Ana
People say miracles no longer happen. Nobody remembers the last one, but they say there was a time when they were common. I’ve always believed it was fiction. Silly stories passed down through the generations. I’ve never wished for one. Until today. A miracle may be the only thing that saves me.
My lawyer holds my hand, squeezing it tight as the word “Guilty” rolls off the judge’s tongue. Tears stream down my face. I glance back at my parents. They’re crying even harder than I am. There are no miracles in this courtroom today.
The four peace officers standing behind the judge drum their fingers against their shock batons as a warning to anyone who dares to interrupt as the judge leans forward to speak into his microphone.
“Anabelle Thompson,” the judge says, looking at me with a stern gaze. “You have been found guilty of shoplifting by this court. Do you have anything to say before I sentence you for your crime?”
My hands are shaking when my lawyer lets go. I try to speak, but all I can manage is a nod of my head. My lawyer directs me to the lectern. Thankfully, he prepared a statement for me to read in the event of a guilty verdict. He unfolds it and places it in front of me, tilting the microphone down so I can speak into it.
I gather my courage. The words on the paper aren’t mine, but my lawyer says they are the best chance I have of getting mercy from the judge. He holds the rest of my life in his hands. He can free me or condemn me, and the last thing I want to be is condemned.
I lean forward, swallowing hard as I read the statement through my tears.
“Thank you, your honor, for a fair trial,” I begin, wiping the tears from my eyes before continuing. “This court has determined I am guilty, and I accept that verdict. I now beg this court for mercy as my sentencing is carried out. I made a horrible mistake, and it is one I will regret for the rest of my life. If you show leniency, I promise I will be a law-abiding citizen of this great country as long as I live.”
I look up at the judge after reading my statement. He tilts his head slightly, nods, and leans forward. My heart skips a beat.
“Thank you for your statement,” he says. “I will take it into consideration. We will reconvene at three o’clock for your sentencing. Until then, this court is adjourned.”
The judge taps his gavel. My lawyer leads me back to my seat. I collapse into it, sobbing into my hands. My parents rush to my side.
“You’re a pale as a ghost,” my mom says, hugging me and squeezing my hand. “You should try to eat something.”
“I-I can’t,” I whisper, shaking with fear. “I couldn’t even keep water down this morning. I don’t want to throw up in front of the judge.”
I lean against my mom and look up at my dad. His eyes are red-rimmed, but he’s dried his tears. Somehow, it looks like he’s aged ten years in a single day.
“Do you think the statement will help?” my dad asks, looking at my attorney.
“There is no way to know,” my attorney replies. “Judge Smith is usually harsh with his sentencing, especially in recent years, but historically, he’s shown mercy for first-time non-violent offenders.”
No miracles. Only mercy.
“Why wouldn’t he believe the truth?” I whimper. “I didn’t shoplift anything. It was Beverly. She put those earrings in my purse.”
“I believe you, Ana,” my lawyer says. “The evidence just wasn’t in your favor, and that’s all the judge has to go by.”
“Let’s go walk around,” my father suggests, motioning to me. “Stretching your legs may help.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” I reply, shaking my head. “I just want this all of this to be over.”
My parents exchange looks of concern. We all know what is at stake, even if none of us wants to say it out loud. This could be the last time the three of us are together as a family. I may never see my parents again if the judge doesn’t show mercy.
My parents do their best to comfort me while we wait for the judge to return. My attorney brings water and crackers, just in case I change my mind about eating. I can’t. I’m inconsolable. My stomach is twisted into a knot. It has been like that since the handcuffs went on my wrists yesterday.
I spend most of my time crying and hugging my mother.
The judge finally returns. An eerie silence falls over the courtroom, except for an occasional sniffle from my mother after she returns to her seat. I’m almost cried out, and this is the moment of truth.
“This court is now in session,” the judge says, tapping his gavel. “Anabelle Thompson, you will stand for your sentencing.”
I’m still shaking. My knees wobble when I try to stand. My lawyer has to support me and hold my hand tight so that I don’t collapse back into my chair. Maybe mercy will be my miracle. They seem interchangeable at this point.
“Anabelle Thompson, I have taken your testimony, the evidence, your statement, and your clean record into consideration,” the judge says, clearing his throat before continuing. “But I also have to take the Crime Elimination Act of 2072 into consideration, and it lays out very stiff penalties for shoplifting.”
“No!” my mother screams. “Please! She’s a child!”
I wish that were true. She still treats me like one, even though I just turned nineteen. I’m old enough to be sentenced as an adult.
No miracles. No mercy.
“Order!” the judge snaps, now banging his gavel instead of tapping it. “Anabelle Thompson, you are hereby stripped of your rights, freedoms, and responsibilities as a citizen of this great country. Make your choice. The mines or the auction.”
There is an eruption of noise behind me. Voices. Screams. My father yells and threatens the judge. Chaos and pandemonium ensue as the peace officers rush past me to restore order. The gavel keeps banging.
“Make your choice!” the judge orders.
I glance back at my parents. Fresh tears spill down my cheeks. I’ve thought about this choice a million times since my lawyer explained it. In the mines, I will work twenty-hour days mining rare earth minerals. I will be beaten if I don’t meet my quota. I’m small. I’m not an athlete. I’m not even sure I can lift a pick axe, much less meet impossible quotas. Men twice my size struggle to avoid the whip in those mines.
“The auction,” I whisper, feeling part of my soul drain out of my body.
The chaos behind me is getting worse. I glance back and see shock batons being pulled out. The sizzle when the peace officers prepare them for action.
“Remove the prisoner!” the judge yells, slamming his gavel as hard as he can. “Order! Order!”
One of the peace officers storms over and grabs me by the arm. He squeezes tight enough for me to squeal as he pulls me away from the table.
“Hey!” my lawyer argues. “That is unnecessary!”
The peace officer ignores him. He keeps a grip on my arm that is so tight I whimper as I am dragged out of the courtroom. I look back just in time to see my dad being hit with a shock baton and his body crackles with electricity. I try to call out to him, but I’m shoved through a door and into a hallway. It is the same hallway I walked down earlier today before my trial began.
“Can I say goodbye to my family?” I ask, wincing as the peace officer squeezes my arm.
“You no longer have a family,” he replies coldly. “You are property.”
Property. That word twists my stomach into a tighter knot. My life is essentially over. I’m no longer a daughter. No longer a person. I won’t even be entitled to food unless my owner allows me to eat. But somehow, that fate seems better than the mines.
But panic takes over. It all becomes too real in an instant.
“Please!” I beg as fight-or-flight sets in. “I need to talk to the judge! This is a mistake! I’m not a thief!”
“Shut up!” the peace officer snaps back, pushing me towards a door.
The infirmary. My lawyer told me that if I was sentenced to the mines or the auction, I would be given a medical exam. The peace officer unlocks the door and shoves me inside. The room is dirty. There’s a blood smear on the floor. The medical instruments don’t look like they’ve been cleaned. In the middle of the room is a table similar to the one I’ve been in at my gynecologist’s office, except this one has leather straps to secure the person in the stirrups. It looks a lot scarier than the comfortable one at Dr. Brenda’s office.
“Strip!” the peace officer says, pushing me forward. “Then get on the table.”
“Please,” I beg again, turning to him. “This is a horrible misunderstanding.”
“I told you to shut up!” the peace officer roars, backhanding me across the face so hard I fall to the floor. “Do as you’re told, or the doctor is going to treating your wounds before he examines you.”
I look up at the peace officer with fear in my eyes. I touch my lip where his knuckle struck me and blood drips on the floor. The peace officer reaches for his shock baton. That is enough to make me scramble to my feet. With trembling hands, I remove my jumpsuit, bra, and panties. I try to cover myself with my arms, but when the peace officer takes a step closer, I lose all concerns about my modesty and climb onto the table.
“Put your feet in the stirrups,” the peace officer barks. “Hands above your head!”
I close my eyes and fight against the tears. I’ve never been exposed to a man like this, but I don’t have a choice. I place my feet in the stirrups and raise my arms above my head. He secures my hands first, tightening the leather strap so hard I can’t feel my fingers. Then he does the same to my feet.
“Yeah, you’re going to fetch a good price,” the peace officer comments as he tightens the straps on my feet. “Judge Smith will be a nice bonus when you get sold.”
Bonus? Is that really how it works? I get sold for a crime I didn’t commit and the judge gets a bonus? The inner workings of the court have always been a mystery to me. I wish they still were. In school, they talked about fairness and justice. This doesn’t seem very fair or just.
I get little time to dwell on my situation before the door opens, and a man walks in wearing a white coat. He stumbles a little and puts a hand on the wall for support.
“Did you spend your lunch break at the bar again, Dr. Clark?” the peace offer asks with a laugh.
“I thought I was done for the day,” Dr. Clark grunts as he turns to look at me. “Judge Smith really sentenced her to slavery? I thought for sure he would show mercy. She’s young and comes from a good family.”
“The young ones are worth more.” The peace officer shrugs. “Judge Smith is retiring next year. He has to collect his bonuses while he still can. Are you too drunk to do the examination?”
“Nah,” Dr. Clark says, pushing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it. “Leave her with me. I’ll write up the report and take her to processing.”
“Have fun,” the peace officer chuckles, patting Dr. Clark on the shoulder.
The peace officer leaves. Dr. Clark slides a chair over. I’m petrified with fear. I try to reassure myself. This is a doctor. I’ve been examined before. Never by a male doctor, but it shouldn’t be much different. Granted, this is the first time a doctor has showed up drunk or lit a cigarette before an examination.
“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” Dr. Clark mutters, taking a drag from his cigarette as he looks down at me. “Tell me your name.”
“Anabelle Thompson,” I whisper. “I prefer to be called Ana.”
“Alright, Miss Thompson,” he says, picking up a chart and looking it over. “I want you to hold still for me. You will feel a sting.”
I tremble as Dr. Clark reaches under the table. He pulls out a tube that has a syringe on the end. Blue liquid has dried along the inside. Like everything else, it doesn’t look clean. He drags the syringe to my neck and shoves it in. I grimace and do my best to endure it without crying out.
“Do you know what Dreminal is?” Dr. Clark asks, attaching a rubber pad to my chest and a second on the side of my neck.
“No,” I whisper, shivering with a mixture of cold and fear.
“It enhances pain, Miss Thompson,” he explains. “I am going to ask you a series of questions. If you lie, you will hear a beep, and a low dose of Dreminal will be injected into your neck. Then I have to hurt you until you tell me the truth. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper, shivering even harder.
“First, I will check your vitals and draw some blood,” he says, taking another look at my chart.
The doctor takes a drag from his cigarette. The smoke wafts in front of my face and I cough. Dr. Clark doesn’t seem to care. He attaches a monitor to my chest and squeezes both of my breasts. Is this part of the exam? I want to protest, but I’m terrified, and he’s already mentioned hurting me. My lip is starting to swell from where the peace officer hit me.
“Blood pressure is good, but elevated. Are you scared, Miss Thompson?” Dr. Clark asks.
“Yes, I answer.
“That’s normal,” he says, not offering any reassurance as he picks up a syringe.
I close my eyes and look away, just like I do when I get a shot. Dr. Clark jams the syringe into my arm with enough force to make me shriek.
“I told you I have to draw some blood,” he says, letting the cigarette hang from his lips as he extracts when he needs from my arm.
Dr. Clark removes the syringe and walks across the room. He places the vial in a device that spins when he turns it on. There is blood running down my arm. Dr. Clark doesn’t do anything about it when he returns.
“Open your mouth. I need to check your teeth.” Dr. Clark pulls the cigarette away from his lips and exhales the smoke directly in my face as he bends down.
I grimace and try to hold my breath as I open my mouth. Dr. Clark sticks a finger in and starts touching my teeth. He touches each one, pokes at my gums, and squeezes my tongue before taking a seat in his chair.
“Now I’m going to ask you those questions,” he says, picking up my chart again.
“Okay,” I sniffle, preparing to tell the truth, no matter what he asks.
“Have you ever used tobacco?” Dr. Clark asks.
“No, sir,” I whisper. “Wait! I tried a cigarette once, but I didn’t like it.”
I shudder, hoping there is no beep. After a moment of silence, Dr. Clark writes something down and continues his questions.
“Have you ever used alcohol?” he asks.
“No, never,” I answer truthfully.
“Drugs?” he continues, jotting notes on my chart.
“Just over-the-counter pain medication when I have a headache,” I respond. “And antibiotics a few times when I was sick.”
“How often do you get these headaches?” he asks.
“Rarely,” I answer. “Maybe once every couple of months.”
“That’s normal. When was the last time you were sick enough for antibiotics?” The questions keep coming.
“Um.” I try to remember, desperately searching my memories. “Two years ago, I think.”
“Are you current on your vaccines?” he asks, flipping through my chart. “You don’t have to answer that. I see here that you’re missing several of them.”
Dr. Clark takes a drag from his cigarette, hops up from his chair, and stumbles a little as he walks over to a locked refrigerator. He punches in a code, opens it, and takes out five pre-filled syringes.
More needles. I’ve never been a fan, and now I’m getting poked everywhere.
“You’ll probably throw up some today since I’m giving you all these at once,” Dr. Clark says as he uncaps the first syringe. “But you can’t be sold unless you’re up to date on your shots.”
The first one goes in and I close my eyes. I endure them without crying out, even when he shoves them in harder than he should. After he is done, he discards them in a trash can. One misses the can and lands on the floor. He doesn’t retrieve it. He picks up my chart and sits down.
“Have you ever been raped or molested?” he asks. “Orally, vaginally, or anally? Anyone ever touched you without your consent?”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head.
“Have you had any sort of sex before?” he continues. “Oral, vaginal, or anal?”
“No,” I say, trembling as I realize that may change shortly after I’m sold.
“Damn,” Dr. Clark comments, taking one last drag from his cigarette before putting out. “You really are going to fetch a good price if your blood test comes back clean.”
I swallow hard. Once I am sold, my owner can do anything to me they wish. I will be their property. Did I make the right choice? Would the mines have been better? I would die a quicker death, but it would be a lot more painful. I think.
Dr. Clark drags his chair to the end of the table and takes a seat. My face turns red because I know he is about to examine my vagina. Unlike Dr. Brenda, he doesn’t wear gloves or a mask. I can feel the heat of his breath before he begins the exam.
“You’ve still got your hymen. That’ll raise the price,” he comments, continuing the exam. “Do you masturbate?”
My immediate inclination is to lie, but I bite my tongue when I remember I will be hurt if I do.
“Yes,” I answer. “Sometimes.”
“So, everything works? You can get wet. Orgasm. All of that?” he asks, leaning back.
“Yes,” I confirm, feeling ashamed that I have to talk about this.
“Tell me about the last time you masturbated,” he says. “Go into detail. I want to hear what you were thinking about, how you did it, and how it made you feel.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, my eyes getting wide.
“Yes, Miss Thompson,” he says, lighting another cigarette. “And don’t lie. I’ll have to hurt you if you do.”
I close my eyes and tremble. I can’t believe he’s making me do this.
“I was watching a movie.” I shudder, blinking away tears. “It was really romantic and when the husband and wife were in bed-” The sound of a zipper causes me to pause and my heart skips a beat.
“Keep going, Miss Thompson,” he grunts.
Is he masturbating to my story? I hope that is all he plans to do. This is awful. How can a doctor get away with this?
“They were in bed and I imagined it was me,” I continue, listening to a sound I’ve never heard before.
“When did you start touching your pussy?” he asks. “Get to the good part.”
“That’s when I started touching myself,” I admit with a shiver.
“Were you wet?” he asks, letting out a groan.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Too bad you’re not getting wet now,” he chuckles. “Keep going.”
“I touched myself and-” I pause because of another groan, then he leans his head against my leg and shakes.
“You can stop,” he pants, leaning back and picking up his cigarette. “I’m done.”
The sound of a zipper again. Dr. Clark stands up and removes a flask from his pocket. He sips it and I stare at the ceiling, feeling more humiliated than ever. He walks over to the machine that is spinning my blood and stops it. He studies the results, writes some things down on my chart, and turns back to me.
“Well, you’re clean,” he says. “People pay top dollar for girls like you. I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.”
“No,” I whisper, trembling from the cold, fear, and humiliation.
“Still, it is better than dying in the mines, I suppose. I’m done with your examination, Miss Thompson,” he says, walking over and unfastening the straps. After my straps are removed, he yanks the needle out of my neck and removes the rubber pads. “Get dressed and I’ll take you to processing.”
I feel violated, but he didn’t touch me any differently than Dr. Brenda does.
I have a feeling it will not get any better from here.
