no let up for the rest of her time here.
Three days squeezed by, shock by shock. Each day, Martha was freed
to wash herself. After those ten minutes were up, coarse, hardened
attendants would then throw her back on the toilet, and there she would
stay, bound and helpless.
Oh God, help me through this!
she prayed silently. It did not take long
to realize that her torturer watched and listened for any sign of emotion.
Any such detection always resulted in a more severe SE. Otherwise they
set the system on “Random Sublethal Electrocution, (RSE.) These were
more standardized levels and generally not as severe, rarely drawing
blood. Therefore, she said nothing but what the recording of the female
voice told her to repeat. She watched the screen or looked around the
room, listening to the same monotone voice repeating the same mantras
over and over again
. It is maddening, yes, but you can still do this,
she
kept telling herself silently.
“Love is death. Love is death. This is death. You will die here. Repeat
after me, ‘I will die here. I will die here. I will die here.’ Repeat after me,
‘I will die here, and another one will leave in my place. I will die here,
and another me will leave. I will die here, and another me will leave.
Love did this to me. Love did this to me. The superstition of love. Love did
this to me. The superstition of love. Love did this to me. The superstition
of love. The Temple protects me from the heresy of love. The Temple
protects me from the heresy of love. The Temple protects me from the
heresy of love. I am a recovering love addict. I am a recovering love
addict. I have a disease, and my cure is here. I have a disease, and my
cure is here. I have a disease, and my cure is here.’ Repeat!”
“
GGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasgggggggggghhhhh
hhhhhhhh!”
Day seven. Martha was now just an empty lump of flesh. Any slight
noise would send her heart rate skyrocketing for a few seconds, then slow
down into an uneasy silence. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. The drone of the
female on the recording had become just a blur and all her words and just
sounded like distant logic.
Of course, love is evil,
she thought.
Of course
it is. How can it not be? It is so clear — I was so foolish.
GGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRAAAGGGGGGGGAAAAAAA-ARRRRR
RGG!”
Martha’s abdominal muscles were dreadfully raw and painful, and her
whole body was throbbing with or without the shocks.
And so, this ritual went on, day by day, the second week coming and
going. The female voice kept on, maddeningly, “Love is pain. Love is
pain. Love is insane. Love is a lie. Hate love. Hate love. Hate love. Love
is death. Love is death. Love is death. Pain is truth. Pain is truth. Pain is
truth. Pain is real, love is not. Pain is real, love is not. Say it! Say it!
Repeat after me!”
Martha now looked catatonic. She was incoherently staring ahead, no
longer thinking about when the next SE would come — just there, period.
She was feeling as if who she was really
had
died, and another thing had
taken that place in this body of hers. She was dully repeating the words
because she would be electrocuted more severely if she did not.
This day, her torturer came in the room, and brought a folding chair
with him. He set it up in front of Martha. It was the first time she had laid
eyes on him. He was a little taller than Hais, and just as wide. He
proceeded to pull some photographs out from an envelope he had in his
hand. He was sitting rather close to Martha. She was not looking at him.
She was in her own world.
This was his chance. She was a fine looking female, and he was hoping to take this to another level. She had to fail the “midterm” now, in
order for that to happen. He picked out a photo of Jan in midelectrocution, a blue-arc escaping from his cheek, with blood coming
down from another wound on his forehead, grimacing with the “smile”.
He stuck it right in front of Martha’s face and said, “Look at your boy!”
Martha’s distant vision closed in on the object in front of her nose. A
look of recognition and a tilting backward of her open-mouthed face led
directly to a gasp — and then the screaming came. From that point on,
Martha kept on screaming as if she had gone mad, her screams eventually
descending into sobs. The sobs lost momentum as she finally settled into
quiet weeping.
Why aren’t they shocking me?
She asked herself. She
finally worked up the nerve to look at her torturer.
He had a very serious look on his face, and had been waiting for her
to see it. “You have failed. You are going to be sent from here to be
tortured in love-destruction prison for a period of one year. You have
failed. I have failed.” He gave a feign sigh, and got up from his chair.
While Martha had thought all emotion was gone, it was right back
again, with full force. Her insides fell and fell into a pit that she was
desperate to escape. She wrestled with her restraints to no avail.
I’m
losing Jan!
“No!” she raged, straining her neck and head forward against the
cervical restraints and was immediately backhanded, hard, by her torturer.
He then turned towards his chair to remove it from the room. She stopped
crying, and started pleading, “Why? How can I fail now? It’s only been
two weeks!”
The torturer had picked up his chair, and folded it. He turned, looked
at her and said, “You just cried a moment ago. Tears cannot be but a sign
of hope, for when hope is gone, tears cannot exist. After two weeks of
torture, you showed hope. You need the more intensive treatment of lovedestruction prison. You're done here. I’ve turned your RSE unit off —
you’ll need to rest for what’s coming.” Then he turned, and left the room.