Martyrs

www.thirdpersonwar.com

White and red. White and orange. Orange and pink. Chelsea’s favorite color was pink. She arranged the flowers in so many ways. It hadn’t became boring for her yet.

Paula had begun training her last week, after she finally turned in the necessary paperwork to the government. She was lucky the government had enough girls to fill the positions of secretaries and maids. They could have easily made her transfer.

At the moment, Chelsea was filling pots of clay with soil by the store windows. Paula had left to run errands. It would take her a long time, as she didn’t have a car. Only people of interest owned their own cars and licenses. She took the bus.

Chelsea didn’t mind getting dirt under her fingernails. She was looking forward to the final product. They were going to put all the flowers they could in front of the store windows to attract customers. But people just didn’t buy flowers anymore.

No one ever got married. No man ever bought a woman flowers. No woman ever bought a man flowers. No one ever bought flowers for the dead. Flowers had become an antiquity. The only reason the shop was still open was because they used the church’s contribution to pay for the rent.

Suddenly, a small bell chimed. Paula had attached one to the main door.

Chelsea looked up. A tall business woman was standing in the front of the store.

“Hello! Can I help you?” Chelsea asked, standing up and wiping her hands on her apron.

The woman looked at her thoughtfully. She wore a business suit, skirt, glasses, and her hair in a bun. Chelsea noticed her to be beautiful.

“Yes.”

Chelsea paused. “Are you looking for something specific?”

The woman laughed to herself. “I’m sorry. I’m not here for flowers. I’m actually looking for someone and was hoping you could help me.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Well, he’s a young man. I have a picture here. Have you seen him at all?” The woman pulled out a picture from her handbag.

Chelsea took the picture. It wasn’t a very clear photograph. The boy was looking over his shoulder, so she could only make out a little more than half his face. But it seemed as if he were looking straight into the picture.

“His name is Timmy.”

The look in his eyes reminded her of the martyrs she had read about in church. She handed back the picture. She had never seen him before.

“I’ve never seen him before.”

The woman took the picture back. She seemed confused"maybe upset. Chelsea couldn’t tell.

“Are you sure? I really do need to find him. You see, he’s involved with the Bloody Rebellion and he desperately needs my help.” The woman said.

Chelsea stiffened. Even being associated with that group meant death according to the government. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve never seen him.”

The woman looked at Chelsea for a long moment. “Well, thank you for your time.” The door bell chimed as the woman left.

Chelsea felt the strangest vibe, but dismissed it. She focused on filling the pots with soil. A little while later, she began seeding the pots, watering them, and arranging more flowers. Then finally, Paula came back. Chelsea didn’t tell her about the strange visitor, though the couldn’t stop replaying the scene in her mind. Paula let Chelsea go home early.

As she walked down the street, she kept her head low. Businessmen were just getting off work. They would be looking for entertainment before going home.

But even with her head down, she knew someone was following her. They had finally come.

She didn’t let on. She kept walking. Foot after foot, she watched the ground in front of her. They followed closely, quietly. She knew they would take her soon. It was only a matter of time. She would become a martyr she always read about.

Fear grew within her. She thought of her family. She thought of Cassidy. And she knew once they tortured her, she would give away the location of the church. It would all be over.

But they hadn’t taken her yet. They still followed.

She turned the corner out of the shopping district and made it all the way to the abandoned street near her house. It came in the form of a black car, but the feeling was the same. Fear spoke to her. It rolled down its windows and smiled at her with combed hair.

“Excuse me, Miss.” It even used her favorite surname. “Can I have a word with you?”

She froze, looking at him. The United World logo burned in her memory and she saw the crying child who stole her eyes.

“Come on, Miss. What are you doing out here all alone? All we want to do is talk.”

Something spoke for her. It must have been the Holy Spirit she read about in church. “I’m just walking home. I work at the flower shop down the street.”

“We know that.”

She wanted to cry out. But instead, “Then what is it that you want?”

It looked at her up and down. It sighed and shook his head. “We’ve gotten recent reports of strange activity going on in this area. You haven’t seen any ice cream trucks around here, have you?”

“There’s one that comes through my street every now and then.”

“Can you describe it?”

“It’s just your standard ice cream truck.”

It let go the concealed smirk it held. She only noticed it wore it once it was gone. “Thank you for your time, Miss. Now please, get in the car.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t fight back. She didn’t run. Her legs simply did the rest. Was this also, the Holy Spirit?

She got into the car"it slid over so she could sit down. It whispered in her ear, “This won’t hurt a bit.” The prick in her neck, the swirling of her mind, and the fear in the form of everything around her gave way.

It all gave way to the Holy Spirit. Yes, she was convinced she would be a martyr now.

When she woke up, her eyes were soggy like they were when she fell asleep crying. She had done it more than once. When a boy broke her heart or when the girls in the neighborhood weren’t nice? Why did she cry during those times? It didn’t matter to her now. Those things were trivial and yet she knew she would cry for them all over again.

She couldn’t help those tears. Were they the Holy Spirit?

She was in a white room, sitting in a metal chair. If the men had violated her in any way, she couldn’t tell. She hoped to maintain her virginity if she would be dying a martyr’s death.

“Hello.” A man said. He was sitting in a chair opposite to her. A cup of water was resting on a table in between them.

“On behalf of the United World, I apologize for the way you have been treated. We only have a few questions and then you may leave.”

“Is my family safe?”

“For now.”

She stared into the cup of water. It seemed pure. The white room seemed pure. Everything about the United World seemed pure. The water rippled.

“If you answer all our questions, we will not get your family involved.”

“Okay.”

“Have you heard of the Bloody Rebellion?”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel about them?”

“I’m not sure. They are mostly criminals"people who fight the government because they can’t live the way they want to. All they know is how to fight. And they kill innocent people. I don’t believe in violence. I think they aren’t helping anyone.”

The man stared at her for a moment. “Do you know anyone in the Bloody Rebellion?”

“No.”

The man sighed. He stood up and walked around the table. “It is true what you say. They kill innocent people. More importantly, they are under the illusion that they don’t have freedom. When in reality, there is no such thing as freedom. Freedom is in the mind.”

The water rippled.

“They can do anything they want. They could start a flower shop, become actors and actresses, travel the world, or start a secret underground church. But instead they fight, thinking that they have no freedom. When in reality, fighting has become their freedom.

“They are a paradox. We all are. Make no mistake, whether you have freedom or not makes no difference. It is the feeling of freedom that they are after. And it is something they already have.”

The man walked behind her and brushed her hair. Chelsea felt his hand reach above her shoulder. He put a picture down on the table in front of her. She picked it up.

It was the boy. It was the eyes of the martyr that the business woman had shown her.

Timmy. What a childish name. It didn’t fit a martyr.

“We know you are involved with this man. Are you his lover?” The man brushed her hair. “Are you the leader of the Bloody Rebellion’s mistress?”

“No, I don’t know him.”

“Well he obviously know you.” The water rippled to the man’s laughter. “It seems you have a stalker.”

She stared at the picture. Her eyes wouldn’t look anywhere else. Was this the Holy Spirit? There were no coincidences in the Christian world. She had seen him twice today. Was it even today anymore?

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” The man sat back down in his chair. “You tell me what you know and I’ll tell you what I know. Sound fair?”

“I don’t know anything.”

The man sighed. He reached for the cup of water and then refrained halfway. “You’ll be sent to jail.”

She didn’t reply.

“Do you know what happens to people who are sent to jail?”

She did not. No one did, except for rumors that were spread around. What she did know, is that no one ever came back.

“Exactly.” The man said. He took the cup from the table and drank it. He placed it down"the glass chiming with the metal table.

“Maybe a few days there will loosen your tongue. Maybe it will grab the attention of your lover... Oh, excuse me"stalker.”

Chelsea watched the water drip down the edge of the glass. For the first time in her life, she saw it was half-empty. And as she felt the prick of the needle in her neck, the swirling of her mind, and the words from her fear, “This won’t hurt a bit,” she thought about how at least the church was safe.

At least she didn’t have to lie to another person about not going to church. She didn’t have to lie to another person about being Christian. But she would have. And she wondered, “Does that really make me a martyr at all?”

The question was unanswerable. There were no guidelines for martyrs recorded in the Christian bible. The word was used only once. It is recorded in the book of Acts.

She woke up in darkness. There were terrible sounds around her. Gnashing of teeth, children crying, woman moaning, and men screaming. She thought it must have been Hell. Though, why were there children there? She didn’t think that children could go to Hell. So it must not have been. No God of hers would send a child to Hell.

The ground beneath her shook. She heard the sound of engines. Bodies crowded around her. It was warm. Hell was a warm place too. She desperately wanted to call out. She wanted to know where she was, but fear had stolen her tongue. Or was it the Holy Spirit?

Another voice called out instead. It was a cry. No different from any other cry, but it was distinguishable to her. Why was she there? She wasn’t supposed to be.

“Cassidy?”

The cries continued.

“I’m here, Cassidy!” She reached out among the mass of flesh, looking for the cries of her sister. It was near. She could tell as she climbed over bodies. Some hands reached out to touch her"others quivered back. But when she reached the crying child, the small body backed away. She realized then, that it was not her sister. She did not feel relief knowing that. Was it selfishness, then?

“Hello?” She said. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Suddenly, a small body curled up next to hers. Her cries continued. Chelsea stroked the curls of her hair.

“Are you hurt?”

The girl didn’t reply. A tear rolled down Chelsea’s face. It was not her sister. Children were not supposed to be here. There weren’t supposed to be any children martyrs. It was not biblical, was it?

The crying stopped. A small hand reached up and wiped the tear from her cheek.

“It’s okay.” The small voice said. “They say that the pain won’t last long if we do what they say.”

Chelsea didn’t know how to reply. “What’s your name?”

“Ashley.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ashley. My name is Chelsea.”

The girl curled up closer to her. “So will we do what they tell us to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what they will tell us to do.”

The truck stopped. Chelsea awoke in a cold sweat. The cries and moans of everyone left. They disappeared with the sound of boots on crumbled bones. The doors to the truck opened and blinded her. Two silhouettes came into the truck and began shouting at everyone to get out of the truck. They began picking up lifeless bodies and pushing them out into the daylight.

Chelsea stood uneasily with Ashley and jumped out of the truck before the silhouettes got to them.

“Line up!” The guards shouted.

It didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust. Behind her was a field. A treeline was off into the distance. In front of her was a massive wall coiled in barbed wire and electrical warning signs. The girl next to her had brown curls like Cassidy. It made her want to cry but she didn’t. Was it the Holy Spirit?

They lined up.

The guards laughed, shouted, and teased the prisoners. A part of the wall opened up. A man walked out with a limp. He stood in front of the line of prisoners. His face seemed red from a sunburn that wouldn’t go away. Every movement he made seemed painful. Chelsea wanted to know what was wrong with him. But she knew that asking was impolite.

“Welcome to the Government Correctional Facility for Delinquents, Criminals, and anyone else who gets on the government's nerves. My name is Mr. Drake and I am the head of this prison. During your stay here, you will be expected to do whatever is commanded of you, whenever it is commanded. If you do not obey your orders, punishments include whipping, beating, torture, and death. As you can see, there is no escape from this facility. We have security cameras everywhere and a the forty foot electric wall.

“We also have robotic gorillas in the forest.”

The man turned around and limped back into the opening of the wall. Once he disappeared, another part of the wall opened. The guards started to push them through in a line.

“Run!” They shouted. “Run or be shot!”

They ran through the wall one-by-one into darkness. People began running into walls, tripping over each other, and being beaten by guards. Chelsea ran with Ashley by her side, making sure she was going the right way by following the footsteps in front of her. Screams echoed throughout the hallways.

Eventually they came to a lighted room. Nurses with dead faces, hiding behind white masks, were waiting. They made the prisoners strip. They gave them new clothes. They were white. They tagged numbers to their sleeves. They were orange. The guards lusted while the dead nurses smiled.

Chelsea’s number was 1112. Ashley’s number was 464.

They were made to hold out their hands. The nurses injected something into their arms. They were told it was medicine. Chelsea could feel it underneath her skin. “Don’t worry, little girl.” The nurse told Ashley.

Yes, they did what they were told.

There was another set of tunnels. There was more shouting, more beating, more lusting. Soon, there was another light. This time the guards didn’t follow them. They walked out into a brown field. There was nothing in the distance except for the walls that kept them in the large circle. There was no shelter, no trees, and no life of any kind. There was only brown grass.

The prisoners stood there, looking out into nothingness. They were looking for something"anything.

“Where are all the other numbers?” Ashley asked.

“I don’t know.”

Then Chelsea saw something. It flapped in the wind. She walked towards it with Ashley by her side. The rest of the prisoners followed behind them quietly. When they reached it, Ashley grabbed Chelsea’s hand. White and red. White and orange. Orange and pink. Chelsea’s favorite color was pink. It was a white shirt, torn and bloodied. An orange tag flapped in the wind.

Suddenly, Chelsea realized that her bare feet itched terribly. She reached down to scratch them. When her hand came back up, blood covered her fingertips. She bent down and looked at her feet. She noticed small incisions along her skin and wondered where they came from.

She looked at Ashley’s feet and saw the same. Then she looked at the brown grass. To a Christian, there were no coincidences. Chelsea walked over to the shirt, picked it up and wrapped it around Ashley’s feet.

She then dug underneath the soil with her hand and picked up a handful of grass. Suddenly, her hand began to burn and she immediately dropped it. Rubbing her hand, Chelsea winced. The grass had fallen upside down. Looking carefully at it, she saw tiny roots moving methodically back and forth. There was something white. It was a tooth.

“Don’t touch the grass, okay?”

“Okay.”

They walked back to where they had came from. The rest followed.

That night, they had to try and fall asleep upright. Chelsea had never had to before. Ashely simply fell asleep in her lap. But as she was about to close her eyes from shear exhaustion, something came into her mind. She couldn’t shake it. It was the boy martyr from the picture.

He was the reason she was here. It was his false sense of freedom that kept her in the cage she was in. But she didn’t hate him. She didn’t know why she was thinking about him.

Was it the Holy Spirit?