HAREM

Harem

“The metric of success is lives saved, kids who aren’t crippled.”

-Bill Gates “2011”

The year was 2035, a faint cry from the distant past of 20-30 years ago. The sky was still blue, the grass was still green, the stars still shined in the deep dark web of space. Life was normal on the surface; but at the depths of the unseen, an operation was taking place that only showed it self when it knocked at your door.

“Nathalie don’t forget to facetime your dad for your birthday!” my mom uttered from downstairs. ‘Shouldn’t he be the one facetiming me’ I muttered underneath my breath while letting out a sigh. I was on the cusp of turning 13 and all my mom could remind me to do was to call my estranged father who I barely even knew.

I always longed for a solid relationship with BOTH of my parents. Every year was just a reminder of why their failed marriage was in shambles and how I was being used as collateral in the court system to support my mothers never ending affairs.

I hated school. I barely had any friends.

Like clockwork every morning at 8 Am, I would board the Tes-Bus to take me to St. Francis Preparatory. It was like a cesspool of pre-pubescent barely devout catholic girls who as their parents would tell them, were seeking a “stronger connection with god by faith in applied academics.” That was like the slogan.

“O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee, and for those who do not have recourse to thee, especially the enemies of the Church and those recommended to thee. Amen.”

We all prayed this exact prayer every morning verbatim upon making it to Mother Mary’s literature class. “Naty do you still have that spare bible girl?!” my best friend, if not my ONLY friend whispered in my ear. ‘I think so’ I said. Maybelle was the only girl in an academy of 300 plus girls that I trusted. The ONLY girl. St. Francis Prep was a K-8 female only derived Catholic School that took pride in its small class sizes and it packed a tuition to match its “robust curriculum and advanced catholic studies.”

Maybelle was this curvaceous, fast talking, charismatic Puerto Rican girl that I aspired to be. I was Puerto Rican too but never felt like it, as I felt like I lacked the hips, the breast, and whimsical nature that came so natural to her during puberty. I blame my mother for that.

I rustled in my knapsack and found it. There it was. Shriveled, wrinkled, and stained from a few ashes that found its way in the pages when me and Maybelle attempted to roll our first blunt; from dear I say it-the bible.

Me and Maybelle didn’t feel any remorse over it either. It felt natural to be honest. We planned to confess at confessions together over our sin. It felt kind of normal being catholic just to sin and then confess and act like nothing ever happened.

I candidly reached back and passed her the bible. “That’s my girl!” She whispered under her breath as she opened the pages and we began to recite a few scriptures.

*THRUM, THRUM, THRUM*

The bell rang.

And just like that Mother Mary’s literature class was over. I and Maybelle filed out the room and headed to our favorite staircase which overlooked the grounds on the east end of the building. We would always try to cheat ourselves some extra minutes of girl talk before the next class and file in late together with an excuse ready to go.

‘¿Qué es la chica equivocada?’ I asked. Maybelle did not seem to have the usual enthusiasm she would normally have during our breaks in between classes.

“Melissa is still missing” she whimpered. Melissa was Maybelle’s younger cousin that mysteriously went missing a few days ago along with around 30-40 girls in the Tri-State area in New York.

It was crazy. For the past few years, it was becoming common to see girls disappear in groups as large as 40-50. Poof they would just vanish. Everyone’s smart glasses and holograms would alert them of another missing victim; and weirdly they were ALL girls. Melissa Velasquez was one of the newest victims.

“How was school?!” my mom asked as soon as I walked through the door.

‘Cynthia why do you always ask me the same thing?!’ I replied. Me and my mom started having frequent arguments ever since she divorced my father Mason a few months ago.

My mother was a paranoid conspiracy theorist. Or at least that's what some people viewed her as. Rumor has it she was still being monitored by the government since her alleged involvement in one of these secret societies called the “Hermanas.”

She never consented any of her information. I thought it was borderline crazy! Every form requiring or asking for data she would enter in another alias completely different from hers. For the longest I could remember it was like that.

“Don’t forget to call papi, remember?” ‘Ofcourse mami’ I replied. I headed upstairs to my father’s office which I had just moved some of my personal belongings in. It still exuded the smell of his vanilla eucalyptus cologne that he so dearly treasured. I missed my father every day since the divorce. It was going on six months since my father left and winter recess had just ended.

My father Mason was a UN diplomat for Belgium. He used to always tell me how he and my mom meet. They were pen pals. They would write to each other when he would go on assignments for his native government.

My mother was his “Coquito” he would call her. He met her when he voyaged across the Atlantic to South America when he was 23 and thinking of enlisting in the Belgian Navy. While on a layover in the city of Ponce, on the island of Puerto Rico, he came across my mother who at the time was 16.

My mother Cynthia was walking in the port passing out political propaganda when she ran into her Belgian sailor. The flyers she was handing out were related to Carmen Lopez, a female politician that was advocating for Puerto Rico remaining its own jurisdiction. Carmen Lopez believed in restricting the US Government from future occupation; which some believed alienated its people from Puerto Rican culture and heritage. Some considered her anti-capitalist and viewed her as a communist.

My father loved my mother’s deep reverence and charming alluring beauty. She was slender and petite. My mothers skin resembled the complexion of honey. She had this exuberant black curly hair that reached down to her waist. A small beauty mark rested above the right side of her upper lip.

Cynthia was extremely outspoken. "Since the age of eight she spoke three languages fluently" my dad would joke, "Spanish, English, and Sarcasm." From the day my father Mason met my mother Cynthia they fell in love.

My mother Cynthia loved my fathers chiseled jawline and brown free flowing hair that at the time he had contained in a neatly positioned “Man-bun.” My father Mason was this tall, athletic man that had as much charm as he had wit. He was captivating and ambitious.

My parents would get married 2 years later in Juana Diaz, a small coastal city a few miles east of Ponce in Puerto Rico. My father also spoke about five languages fluently, "Dutch, French, German, English," and he also would often joke-"love."

Within a few months they would move to New York and conceive me. I grew up in the affluent neighborhood of Jamaica Estates, located in the diverse borough of Queens. There I would be raised by both my mother and father and often have meals featuring all types of dishes and cuisines.

When I was seven my parents gifted me with this heart shaped locket that opened up over a translucent green background. It contained a phrase in Latin that stated, “Novus Ordo Seclorum.” This explained my family given nickname of “Bill;” which I resented! I hated that the locket had the same phrase that the US Dollar had coined for so many years.

I never quite knew the importance behind the locket, however my parents told me to never take it off. I use to be paranoid every time I took a shower because I thought it would snap and fall down the drain.

There were so many rumors flying around why my father and mother divorced. He used to say in Dutch “Je weet je plaats niet!” all the time to my mother when arguing, which roughly translated to “you don’t know your place!” My parents always seemed to have a difference in beliefs when arguing, however the one thing they shared was my safety and wellbeing.

My father right up until the divorce would have me chauffeured to and from school with a personal driver, until I pleaded with my mother to allow me to take the Tes-bus provided through the Preparatory so that I could ride with my only friend Maybelle.

A few months passed and before you knew it we were a few days from graduating Preparatory. I was looking forward to finally seeing my parents together for my graduation. Although I barely saw my father due to his work schedule growing up, seeing my mom and dad together made me feel like a normal child growing up.

It was a Thursday night. I remember it clear as day. It was a rather brisk night for the summer, around 60 degrees with a slight drizzle of cool rain.

My mother’s cellphone rang.

It was Maybelle’s mother, Lourdes.

Cynthia answered.

Her warm cinnamon face almost became translucent.

She hung up.

‘Who was that mom, you’re freaking me out.’

“When was the last time you spoke to Maybelle?”

‘I don’t know I was just texting her like a few hours ago.’

"Maybelle hasn't come home" my mom said.

'That's impossible I saw her exit the bus in front of her house!'

There was an eerie silence between us two as we sat across from each other on the sectional couch in the living room.

My mother’s cell phone rang again.

It was my dad. Cynthia picked up. My parents had a conversation that lasted 15 seconds.

She hung up.

My mother muttered in Spanish “está sucediendo.”

I said to her ‘what are you talking about?’

There was another eerie silence between us for about 30 seconds.

Then there was a knock on the front door.

My mother shot up and grabbed me and told me "Silencio" with her finger across her mouth.

She looked through the video screen on the doorbell and there was two men dressed in black with their faces hard to make out.

My mother reached for our family revolver which my father always kept in a cupboard next to the front door. My mother cocked back the revolver slowly while keeping a firm grip on me as I stood behind her gripping her night gown.

She turned the French locks on the door and opened.

The two men displayed badges and stated they were good friends of my father.

My mother slowly looked at me and then back at the two ominous male figures dressed in black before us. She nervously uttered the word “Harem?"

The two male figures uttered the same haunting phrase back to her-

“Harem.”

My mother had two streams of tears slowly run down her face before kissing my forehead and caressing my shoulder telling me “Naty, I will see you soon.”

I said ‘Mami what do you mean?’ I nervously cried while clinging on to her.

In a swift motion the two ominous male figures placed a bag over my head, covered my mouth and carried me away toward a black government armor cladded vehicle.

This was Harem.

It was happening.