Hadrian's Rage

by Patricia-Marie Budd

  Proof actual was given the day our seventh grade art teacher told us we could draw any animal we wanted. Earlier that week, my mothers had taken my little brother and me to Hadrian’s Zoo. I had watched with fascination as Lucy the elephant sucked water into her great trunk and then sprayed it all over her body. In retro art class, we were given pencil crayons and paper to draw. It was always exciting to be able to work with our hands, so it was a class I especially looked forward to. On one particular day, shortly after our family’s visit to the zoo, I decided to draw Lucy just as I remembered her with water spraying all over her back. I began with the trunk lifted high in the air with water spraying up. Before I was able to draw any more, Colin McMasters saw my picture and starting screaming, “She’s drawing a dick! She’s drawing a hard dick, and it’s squirting!” He then began laughing while all the other children gathered round to peer down at my elephant’s trunk deemed penis. Mr. Walton soon arrived at the desk and shooed the other children back to their desks. He glanced at my drawing, took a voc shot, and then grabbed my elbow and led me into the principal’s office. My mothers were contacted, the image of a “penis ejaculating” was immediately sent to them, and home life proved unbearable thereafter. Not even my own mothers would believe I was drawing a picture of Lucy the elephant!

  Verbal abuse soon escalates into physical abuse. We’ve all heard the horror stories of what happens at reeducation camps. Frank Hunter’s trial for the death of his lover, Todd Middleton, revealed the extreme depths of this cruelty. The bloodstained paddle wielded against this youth and numerous other items hang in the main hall of the Ministry of Education as a stark reminder of our hatred of strais. I, too, suffered cruelly from the violent abuses of my peers: chases home, being bumped into, pushed aside as well as being laughed at. I watched boys believed to be straight picked on and attacked by gangs of boys and girls. It seems like there is nothing more disgusting in the minds of Hadrian’s citizens than the heterosexual male. I feel this is truly unfortunate because I am lucky enough to have befriended a heterosexual man. He is loving, generous, kind, and defies all of the stereotypes we have placed on straight men of being dirty, violent, and sexually aggressive. My friend shows no signs of being a sexual psychopath roaming the alleys of our good country to find women to rape or little girls to abuse. He is simply a hardworking man who wants to be accepted for who he is in this world. Instead, we mock, berate, and bully men like him as well as any women sexually attracted to men. I was saddened by the news the other day when, on HNN, Melissa Eagleton reported how a middle-aged man, a detritus fisherman, was beaten to death and then had his body set on fire after he admitted to having never been successfully reeducated. And although there was no evidence of his being sexually active, he was sought out and murdered.3 Even though heterosexuality was decriminalized shortly after Gideon Weller’s trial, the hatred of heterosexuals continues.

  It is this extreme abuse that I see as Hadrian’s illness. Not only is 14 percent of our population condemned simply for being born—and no, being straight is not a choice—but at least 72 percent of all of Hadrian is bisexual. These figures come from Kinsey’s 0 to 6 point scale,4 which has created the most demeaning of insults, “Heterosexuals are ZEROES.” Parents are the worst for using this slur. I can’t tell you how many times I heard my parents and the parents of friends utter the phrase, “There are no Zeroes in my family.” I wonder whether it has ever occurred to these people how many of their own children, or their children’s friends, they are hurting with such a trite dismissal of at least 14 percent of our population. And what about those children who are a 1 or a 2? They, no doubt, identify more with heterosexuals than they do with homosexuals. Should we not be cognizant of how we make our children feel whenever we unwittingly and blatantly abuse the heterosexual population?

  It isn’t just those on the scale from 0 to 2 that I worry about. The 3s, 4s, and, on rare occasion, even 5s will experience opposite sex attraction. Each person who feels this sexual energy feels the stigma of hate our society has cast upon the damnable het’ros. As a nation, we place up to 86 percent of our population at risk of psychological stress due to this deeply imbedded hate. And, ironically, it is those who have experienced opposite sex attraction who are most likely to repress those feelings and convert them into hate. Thus, Hadrian citizens lash out against one another in a desperate attempt to deflect any suggestion of their own opposite sex attractions.

  So how do we end the hate? By ending Hadrian’s official stance that heterosexuals are a danger to society. By closing reeducation camps that do more damage than good, and most importantly, by no longer denying heterosexuals access to higher education. Parents need to accept their children regardless of whom they love, and, most importantly, bisexuals should not be forced to “pick a side,” but, rather, be allowed to love whomever they fall in love with regardless of gender.

  3 http://uk.reuters.com/article/2013/06/03/uk-russia

  -killing-gay-idUKBRE9520A120130603

  4 Kinsey, Alfred Charles et al. Sexual Behavior in the Human Male. W. B. Saunders, 1948.

  BOOK 1

  THINGS FALL APART

  Frank’s Mantra

  The first day of Frank Hunter’s official incarceration is held in Lieutenant-General Pauloosie’s office at the Southwest Gate. As the circumstances surrounding Todd Middleton’s death were unique, Judge Julia Reznikoff, Hadrian’s top judge, made a precedent-setting decision surrounding Frank Hunter’s sentence. Instead of being required to choose between exile or death for murdering his best friend and lover, Frank Hunter is required to serve a life sentence in service to his country. No longer the wiry, vibrant young man who had longed to study cosmetics and become a makeup artist, Frank Hunter is now Private Recruit Hunter, Penal status.

  “Step up on the desk, private.” It is Lieutenant-General Pauloosie who gives the order, but the desk in question is not his own. A smaller desk has been brought into the room for this purpose. Frank does as ordered. He is cold, rigid, unbending in thought and emotion. Look directly ahead. Do as I’m told. Think nothing. Feel nothing at all. This has been Frank’s internalized mantra from the moment Judge Julia Reznikoff sentenced him to a lifetime of service in the army. Stunned by the knowledge that he would be forced to live after he had already decided he would drink Black Henbane, the young man now puts all his energy towards voiding himself, emptying his mind, heart, and soul. If he must exist, he will do so, but in body only, reminding himself over and over with yet another mantra: No family! No lovers! No friends!

  As Frank stands on the desk, he feels a hand lift up his pant leg—a dull khaki since he is already in uniform—and lower his sock. “Lift your foot,” a voice orders. It is not the general. Frank doesn’t care who it is. He will not acknowledge anyone except his senior officers and then only to salute and to obey.

  The general seems to understand Frank since he repeats the order, always with an edge of command, but in this case, not unkindly. “Lift your foot for the tattoo artist, private.” Frank does as instructed, and the tattoo artist removes the sock from Frank’s foot (he had removed his boots as instructed when he first entered the general’s office). Frank feels the cool antiseptic wipe followed by a series of pin pricks of the needle as the bar code for his tactile tattoo restraint is slowly being etched into the skin above his left ankle.

  Being one to talk while he works, the tattoo artist tries to engage Frank in conversation. “They told me you didn’t want any fancy images. This barcode’s, quite frankly, boring. I’m quite skilled with the tactile tattoo. I can make all kinds of designs around the coding so that it doesn’t have to look like late twentieth century merchandise.” Frank ignores the man. Not one to work in silence, though, the tattoo artist rambles on. As he is getting nothing out of the private, the artist turns his attention to the only other person in the room. “Now, General, you look like the kind of man who could do with some nice ear design or neck art. Tactile tattoos are for vocs, you know, and the reception from
one of these babies is ten times better than any piece of jewelry.” When the general points to the right side of his head, the artist, catching on, tries another pitch. “My tactile tattoos even rival the most sophisticated micro-chip implants. Why settle for an implant when you can get the same or better from a little body art?” Stopping now to look over his work, the artist adds, “You know, I do believe this is the first time I ever heard of one being used to control a man’s movement.”

  The general, not wanting time wasted on idle chat, grunts and motions for the artist to get back to work. Ensuring his point is clear, he adds, “Done?”

  “Patience, my good man. Tactile tattoos are a fine art, even when the design is as mundane as this one. I still have to input the micro-chips. You want it to work, don’t you? Otherwise, your prisoner private could just prance away at his leisure.” Finally sensing that neither man in the room is willing to be audience to his thoughts, the tattoo artist lapses into silence and completes the job at hand. “There, done. Now, all you have to do is scan his ankle barcode with your voc, blink activate, and this boy will be contained to a three-mile radius extending from this office.” Grimacing slightly at the agony that awaits the young soldier, the artist still asks the general, “Care to test my work?” Both the general and the tattoo artist note the lack of reaction from Private Recruit Hunter, the one who will soon be feeling just how painful it will be for him if he ever attempts to cross the threshold of his three-mile barrier.

  “Yes.” He grimaces slightly and almost looks apologetically Frank Hunter’s way, but he catches himself in time to avoid looking sentimental towards one who is not only his subordinate, but also prisoner.

  The three-mile walk seemed but a moment for Frank. He refuses to register time and distance. Without thought, another mantra pops into his head to help him distance himself from the world and everything in it: Do what I have to do. Go where I have to go.

  “You needn’t step over the line, private; just reach your hand forward.”

  The instant Frank’s hand passes the three-mile line, his body is wracked with pain. It is as if someone has ignited his blood, which is now pumping scalding hot throughout his veins. No longer in control, Frank’s body threatens to fall forward into the forbidden zone, which would continue to sear him through with enough pain to knock him out cold, even kill him. Luckily, the general catches Frank before this can happen. “That’s enough of a test.” The general speaks these words kindly as he helps to steady Frank, whose seizure has dropped him to his knees. After helping the private to stand, the general thanks the tattoo artist before half-leading, half-carrying Private Frank Hunter back to the barracks. There are no doubts about it; the tactile tattoo ankle restraint will be successful in keeping Private Recruit Frank Hunter contained within his three-mile barrier.

  *****

  Frank’s Evaluations

  Initial Entrance Evaluation—Frank Hunter

  (Private) {penal restriction}

  Guillaume de la Chappelle, Colonel-HDF Training/Logistics

  Dated this day, July 4, 21__.

  I met Private Frank Hunter two days after his sentencing to “life service” defending “the Wall.” I was immediately struck by his stolid composure. He didn’t have any “chip” on his shoulder about what had happened with the late Mr. Todd Middleton. There were no signs of remorse or grief. His expression remained blank throughout the interview—the perfect poker face—giving me the impression I was looking into the eyes of a cold-hearted killer, qualities no doubt useful in a soldier, but not in a soldier who wishes to retain his humanity. This unique trait is rather disconcerting when witnessed in one so young. Private Hunter was also taciturn—another useful trait in a soldier, but one also reflecting a lack of any social skills. I was assigned with other command training officers to evaluate his ability to integrate into the Hadrian Defense Force, become a soldier, and to find out what abilities and talents could be used in training him in the right areas of said training. We know he is willing to kill strais, so I am suggesting we train him as a wall sniper. His full physical evaluation reveals to us a youth in prime condition; his school report identified him as an athlete in track, basketball, and volleyball, thereby collaborating that fact. His height, 6’ 4”, was, and is, a clear advantage. He has a sturdy, muscular physique so no “whipping into shape” is needed. Instead, we will allow him the opportunity to create his own physical regime to maintain the necessary weight and strength required of a wall soldier. Unfortunately, he was not a member of the wrestling team in high school so he will need the basic training required for hand-to-hand combat.

  Devon’s Fury

  Tryouts used to be such an exciting time for Devon Rankin, but this year, he can’t help but wonder why he even showed up at all.

  The previous year’s tryouts had certainly been exhilarating, for Devon Rankin had spent the summer leading up to his grade eleven year training with his then boyfriend Todd Middleton. With Todd Middleton’s guidance and advice, Devon was finally senior team material. Not only had he made the team, but he had earned the coveted position of first string along with Pride High’s top players, Todd Middleton, Frank Hunter, and Crystal Albright.

  This year’s team is not so winning. Only two players from the first string remain, Devon and Millicent. Millicent is good, but of the five starters from last year, she was the weakest, and from the look of the extra weight she has put on since the last season, Devon sees little hope for his senior year b-ball team. Todd Middleton is dead, and that bastard Frank, who murdered him, is incarcerated at the Southwest Gate serving a life sentence in Hadrian’s military. And Albright, Crystal fucking Albright, she gets to prance around the school as if nothing bad happened, as if her perfect little world had no impact on the lives of others. Every time Devon sees her in the halls, he has to fight back the urge to strangle her.

  Devon goes through phases of wishing they’d let Frank drink henbane, exile him and—oddly, Devon can’t figure this one out—feeling glad Frank suffered neither of the only two fates doled out in Hadrian’s criminal justice system. Confused and rankled by Frank’s sentence, Devon couldn’t help but sneer. Though true that Todd Middleton had asked Frank to help him commit suicide, and also true that Todd had been raped and put through an incredible amount of emotional torture while in reeducation, Devon still saw Frank’s act of suffocating his boyfriend—his?—mine or Frank’s?—as murder in the first degree. Devon was always angry these days. Not just because it appeared that Frank got away with murder, but Todd’s girlfriend, Crystal fucking Albright, the girl Todd was accused of raping, though never proved, the girl who helped expose Todd and who refused to deny the accusation of rape, is also getting off scot-free. Devon scoffs, the same morning after Todd was pulled from class, Ms. Sterne, their math teacher (and Crystal’s aunt) brought in Hadrian’s prosecuting attorney, Graham Sabine, to warn the class about the need for secrecy. Man, Devon remembers, he gave us quite the song and dance about protecting the victim, and boy did we fall for it. Crystal was playing it up, sitting there in her desk, bawling her pretty little eyes out with all the girls cooing and comforting her. And we all signed those fucking waivers. I can’t even tell my moms without breaking the law. That fucking little bitch, Devon thought then and still believes now, is the main reason Todd Middleton is dead and I can’t tell a God damn soul! I hate her, but she sure as fuck isn’t worth getting exiled over. That fucking little—

  Devon hasn’t even the time to finish his internal curse because Crystal Albright walks into the gym dressed for tryouts. Devon stares incredulously. The coach, who was just about to blow the whistle to get everyone’s attention, has also stopped dead in her tracks, her whistle poised ready at her open mouth. Silence strikes a deafening blow in the gym as all the students gape at Crystal’s entrance.

  “What?” she queries defensively.

  Crystal’s anger and derision slam into Devon like a punch in the stomach. He grunts and, after gaining composure, swears. He had bee
n taking practice shots prior to Crystal’s entrance and is now holding one of the b-balls scattered around the gymnasium for tryouts. Swiveling on his toes, he throws the ball with all his might across the gymnasium, slamming it into the far wall, the smacking of the ball reverberating throughout the gym and the ball bounces until it rolls and comes to a stop on the opposite side of the gym. The ball remains the only movement and sound as everyone stares at Crystal. Some look at her with a mixture of pity and disgust, one or two smile at her audacity, and one, Millicent, Crystal’s girlfriend in their grade ten year, looks upon her with pity and remorse. Devon’s expression is hate; seething hate! The feelings he has for this girl and the role she played in the demise of Todd Middleton cannot be expressed in words, more so the pity for Devon, for if he could at least articulate how he was feeling, then his emotions wouldn’t be rotting away and corroding him from the inside. With anger boiling deep inside, words burst out of Devon like a geyser exploding. “What the fuck is she doing here?” Turning now to the coach, he expostulates, “There is no fucking way I’ll play on the same team as that bitch!” The last thing Devon expected was for Crystal Albright to presume she was still a part of Todd Middleton’s team, for Todd’s team it was and will be as long as Devon Rankin has any say in the matter.