Sacred

“The Most Sacred Bond”

She gave birth to her first on a wooden floor. There were people all around, so she knew something was wrong. She was terrified, and the pain was excruciating. The doctor put his hand firmly on her shoulder, but that was it in terms of support. That’s not what everyone else was there for.

Samuel Joseph Hendrick came into the world fully formed, but clumsy, like a lot of children. When he looked around, he didn’t understand what he was seeing; he didn’t know where he was. All he felt was one magical, religious bond toward the being next to him, who he somehow already knew, despite only having been alive for seconds. All he knew was that – safety. The sense of complete safety she gave him. His every instinct was telling him to get closer to her.

But Samuel was special, and that was why all the people were gathered around them. Before he could move, rough hands brought him up, rubbed him off, and branded the number “999” in his ear. He screamed, never having known pain until then. Everyone applauded. He was terrified, obviously, but confused, because all of his instincts told me his mother should keep him safe. He had been Samuel Joseph Hendrick for mere seconds of life, but now he was just 999.

His mother, in fact, would soon be put into a truck and lead away, not by choice. She would scream for him and cry and eventually fall on the ground and refuse to move. It took 4 men to drag her into that truck. 999 was just a baby so they carried him into his truck. They drove him. It was cold and dark and he was disoriented with fear and loss. He hated the feeling of the truck rising and falling beneath him. At last they stopped and brought him out, into the sunlight for a few seconds, then into a strange room filled with sobbing, screaming, and wailing. He couldn’t make out anything distinct, language-wise (it still being very new to him, being born but an hour ago). He felt a rough hand attach a clasp around his foot, then drop him in a crate. Then he heard them leave. But the fear he had felt had turned to horror, and he was unable to move, only laying in the bottom of his cell, shivering.

* * * * *

It took him a few weeks to acquire language and become consciously aware of what was going on. The Prison was filled with boys – young boys, like himself. But after they’d been in here too long, they were taken away and never seen again. The rumor was they were killed. The men who took them, they weren’t good men.

999 talked most to a boy named 941 in the cell across from him. His first words had been, “Why do they hate us?” If he’d been able to stay with his mother just a little longer – a few hours, a day – maybe she would have been able to tell him about religion. Maybe it would have comforted him. It was hard to find comfort in less than 2 feet of living space, consuming nothing but water that tasted like it was mixed with the dirt off their cell floors. 941 told him they were going to find a way out. He spent hours a day trying to wear the clasp down, but it never really looked like he was doing anything. Still, it was something to have hope for, and so many of their brothers were losing hope and giving up. Someone died almost every day. They just gave up.

They made routines, knowing when the men would come back in, everyone for different reasons. Some wanted to play it safe, to play dead. Some wanted to lash out– scream, flail, one of them (568) had even managed to bite one of the men. Of course, he’d died after that. They kicked him with their boots over and over, even though he pleaded for them to stop, until his body fell apart against the cell wall, and he no longer existed. 999 grew used to death.

The weeks wore on. Younger boys came all the time, all as disoriented as he’d been when he first got here. He helped to calm them if they started screaming. He did what he could, but it wasn’t much. 941 still bore away at his clasp, uselessly. It was hard to keep having hope. He didn’t think they really ever would get out, or find out why they were here in the first place. But maybe when they got taken away, it wasn’t going to be so bad?

Soon, the men were closing in on 999’s crate. It took a few days, but the crates around his begin to clear. 941 went first. When they first unclasped him he tried to bolt, but they help him back easily. Slowly realizing what was happening (and what didn’t happen), 941 felt terror and started to cry. 999 couldn’t watch, and pressed himself into the corner of his cage, eyes welling. What could he do?

That night, despite his mother never having spoken to him about religion, 999 had the closest thing he would ever have to a religious experience. His head pressed into the ground, blocking out the terrible sound of the misery of his surroundings, he whispered, into himself, but projected upward: “I don’t know who you are, but I know there must be somebody, somebody who is going to make this right. Why is this happening to us? Why do we deserve this? Most of us came here before we were even capable of free thought – why are we being punished? We don’t deserve this, and you know that too, I know it! So, please help us. Please make this stop. It’s not right.”

The next day, things went right as planned. They opened 999’s crate, unclasped his leg, and forced him down. They prodded him roughly out into daylight, for another few seconds, and into the back of another truck, to the final place of his life, and his last sight of daylight, where he would be painfully killed.