My memory is a nauseous blur, but the places, and people I do remember fill me with a kind of dread.
We were caught up in a writhing tide of clashing political ideologies. People no longer whistled to the same tune as the ones with the power. Claims of terrorism were so rife among the associated media, people one day just stopped listening, the desensitization of terror had been too effective. This forced congress to reassess how they were able to control the masses. So, to keep us all in line like the ants we were, they declared martial law across the whole of America. The media placed a very dejected hand upon the ones that still had their power of questioning. And for those of us who weren't able to make our fifteen minutes of shame questioning government sources, {a very effective insurance plan.} We would be taken to the camp.

I remember the day before martial law was declared. The sky was churning a pale grey, the claps of thunder could be heard in the distance amidst sheets of rain. My dad was in the small, boxier living room, painted a salmon pink, the walls adorned on all sides with hunting paraphernalia. I emerged from a beaded curtain looking at my dad sat in his usual insipidly looking green chair. The room stung my senses with the odour of cheap vanilla air freshener, which clung to the room, much like a fly on a toffee. My dad peered vacantly at the screen, acknowledging my presence with a huff, and a shake of his flabby limbs he rested back into stupefaction. The one thing I can remember thinking was, if only mum knew what he really did all day'�then that would be enough to set the long due divorce in motion.
Dad turned off the television, he scratched at his unshaven features very distastefully and, stealing a glance at the clock, his eyes and ears pricked up. Mum was home. Dad, in a hurried fashion wriggled out of his chair, and rushed through the kitchen, a wave of bronzed beads slapped his face as he pushed past me. It was quite a comical thing to behold, he was able to make this immense effort in convincing my mother that he wasn't a complete disgrace. He may have been unemployed for the past four years but to me, it was more pity than actual degradation. And sadder still, I had a feeling my mother knew he did nothing, as if the house were a timeless vacuum, in which he could lament over his childhood anguishes.
My dad was at the time in the midst of building, what he claimed to be a summer house. A surprisingly rigid schedule for such a lazy worker. Of course this was merely his working disguise, not just for my mother, but the neighbours as well. Being the only family of three that wasn't Christian in the neighbourhood, didn't at first go down well. After the border relations team, consisting of a well made up mum, had desensitized the people into excepting us, all was well in our little, suburban world.

The rest of the day I don't remember too well, it was the following day that the major changes occurred.

Me, my mother and father were sitting in the kitchen gobbling down hearty slabs of pancakes. Washing it down with a swig of violently coloured, orange juice. I dribbled some on my suit which I made haste to dab off. Mum gave me a look which suggested I ought not to have spilled it any nearer to my crisp white shirt, which she had meticulously un-creased the night before.
I was prepared for the day ahead, having passed the preliminary interview for college, I felt a renewed sense of vigour that I now stood a decent chance of getting into supposedly, the best university in Texas. St. Edwards was the university I had always dreamt of choosing for my behavioural and social science degree. I remember thinking that perhaps life would soon pick up its pace, or I would stagnate in middle America behind the desk my forefathers sat behind. At this point it was sink or swim, and I intended to swim.
After all living in Smithville, the closest any normal person could get to suburbia, is nothing to laud about.
I snatched up the remote from beside my dads plate. Some of the butter had made its way onto the remote, once I dabbed it off I turned on channel one. The morning news was nothing special to me, merely out of habit alone. You would hear the usual nonsense, about the war in Iraq but we just ignored it. We all stared blankly at the television screen, the usual scenario I thought to myself. Two ample white Americans, filling the width of the screen, and just for that more thoughtful, token touch, an African American reporter they flicked to briefly.
Suddenly the station shut off, the presenters dissipating into a snow storm. My dad, befuddled by the whole thing, got up and brought his greasy fist upon the television, the table shook violently.
What materialized on the screen sent a deep shudder down all of us in the room. It was a pyramid shape with an eye above it, set against a white background.
'What th-'� my dad sat perplexed, then to quell our fears an answer came forth from the screen, in a deep and forbidding male voice.

"Annuit Coeuptus Novus Ordo Seclorum, we announce the Birth of the New World Order"

The message was set on a loop, my dad had seen enough. He grabbed the controller from my hands, turned it off then on again. Nothing had changed. After my dads epiphany about the nature of television not just being able to materialize pictures from nowhere, he rested back in his seat. We sat glaring at the screen. New world order? I thought to myself, where had I heard this before. I thought long and hard, then it hit me! I reached into my pockets and retrieved a one dollar bill. I raised it out so we could all see it, my mother looked at it in a kind of dumbfounded awe.
'This is it!'� I exclaimed with a short burst of exuberance, 'but why?'� I looked to both parents for guidance but they like me were ignorant of the answer.
Allowing no time for contemplation, the windows folded in on themselves, glass showered down onto us. A group of five men in black ski masks burst through our window. My mother shook with horror and shrieked. I turned around, their were another two, tall, burly shadows behind us who had kicked down our door.
'Get down now!'� one of them shouted, through faces more horrifying than the reapers. The other men in sequence drew up their weapons to our heads. My dad stood up, and placed himself between them and my mother. It was like batting away flies for them, my dad fell to the floor with a look of trepidation on his lips, his eyes madly searching for my position. They turned to me, not wanting the same fate I fell to my knees, and prayed to god they wouldn't hurt my mother as well. They pointed down their guns to us, my mother screamed so loudly, the irritation got too much for the, I want to call them soldiers, but were they? And for which side were they on? They knocked her out on the floor, I leapt to her side and implored for her to wake up, I was struck with something to my legs, the tremor of pain made me judder. I looked to my mothers eyes. They were glazed and wide, she was to scared to even cry. I felt another blow to my head, and at that point everything went black.

I came to, a smell of burning infiltrated my nostrils. I jerked up, i was inside a cubicle, no bigger than two meters each way, but enough room for me to stand. I ran my hand across its polished metallic surface, it was cool and smooth. My left leg was attached to a chain which ran out of the cubicle, it had enough slack for me to move freely. The light above me was a small sphere, but next to it was a black aperture in the ceiling where I could make out a camera.
The cube made no movements what so ever. After trying to break my way out I sat back down, defeated. I noticed my clothing had dramatically changed. It was no longer the plain hopefulness of suburbia, but an orange jump suit. Was I a prisoner? And for what reason? I ran my hands frantically down and around my body, nothing of any significance was notable. Then, as I ran my hand across my breast I noticed something. The surface was ruff and raised where their were the numbers inscribed,
'06660'�.

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