Yours, Irene

For what may be my first and last entry, I shall begin with this:

Dear Diary,

My name is Irene. I live in a time of unrest.

I lay in the back of this truck, frightened. I'd like to say I saw it coming, or noticed the change—but I did not. One day I find myself here, scribbling down words into a pocketbook in the rare chance of someone discovering it. Are you there reader? Who are you? Do you have a name?

I am on route—well, soon to be on route—to Santa Fe, a so-called 'safe city'. The truth is, I don't even know if Santa Fe will be safe, or if I'm even going to New Mexico. For all I know this operation could be a scam, an elaborate trick to get me into a camp. The sad thing though, is this is the best chance I have.

In this world, if you're wondering, the very few have managed to decide the fate of the rest. It's all a cacophony of elaborate power systems that did it—it was never just one person, like it is in novels.

Greed had gotten the better of them. Ignorance had gotten the better of us.

The oceans rose, the trees caught fire, and the government did not help. We told them to stop polluting, and the corporations did not listen. We asked to be treated like humans, and the neighbors looked away.

I remember the first time it happened close to home.

There was a woman who ran a local health clinic and shelter. The shelter was attacked with rocks through the windows, forcing it to close. A few days later I noticed the first grey van pulled up to a house on my street. I remember its license plate was taken off, in its place was a painted American flag. Then I hear screaming. She was taken by force. They had guns.

She had been hiding in her friend's home for 3 days, but the men still hunted her.

It started seeping into all parts of life. What was at first a monthly horror story became a weekly occurrence, and soon I could not ride my bike around town without being afraid. We had made our own curfew, locking doors and shutting windows at nightfall. I would read my books with a nightlight under the covers, like the way I am writing to you now. I felt like a child but without the innocence.

We reported people missing, but then it seemed like the reports went missing too.

Then we heard rumors of a camp in the California desert. I'm sure by now they are all over. But at the time I was in denial. Not here, not now, it can't be. Don't you think, reader, we would be better than this?

Everything happened too fast. I was only a teenager, too powerless, and then I was an adult, too overwhelmed, and then... well, it was already underway. I could not stop it, just as I cannot stop time.

I've given up my life, my world. I have nothing left but my name and my locket: that little heart I keep close to mine. And who knows if my name is really mine anymore.

I write in sadness for the world, in despair of the lost souls. It makes me feel hollow, that feeling—knowing that this could have been prevented. I hope history books one day tell the stories of those who were on the right side of history. I hope it shares stories of how we, collectively, decided to make the world a better place.

I can feel the engine start of my new home for the next 12 hours. It is time to go. Let's hope this is a beginning, rather than an end.

Until we meet again, stranger.