Page 12 of Resistant

All clients and trades will remain anonymous.

I scroll down to Attachment A and read the “Menu”. Every sex act I’ve ever heard of and many more that I don’t recognize are listed and assigned a number of credits.

“I’m going to be sick.” I swallow and turn my head away from Nathan trying to get myself under control.

“Mama, we should leave. We should pack our stuff and head somewhere off-grid. There has to be resistance out there. We can’t be alone. No way am I going to let you do this. What would Daddy think?” He shakes his head and whispers,

“No way Mama.”

“We can’t go anywhere, honey. We sold our reliable vehicles, and the truck we have won’t get us far. Besides, I need a passport to travel outside county lines. I don’t have one of those, only New Reform advocates get those.”

“When did they start with passports?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Mama, no you can’t do this.” The expression of pain on his face is one I won’t soon forget. I squeeze his hand in solidarity.

“I don’t see another way, Nathan.”

The next morning, Nathan strides into the kitchen, resignation written all over his features. He has dark circles under his eyes, and I hate that he didn’t sleep well last night worrying over me and what I am about to do.

“Mama, I don’t like this. I’m still going to look for a way to escape all this, but in the meantime, we need some way to communicate if someone tries to hurt you or they aren’t keeping to the agreement.”

“Okay kiddo, what do you have in mind?”

His eyes turn fierce, and I stare at a man I’ve never seen before. Overnight, he has hardened and is now a man.

Nathan and I work out a series of codewords I can use if I need help. He will knock on my bedroom door if he gets concerned. I tell him to only knock if he believes I’m in serious danger.

And no hanging outside my bedroom door. Because who knows what kind of hell there would be to pay if a client’s appointment was interrupted?

For the next few days, we practice scenarios and work out the wrinkles in our plan. I have a false sense of security that I can live through this.

I struggle to compartmentalize and build a mental barrier to protect myself. I have to. My boys don’t have anyone else, and I need to woman up and get over myself. It’s a harsh reality that I’m struggling to accept.This is going to fucking suck.

Another week goes by before I read the messages from prospective clients. I scroll through their client profiles picking prospects based on the menu items they have chosen. My stomach becomes acidic, and I’m horrified with myself for going through with this.

My prospective clients seem to mostly be New Reform Military. Some have sent me lists of menu items they wish to purchase.Are they looking to get fucked by someone other than their wife? Gross. I’ve promised myself this is a short-term plan.

Tragically, my hopes of finding other resistance family members or friends were obliterated yesterday. The majority of my neighbors have refused to cooperate with the new work programs. Trucks arrived early yesterday morning. My neighbors were all executed. I heard people screaming and gazed into the mist in horror from my porch as my neighbors were dragged outside and shot.

Thankfully, my boys were out hunting, and I was the only one to witness it. I still haven’t told them that Shelly was shot in her front yard execution-style. I can’t believe it myself and I saw it happen.

I was so shocked by the whole thing that I never even tried to help them. That thought and the guilt tormented me as I tried to sleep last night.

This was a warning that all of us must comply, and my resolve has hardened and settled into something like resigned grief. Grief for the life I thought I would have with my family.

I open my contacts and send a message to my provider to find out what the next steps are. I have a half box of pasta, two tablespoons of butter and three small deer steaks left, and then my kitchen will be empty.

This morning my provider sent over some cosmetics, some lingerie, a bottle of wine, and enough food for a good dinner tonight. As much as I hate the reason, I’m still thankful because feeding my children is my primary worry. My options for the future are terrible.

Will I slowly kill myself by selling my body or will we all starve to death?

I choose to slowly kill myself.

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