Hell-Shaped Hole

A heart shaped locket caresses the breasts of the fanatic. That’s what they call them these days. Inside the locket lies a dangerous symbol. A man attached to a wooden cross.

It gives hope to some, but draws ridicule from most.

I heard their was once a time where most people were like her. It’s hard to find records now though. The government has been censoring that kind of thing for decades.

They say some ideas are not good for us and we must be protected from them or else we will be in danger. Everyone seems to comply. Some happily, and some just to avoid being punished.

They don’t make art anymore. We’ll that’s not entirely true - they certainly make something. It just has to be approved by the authorities. It’s nothing like the stuff my uncle max used to show me. I find it hard to describe. It made me feel something.

They charged him with endangering the peace and I haven’t seen him in years.

They send people like him to special medical facilities where they fix what’s wrong with their brains.

They say they have to reprogram them.

That they’ve been corrupted by radical ideas and it’s a necessary step to protect us all.

I miss him.

Now it’s just me and mother.

She drinks medicine that makes her smell bad and sleep a lot.

I don’t mind though. I like being on my own. I like to write.

Max bought me this journal. He said i should just write about what’s going on. All the boring mundane stuff. I’m not sure why he wants me to write about that when I could write more fantastical stories but I’ll do it.

They just took the mickens boy.

The police said he was involved in anti-social groups.

I heard some people talking about it at school a while ago. They were saying he had a book that wasn’t allowed and he would have people over to his house to look at it. I guess someone reported him.

I’m not sure what it was about but I asked mother and she told me not to ask again. She said if I did, they might take her away too.

I’m scared.

Maybe I would even get in trouble if anyone seen this book. I’m not sure if I’m doing anything wrong.

Max said it was good to write about reality because it’s honest and that some people don’t like reality. They would rather paint a picture that portrays the world they way they want it, not the way it is.

Mother’s crying again.

She said that when I turn 15 I’ll be able to be on my own because I’ll be assigned a purpose.

I think she wants to go somewhere.

I heard her muttering something one night about how she’ll be with my father soon.

I’m not sure where he lives. We’re not allowed to talk about him.

I just know that he was a bad man and he wanted to hurt people so they took him away.

I can remember him singing to me sometimes.

Before bed, he would sit with me and sing -

“Home is here, in the heart of the holy, longing for, another holy war, to clean the sores”

Max told me not to tell anyone about that because they would get angry.

I wonder what he’s doing. Is he allowed to write?

(The inmates place their index fingers into a cutting device on the desk. They bleed and are instructed to write with their bleeding fingers - “I will do no harm, I will cause no disruption”)

Max whispers to himself as he writes - “remember the real enemy, remember the real enemy “

He looks gaunt and his once bright blonde hair and blue eyes have turned an anaemic grey.

They match his uniform.