Hidden

There were those days where I could hear them whispering.

Anytime my parents would catch even a glimpse of me eavesdropping, the conversation would either change or completely topple down. Never being able to make up a single word, I'd always assume the subject was serious. My parents were the usual boring, gloomy adults, and it tended to bum me out most days. Heck, with all these tight-fitted rules in our house, there was no way any middle-school child would ever experience any gram of joy. Dad would say "it's for my safety", which a stubborn child like me would eventually have their cautiousness wear away after the first ten reps of lessons. Mom, at some point, began noticing how plagued I've become from Dad's "wild rambles", so she'd make sure I was aware it was merely the government's regulation of everything that was taking a significant toll on Dad's mental state, resulting in a scar of frantic mania.

As much as I wanted to, I partially never blamed him. It was almost every month that our country announces a new law. The biggest one has got to be the banning of all religions, inclusive to the entire world.

"Completely nuts! I mean, c'mon!" I'd hear my dad shout every once in a while. He claimed it was total unfairness to one of the five free rights that used to be written in the United States Constitution.

I didn't grow up with the older amendments since the US government uplifted a health and safety crisis a decade ago; I wasn't even five years old yet. The schools have been teaching us these things, though. Anything that was too influential and built from manufactured ideology was deemed harmful to society. Citizens were stripped of their rights to go against it, making the bare existence of religions shattered from belonging. Not only that, but because of that legitimatized order, the government changed many laws. It leaves an erratic understanding of the system in which we currently live in.

During Dad's crazy, loud hours of tangents in car rides, I could only mindfully gaze in acknowledgment that layered itself in awe.

It was nevertheless strange how my dad passionately discussed the cruelty when he, himself, raised me in a strict household of rules in accordance with these laws.

Then I'd remember his grey, to-be-trusted eyes governing over mine during this same sentence, "Would you rather be the lab rat or the observer, Lana?" That sentence always birthed chills under my skin.

All my life, I heard people who disobeyed the laws would get taken away, I don't know where. Whether you'd see them after a week or maybe a month—no one knows the exact timeframe anymore.

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Without ever skipping a day, Mom would pucker me up to her goodnight spells while I'd lie in bed. I'd constantly ask her when she'd finally stop doing that for the fact that I'm only getting older. This time, she actually answered me.

"I'm sealing the certainty that you're here with me. This night, yesterday night, and all the nights."

Before turning off my lamp, she reached for one extra peck on the forehead.

I always hated feeling the metallic coldness of her rose gold heart-shaped necklace colliding onto my face. It was something she always wore. Never a day where I'd see her without it, but it was what made her recognizably my mom.

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Unsuspected changes began when I was almost late for my bus that one particular morning. Mom made breakfast later than usual. She seemed overwhelmed and kept shaking her head as her eyes were glued onto the television in the living room. The volume was loud enough for me to hear the rage in the people's screams all the way to the dining table. Protestors flocked around different cities, including ours. All of it was about civil rights and other substantial things I had no interest in nor knowledge on.

To avoid any unwarranted outbursts, I spoke no words and fled my way to the bus that shrieked in front of our driveway. From within the bus, I could hear each step I took bellowing throughout the openness. Morning rides were usually quiet, but there were fewer people this day which must've accounted for the notable difference.

Interrupting my nap, a flash of blue and red blinded right through my eyelids. Multiple houses in my neighborhood were bombarded with police and big black vans. I figured more people were being sent away; it wasn't a new occurrence or anything, although there were some neighbors I never saw return home.

I closed my eyes again, this time with my face sunken into my backpack.

Each day, after that one, was all the same. It only came naturally for me to begin teasing myself that the police would soon approach our home.

Like curse-bound prayers, my thoughts rode a boomerang headed right back at me on Friday of last month.

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The most considerable moment I recall was running, no, sprinting. No one caught me, but it felt like Death, himself, was chasing me away from my own home—doomed if I couldn't escape in time.

My parents always prepared us for a day like that one. I couldn't manage a peek from inside; I only saw my parents walking out the door in shackles. One of the security guards looked around, and I knew that was my cue to go—go as far as I can from sight.

I was carrying the bag Mom prepared. The gun inside made it a little heavy. I was able to tell that she also packed her necklace because she wasn't wearing it when she handed me the bag.

That was the first, and maybe last, time I saw her without her necklace.

My running halted to a stop, probably less than half a mile through. Out I was, in the middle of nowhere, in a large, rather ghastly forest—the amount of non-stop running made me feel the dreadful need to vomit. Every breath I took was like oxygen pulling out of my body.

I collapsed onto the damp, muddy grass. It was dirty, but there I felt safe.

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It's been a month since I've been living in an underground foster home that belongs to a tight-knit community. I can't exactly be so sure, but maybe they accept me as a family member now.

Although they're just regular people, they aren't like my parents. Everyone talks in a hushed, happy tone; it's therapeutic, though. As warm as it may feel being here, I find myself afraid—afraid of how different these people are.

Children are only allowed to attend schools from underground, which are primarily in churches. Most adults still have jobs above, but everyone has to be super discreet about their lives.

"Like a cult. That's the life they choose to live." Mom would pitifully say. Everyone at my school above had a word for them, the anti-society.

Acknowledging their existence alone was enough to stress me out. Now, here I am trapped in their nest, feeding like I'm one of their babies.

Two weeks ago, I was given a book with no title or cover, and every Sunday morning, this energetic middle-aged woman, who is my caretaker, would wake me up for their place of worship.

This morning, I was awake before she creaked the door into my bedroom.

"Miss Wendy?" My morning voice echoed across the room.

"Oh, sweetheart," She'd carry a motherly tone reckoned with hospitality. "you don't have to call me Miss. It's only Wendy or Ma'am."

"Right, well-" My voice was shaking. "I know today is the day of the Lord, as you guys call it, but aren't we all actually doing...a bad thing?"

Right now was the first time I'd ever seen benevolent Wendy unwind the smile on her face ever so quickly. Slowly releasing eye contact, she walked toward the door and quietly ordered, "C'mon, let's go."

I knew why she was silent; we both knew. It was a mere accident, last time, that some families were caught and taken away, but with brave reluctance comes a gunshot—the accident being the fact that I witnessed it all.

It was a wonder how long this underground community even lasted and how they were able to stay so hidden. It's also clear, I think, that they're trying to officially convert me as one of them.

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All these days, I've been shamelessly wearing my mom's heart-shaped necklace. With a body similar to hers, I stare at myself in the mirror with her necklace clung, finally seeing my mom again.

Only these recent nights have I been sleeping with it still wrapped around my neck. I'd hold the heart in the air and let it slide all across my cheeks, lips, nose, and eyes as a single reminiscence of earlier days. You truly miss the things you used to hate once they're gone.

Having both eyes shut, my restless and foggy brain randomly decided to reimagine the latest memory of today. I saw a colorful, cakey face; it was Wendy's older sister, Miranda.

"Is there something giving you the blues these days, darling?"

My feelings were complex and, therefore, hard to articulate. I felt wrong for accepting all of this religious stuff, for being a part of it. Not knowing where to start, I simply sighed.

"My dad would be livid if he ever found out where I am right now."

It took a minute for Miranda to find the right words, but I could tell she genuinely acknowledged my troubling emotions.

"How old are you again?"

"T-twelve." I stammered.

"Don't you worry about that then, darling. I'm sure even if your parents hear a word of you here, they would be glad that we rescued their baby. One thing for sure is you're safest in the home of the Lord."

My face wrinkled from that last statement. These people believed in something under practices unbeknownst to the rest of the world, and I couldn't live like that.

I dashed to find an exit which only led to a physical battle between me and some other women.

At the same time, we observed my necklace that was now rested flat on the ground. I remember the blood flushing out from my face as I had thought the heart was fractured. I examined the two equally split parts and, as I felt more foolish than I already made myself out to be, realized that it wasn't just an ordinary necklace; it was a locket. One side was a picture of a baby and my mom, younger, with a gleeful smile. The other side had words...words that I recognized from bible study.

That Friday afternoon, where I left my fated parents, crossed my mind at that moment.

I remember Miranda's face—the most empathetic expression one was ever capable of—directly facing mine. I could've sworn I saw my mom's eyes in her. She grabbed the locket that was in my hands and, after taking a look at it, treated me with the longest embrace I think I ever experienced in my life.

A single question remains in my head nowadays. How were we, as a society, ever convinced that believing in whatever your religion tells you is more dangerous than looking up to a manipulative government?

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My eyes were closed for some lengthy amount of minutes, but I haven't fallen asleep yet. I don't think I will. I just heard some noises coming from above, and now the emergency signal just went off. I don't know the drill.