November 06, 3644
I was born and raised in the same house. My parents never moved after they arrived in South Park. This house had two floors, an attic and a basement. After I left home, my parents turned my bedroom into an office, but my younger brother's room remained untouched. Perhaps this is natural, due to the accident. People understand the unbearable pain of a mother who loses her child and clings to their physical belongings to feel like they're still around, even if just for a moment. When my brother was twelve years old, he was playing on ice, a very common tradition for children in South Park. The ice cracked under his feet and he fell into the water. He was alone. I was supposed to be taking care of him, but didn't want to go outside in the cold that day. I figured he was enough of a big boy to take care of himself. When I went out to call him at lunchtime, it was too late. I was the one who found him dead. Since then, his room remained exactly the same, even though the door was always shut.
That was the story that my mother came up with to justify the loss of her Canadian adopted son, who was still perfectly alive, living down in the basement for almost three years in the hiding. Stan was the only person who knew he was alive, beside my parents. And me, of course. I could not lie to Stan even at that time, but it took me a year to tell my parents that he knew, trying to convince them that it would be good for Ike to see Ike someone other than the three of us. In fact, it did wonders for his mental health. Stan cried when he saw him. Stan and my brother had always loved each other a whole fucking lot.
Now, dinner with my family was part of our routine. My mother was demanding on the matter of forcing me to have a family life. I confess that I would much rather visit Sharon, Stan's mom, than visiting my own parents. Sharon was so similar to Stan, gentle and quiet, an earnest and sensible kind of person who didn't impose anything on anyone. My mother was the extreme opposite. By some miracle of nature, somehow, they even managed to be friends. And it wasn't even a matter related to my relationship with Stan, because it happened when we were kids.
But naturally, with the war and all the political obligations, my mother had no time for trivialities like afternoon tea with friends. And Sharon seemed like too clever of a person to agree to my mother's radicalism and how she had been sold to the opposing forces. I don't mean to say that Sharon was in favor of the rebels or anything like that, but I'm pretty sure she wasn't in favor of war and oppression. Sharon and I never talked openly about this kind of thing.
On the contrary, in my parents' house, political indoctrination was intense. There wasn't a single dinner that Stan and I didn't have to listen to stupid nationalist repetitions, the same as the Governor had constantly reporting on the news.
It was beginning to get cold. The real cold. My father opened the door holding a glass of wine, wearing a buttoned up sweater that made me realize how he was already getting old, or maybe that was less to blame on the sweater and more on the tired look on his face. He hugged me first. Talking about him is a little easier. I won't say that my father and I were friends, nor that he didn't think exactly like my mother deep inside, but I think my father's mistake was not being able to see that not everyone had the same chances in life. My father was a somewhat arrogant man, he had never starved and believed mostly in hard work. I could understand that. In the world we lived in, our country facing economic and social difficulties, he wanted the best for his own family and wasn't concerned with others. He was a good man, I can say. My father's sin, like many other's, was being ignorant.
My mother was in the kitchen and the delicious smell of food was taking over the entire room. I left my backpack on the floor and went over to greet her as my father and Stan exchanged a few words in the room. They never had much to talk about, but really liked each other.
She was leaning to check out the roast in the oven and didn't notice me when I entered the kitchen. My parents were still trying to preserve kosher food habits, one of the few religious aspects that still survived in the country. Anyway, my mother let out a startled scream as she got up, then started to laugh, putting her hand on her chest. I kissed her face.
"You boys are already here?! Nothing's ready yet."
"Don't worry, mom. I wanted to go down to the basement before dinner anyway." I took off my thick coat to hang it on a chair. "Do you need help here?"
"Where's Stanley?" She asked, screaming loud enough so that he could hear her from the living room. Stan was smart enough to show up at the kitchen door right away, always wearing that nice smile that made him even more beautiful.
"Here, Mrs. Broflovski."
My mother hugged him tightly, still holding a wooden spoon, squeezing both arms around his body so damn hard that I could swear I heard Stan's back cracking. Sometimes I was sure that she liked him better than me. It's a kind of childish thought to have, specially because I was always saying how I'd rather spend time with Stan's mom than with my own. And in most cases, it always seems easier to be someone else's child, since with them you'll never have the same neurosis you have with your own parents. But in my situation, it would actually have been easier to be raised by someone like Sharon.
Anyway, Stan didn't seem to be bothered at all by the oddities of my family. Perhaps because he was one of the most patient people I've ever met. As my mother told me Stan was too thin and that I wasn't feeding him right, I interrupted her to ask if he would like to go down to the basement with me. We never spoke Ike's name, not even indoors. It was something we got used to for security reasons. Stan said no, winking at me with that face that told me he understood it would be better for us to be alone.
I missed my brother so fucking much and Stan knew it. To be honest, it was my biggest (if not only) reason to visit my parents so often.
"I'll go down there in a while." He replied, and then resumed the conversation with my mother, who opened the oven to check the roast again.
We were okay, Stan and I. Or at least I faithfully believed that. He started to cook with me again, which I took as a form of forgiveness, and Gregory commented that he looked better. After that morning in the training shed, in the evening of that same day, we had another long talk on the bed and had sex after a long time. I knew that things were not quite lightweight or completely resolved, but Stan was trying his best and I forced myself to try as well. It was hard to recognize a problem that we couldn't name. Little by little he gave into the Monarch's more radical planning and didn't argue with Christophe in meetings anymore.
I didn't spend any more sleepless nights with Christophe in the work apartment during the week. I was trying my hardest not to be alone with him, which was easier than I'd expected. I think he realized this, because there was a subtle change in his behavior. In fact, I noticed that he had started to ignore me. He didn't even look at me, barely greeted me. But then again, he had never been open and friendly enough that I could tell if this change was real or in my head.
Anyway, I went over all these things in my mind before opening the basement door. I could already see the dim light down there, which was produced by only one light bulb hanging from the low ceiling, the kind that you turn on and off by pulling a string. The basement conditions were the best possible, which wasn't much. Even in economically stable families, no one lived well after the war had begun. That is, except for the small percentage that didn't even have room to hold that much money. But my parents did what they could to provide some comfort to my brother downstairs.
It had a small wooden bed, well made with a plaid comforter. There was a lamp on a bedside table, a carpet, a full bookcase (many of those had been gifts from me because Ike was a book worm since childhood). There was also a desk with a chair, which is where he was sitting on when he heard me coming down the stairs. The steps creaked under my weight every time. Downstairs there was also a little bathroom just for him and a small fridge where he basically kept water and apples.
Ike was writing something in a notebook, wearing his thick black glasses, but took them off when he saw me by the end of the stairs. He smiled so wide that my heart almost came out of my mouth.
"What's up, fagot?" He said as he got up to hug me. I laughed, of course, even if it was a sad laugh, because Ike had this power over me. He always said the wrong thing at the right time. Our embrace, however, always had that bitter taste and neither of us could let go for at least fifteen seconds.
Fifteen seconds is an eternity to hug someone hello.
When we finally let go of each other, he put his glasses on his head and I could take a good look at his pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for a week or so. Ike looked older than he actually was. He was just a boy, for God's sake, but he looked like a grown up. A grown up who hasn't taken a shower in four or five days.
On the desk, there was a plate full of crumbs and a mug half full with milk.
"Stan hasn't come with you?"
"He's upstairs, he'll come say hi in a minute." I paused, watching as he grabbed his coat thrown over the bed to make room for me to sit on the edge. "How are you?"
"Oh, you know. The usual." Ike sat back on the chair, but backwards, turning it in my direction when I make myself comfortable on his bed. "Every day is the same for me. You're the one who has to tell me how shit is going."
What worried me most about Ike was the fact that the isolation made him act a little... Odd. It wasn't anything he said, not exactly, but the way he looked and his behavior in general. It hurt so deep in my chest to see him living that way when he should be running free in the world flirting with girls or boys, studying, growing up. In contrast, it was also a way of knowing that he was safe because the outside world had so many atrocities that I didn't know what I thought was best for him.
I knew our mother omitted many things from him. Ike was someone I could talk about anything. And he knew I had I joined the resistance, "La Resistance", as they were calling the whole thing in a somewhat ironic reference. I was always afraid to personally talk to him about these things, because our mom could come down at any time. We wrote letters to each other, but all of these letters went through her. Ike always said that the envelopes arrived to him closed, because she had no real reason to suspect anything. We were just her children talking about stuff. Still, I didn't trust her. Every information I put on those letters was rather limited.
"I don't know, Ike." The words choked in my throat. I slowly licked my lips and took a deep breath, moving both hands down my thighs, feeling the thick fabric of my jeans under my palms. "I don't know what's gonna happen."
"When are you guys gonna start doing the heavy stuff, huh?" He asked so casually, but sounding so sincere that it tightened my chest.
"Don't talk like that."
"Listen, are you and Stan okay?" Ike asked, spinning a little in his chair like a child playing, grabbing the mug and completely ignoring what I just said. Or maybe not, because he did exactly what I asked. Ike was very literal sometimes. "You and that guy are still...?"
"Can we talk about something else?" I interrupted him. "Yes, we're okay."
A sarcastic expression appeared on his little bitchy face, even though nothing came out of his mouth. Gosh, he looked so funny wearing that green plaid shirt, wearing those glasses and a ridiculous headband holding his black hair back, holding that huge mug with a picture of some science fiction movie he loved printed on it. Ike couldn't annoy me even if he wanted to, and he did, very much. Also, we saw each other so rarely, I couldn't even give myself the luxury to get pissed.
Ike knew about some things, not everything. He was aware about both our plans (actually, I talked very little about it for his own safety) and the personal issues that I had going on. I spoke a lot about Christophe at first, about his ideologies and everything else I was discovering, since it was fascinating to me. When I started to have problems with Stan because of that and I told Ike about it, he shrugged and said he already knew. Apparently, my eyes sparkled when I talked about "that guy."
"Did something happen?" He asked me suspiciously.
"No, Ike. For the first time in a long time, we're just fine. I guess. But I don't want to spend my time with you talking about it."
"That's fair."
So I got up. I approached his desk and picked up an aquarium paperweight that was triangular shaped, it had been mine many years ago. I took a good look at the object and gave a nostalgic smile. Ike watched me the whole time. He had no problem making eye contact or staring at people, he wasn't ashamed of making anyone uncomfortable. He had spent so much time away from humanity, that should really make a person lose some notions of social coexistence.
"Are you alright?" I asked him.
He frowned.
"You already asked me that."
"Yeah, but... You didn't really answer me. You spend so much time alone down here." I looked around the basement, swallowing hard. "If I were stuck here having to live with mom every day..."
"You'd lose your fucking mind. But you're a weaker person than I am." Ike replied with a bastard smile, leaving the mug on the desk. I pinched his arm playfully, laughing, and he winced as if it really hurt. "Stop it, fagot."
Damn, I really missed him.
I spent some time talking to Ike about stupid things, then Stan came down and we were three for fifteen minutes talking about even more stupid things until my mother came down to call us because dinner was ready. Dinner conversations were a huge contrast to the rest of our daily lives at that point. There was a small television in the kitchen that was constantly on - my mother liked to cook with the TV noise - which wasn't uncommon in times of war. The local news served as background to our talk until the moment they began to report about an act of vandalism in South Park, right at the central square, where some lout had painted the faces of Terrance and Phillip in blue and red, celebrating the American spirit. It was probably my favorite art work of all that Kenny had done before. It was hard not to smile. I filled my mouth with pasta, disguising the tension in my shoulders when my mother dropped her fork and turned to the television.
"I just can't believe this damn plague has come to our town." She said, and I could hear it in her voice how much she suffered and truly believed that any resistance movements were acts of rebellion that should be severely punished. "It makes me sick to walk by our beautiful square and having to see the faces of two murderers lauded this way." She rested her elbows on the table, making the silverware and glasses tremble with the impact, pointing her forefinger at us. "You know, boys, the worst part of it's those damn rats are probably in your college, right next to you."
"Mother." I said as patiently as I could. "Do we need to talk about this now?"
"You should be worried about that sort of thing, Kyle. Young people like you don't realize that these things influence your future. What kind of country do you want to live in?"
"Students are disappearing, did you know that?"
"Kyle." Stan called me as a cautious warning, sounding worried, placing his hand on my leg. He knew it wasn't worth a damn, talking to my mother about these things was as useful as talking to a wall. Perhaps the wall would listen to me better.
"Well. If you care to know, that tranquilizes me." She said with rough conviction. My father did pretty much the same movement as Stan, placing his hand on her shoulder, but didn't call for her name. It was just a "calm down, dear" gesture that had no effect on my mother. "That they are not allowing the scum to just do whatever they want."
"Are you listening yourself?" I asked with an incredulous smile, my eyes exaggeratedly wide, nervously laughing because I had no other reaction to give. "Sometimes it seems like you're the one living on a basement, you know? You talk like you have no idea what the Government orders the sappers to do."
Then she stood up, pushing her chair back with her butt and slamming both hands on the table, the bracelets on her arm making a funny noise. My mother is a big strong woman, intimidating even. Being raised by her was a violent experience, to say the least. Even so, she has always been an inexhaustible source of security, too over-protective, but that has always set me some very specific rules about how I should or should not live my life. And it was very comfortable to live according to her morals until the breaking point where I discovered that her life ideologies were monstrous. I didn't believe that my mother was a bad person, really. And that was the main reason for me to keep a healthy distance between us, knowing that she was just ignorant. That's the excuse I used.
And just like every ignorant person, she always got to the point where she just his the table and growled.
"I don't like your tone." She growled between her teeth, visibly nervous. The idea that her own son could remotely agree with any of the Monarchs's views or any resistance group made her ill. I almost felt sorry for her.
"Sheila, please." My father said, but to my mother, my father's voice was no different from a meowing cat. She was so used to ignore him that it didn't affect her at all.
What made my mother sit down again was Stan's expression and the way he got a little closer to me, demonstrating a silent support. My mother adored him. When she realized that he was uncomfortable, she cleared her throat and took a deep breath, settling back on the chair like the lady she was. My heart kept pounding like crazy inside my chest. I turned my face to Stan with eyes full of anguish; he made a quick caress on my hair and leaned down to kiss my cheek.
"Be careful with what you say, boys. Security is being redoubled, the sappers have their eyes open now. It would be very easy for you to be confused with such people."
I would have laughed at the irony of I, had it not been absolutely tragic.