FROM THE CONFISCATED JOURNAL
OF DEBORAH PHINNEY:

The last four weeks have been the hardest. Most days Belial arrives early in the morning to retrieve Joseph from our room, and the two spend the better part of the day traversing the hallways and giving seminars at various T.O.G. gatherings. Joseph has learned all the names of the Ziz and talks about them as if they were his schoolyard friends. I imagine that they are so that I might experience some taste of normalcy. I find myself wondering what our family could have been like if the world hadn't changed or if we'd all been born fifty years earlier. My brain feels desperate and suffocated, and I segue into the inevitable bout of crying.

Flat screen TVs have been installed in more rooms to encourage celebrating Belial's televised speeches, interviews, and appearances. More often than not, I'll be lying on my thin mattress, smelling the cold sterile air, seeing Belial on stage with several suited men and the bright-faced little boy who seems less like my son every single day.

Belial is charming. He compliments me, attempts to bloat me with his self-empowerment propaganda. Many days it works, and I allow myself to let go of the constant pain and entertain the ideas he wields like a puppet master.

The last four weeks have been like a descending escalator. Descending into where? I don't know. But the place is very dark. It began with the gestures meant to dismantle religiously infused dogmatic ideas that Belial insists are restrictive and stifling. The world desensitized the way the Ziz wanted and the pieces set in place for what I suspect is a much larger plan.

A group of famous women have become a special priority to the Ziz. They were tucked away on the medical floor for weeks before they returned to their rooms and normal activities, all of them with mysterious blown pupils like an ink pen broke in their eyes. One by one, they disappeared back to the medical ward as quickly as they had rejoined the group. Rumors of death and disease and experiments run rampant, but no one is quite sure exactly what's happening.

Bottles of liquor are added to every meal served within the center. Mysterious archaic symbols etched in the glass and the ever-present Ziz insignia stare out from the label. Strange medicinal taste to the beverage with a strong effect that's less like drunkenness and more like a Valium binge. Everyone, including the children, is urged to enjoy the drink. Belial being a personal liaison to the president means new laws introduced daily as well as old laws being repealed all the time. The country begins to feel foreign. The people in and outside of the center speak as if we are only steps away from a completely utopian society.

Darren ventured from Nevada to Los Angeles to find me thin and ghostly in my white room. For a moment there was a feeling of escape, of relief. He held me, we made love, and the world outside the two of us sort of faded away. In the back of my mind, like a shadowy figure looming in a distant corner, the truth threatened to steal the moment from me and finally made good on its threat.

"Let's go," Darren said. "Let's get out of here. You, me, Joseph. Let's find a way to leave this entire mess behind."

"Leave it behind?" I asked drearily. "What is happening has spread like an illness. There isn't a place its tentacles have not reached."

"That may be true." Darren whispers intensely. "But they don't have to reach us. I've heard of a group of people rebelling, refusing to buy in. I've heard there aren't many, but they're everywhere, and they're pulling together."

"The Ziz will get to them," I sigh, staring out the window. "They'll take them."

"Not if we won't let them," Darren urges, his eyes a fiery, livid blue. "Not if we won't let them, Deborah."

For some reason, in that moment, a memory occurred to me. Something I hadn't thought about in years. When Joseph was a little younger, he wanted a cat so badly that we finally broke down and brought a beautiful tabby home from the local animal shelter. Joseph loved that cat more than I've ever seen anyone love an animal, young or old. There was a wonderful feeling thinking we'd rescued this cat from the animal shelter and had given it such a loving home. Some time passed, the cat got older, and we took her to the vet to get spayed.

When the doctor prepared to remove the cat's uterus, she discovered that the cat was pregnant. We didn't know what we'd do with kittens, and the doctor assured us that controlling the pet population should also be a factor in our decision making process. We decided not to keep the babies, and when the doctor dropped the cat's uterus into the medical waste disposal, her babies went with it. A week later, the cat died from the resulting infections.

Joseph's heart was broken of course, and he had no idea about the kittens. Lying in bed the night we buried the cat, I kept thinking that if we'd left her in that animal shelter she might have found a better life or perhaps a peaceful death.

Is taking Joseph from this place rescuing him from the shelter, or is it ensuring his inevitable, miserable end? Is there any way to avoid or at least delay the horrible conclusion? With Darren still staring at me, his warm hands on my face and Joseph wandering the halls with the ancient smooth-talking creature, I make a decision.

"We can't leave," I say, crying.