The Conception Center - Erin Pt. 01

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No character in this story exists. The following contents outline a fantasy which should never be enacted in real life. All characters are of legal age. Political and ethical beliefs held by characters should not assume beliefs held by the author.

These works depict despicable acts. There will be consistent violation and lack of consent, and it will often be mentally and/or physically brutal. If that's your thing, welcome to the party.

All of us stared at the television in horror, still unable to process the reality of the situation even though events had been developing for weeks. Every channel featured recaps of the news as the country awaited the lottery.

"...population control, in the wake of scientists' predictions..."

The mood was tense. I curled on the couch with my knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around them. My brother sat beside me, silent as my father impatiently flipped between channels and muttered things too quiet for me to hear.

"...not enough resources to sustain the current birth rate..."

"...unfortunate implications for families who have dreamed of raising children..."

My mother glanced between us all anxiously, as if she thought there was something she should be doing to uplift us, but she couldn't remember what that something was. It annoyed me. There was nothing anyone could do. The laws had already been passed and the world felt like something out of a sci-fi movie now.

It always came down to control, really. Powerful, rich white men who wanted to control women's bodies. We should have seen this coming. We should have risen up to eat the rich when we had the chance.

But no. We let it go on for too long, all the back and forth on legalization of birth control and abortions. And while we waited, passively, telling ourselves things would turn out well in the end, the opposition had unified to land on a horrifying consensus:

Women were all required to go on birth control now, all except for the women whose names would be drawn in the lottery. Women of age to give birth, who had passed the mandatory examination -- mine had been last week -- all of us had our names printed in plastic capsules being spun in a gigantic gachapon machine. There would be three hundred eighty four names chosen out of the thousands. What criteria they had used for their candidates, the government didn't provide beyond "optimal fertility and success rate conditions."

"We'll hide you away," my mother announced over my thoughts. Her tone was decisive and strong. "If they call your name, we'll send you to your aunt in the UK."

"I know, Mom," I replied, as I had done every other time she'd said it. We already had a ticket purchased, despite how expensive the flight was, as a contingency plan.

Because they weren't announcing who would be allowed to conceive -- they were announcing who would be required to conceive, and the babies those women pushed out until their bodies broke down would be given homes in the wealthy households.

Preventing poverty and overpopulation, those were the excuses the government used.

But that wasn't even the worst of it. Women who were already pregnant would be forced to terminate. And every woman who wasn't made into a breeding cow would be legally required to take a birth control implant. There'd been discussion about permanent procedures, but that, at least, had been shot down. What if the lottery turned out bad candidates? There needed to be back-up options.

Funny how it wasn't the men who were getting vasectomies, wasn't it?

Control. Always about control.

"They're starting," my brother interrupted whatever additional assurances my mom was making. Lance turned to my dad. "Turn it up."

My dad boosted the volume and we tuned in as President Assface began his declaration. It was bullshit, all of it was bullshit nonsense about the sacrifice needed to make our country great again, about how brave everyone had to be now, about how great service came with great rewards.

"In thanks," he declared, "the families of our chosen heroes --" I nearly vomited right on our sitting room rug. "-- the families of our brave and beautiful girls, well, we wanted to save this news for just the right time, we are giving every family one hundred thousand dollars -- yes!" He paused for the cheering by the televised crowd, his hands upraised and a disgusting smile beaming down at the entitled men and brainwashed women who seemed to think these measures were something to applaud. "One hundred thousand dollars, to be collected when we have welcomed our girls into their new life."

"A bribe," I spat out. "Seriously? They think they can just buy the compliance of--"

"We know, Erin--" my brother cut me off, leaning closer to the TV to hear.

"That's ridiculous, I swear, as if you could put a price on your own daughter," my mom fumed, and my dad was nodding with a frown.

"Shut up," Lance rose his voice, "they're starting the draw."

We did shut up, but the fury felt loud inside me as the president stopped turning the wheel and cranked a lever. One of the capsules rolled down the metal rail to his side and he popped it open to read.

"Miss Rebecca Sloan." He read it like he was announcing a pageant contestant and my stomach turned with mixed relief and revulsion. Not me.

"Oh, that poor girl." Yeah, Mom. Understatement.

The president went through the motions again and drew another name. And then another, and another, and with each name read, my hope started to build. And so did my dread. Because each time a name was called, the pool grew smaller, and there was a greater chance my name would be called.

It was. My name was called, eventually. You knew it would be, because otherwise, why would have a story to tell? I was called somewhere after two hundred thirty, and my name scrolled along the marquee at the bottom of the TV screen, just in case we'd heard it wrong, squashing out our denial. Erin Michelle Tierney, 19, Denver, CO.

After a few moments of stunned silence, I lurched to my feet. Life as I knew it was over. "Let's go." My bag was already packed. I'd be going to live in the UK now, away from my friends, my family. I was halfway through my second year of college, and that would be gone now, too. Hopefully I could resume my law degree somewhere else, but I'd have to start from scratch, since all the laws would be different.

I stumbled to my room to get my luggage, my parents shouting at me that they would get the car running and meet me there. I replied, despondently, "Yeah," already knowing the game plan. We'd discussed it enough times. I paused only long enough to glance in the mirror, taking in my own numb expression, before grabbing the small suitcase and darting from my room.

To slam into Lance's large frame, all height and muscle.

"Sorry," I breathed, befuddled from the impact, assuming I hadn't been watching where I was going. But when I tried to step around him, he stepped sideways too, and his hands suddenly gripped my upper arms. "What--?"

He spun me around so my back was to him, and before I knew it, he had one arm braced across my throat and another around my waist, both so tight I couldn't speak, I could barely breathe. "I'm sorry, Erin. I need that cash. I really need that cash. I'm in trouble, sis. And that will get me out of it."

I scrabbled at his arm, betrayal slamming into me like a bag of bricks, but nothing I did helped. He was a foot taller than me, and he'd lifted me off my feet. He walked us backward until we were out the back door. I tried kicking at his legs and scratching at his arm, but he ignored the scratches and blows. My parents beeped the horn from the front, not seeing us. Lance set me down when we were at his truck, though he kept his choke hold. I couldn't scream, I couldn't even breathe in enough air to scream, and all my focus was on scraping in enough oxygen not to pass out. My heart hammered so hard in my chest, and my head, I must have been burning through my last breath way too fast by struggling.

"You're going to be fine. They won't hurt you, you're too valuable. But the guys, they'll kill me if I don't get them that money," I barely heard my brother through the haze and the pounding in my skull. Then he flung me face-first into the truck's passenger seat, stepping up close behind me, pinning me there with his own body. I thought I was going to faint, and I cared about nothing except gasping in three long, painful breaths before I realized he'd started wrapping tape around my wrists behind my back.

"Lance! Stop! Help!" was all I could weakly choke out. And then he shoved some kind of cloth in my mouth and taped over it, working impossibly quickly, circling it a few times around my head. So fast. It was all happening so fast. He taped my ankles, too, and around my knees, and then he heaved me fully into the seat, buckled my seatbelt, and shut the door.

I saw my parents just as Lance began peeling away, with terrified looks on their faces.

And then, just like that, I was on the way to get processed into Denver's brand new "Conception Center."

Betrayed by my own fucking brother.

We were on the road, stuck in traffic, for some time. Enough time that I'd tried to struggle free until I was exhausted, breathing hard through my nose, glaring daggers at my older brother.

"Don't look at me like that." He had the good grace, at least, to look guilty.

I exhaled sharply in angry response.

"You don't have to be a bitch about this, you know."

If I could have spit at him, I would have.

"They'll treat you right. You'll pretty much be a celebrity, you know. Living in luxury, they promised. Whereas if I let you go, I'd have got my kneecaps smashed in and my throat cut and dropped in a ditch to die somewhere." He seemed to make himself feel better, justifying his actions. Lance actually sighed deeply as if a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders, a small smile playing on his lips.

"MRRHH!" I shouted at him behind my tight, tape gag. There were a thousand things I wanted to scream at him, and a thousand ways I wanted to beg him not to do this, a thousand deals we could have made. He could have fled the country with me. He could have started over somewhere, just like I would have.

"Yeah," he frowned then, looking over at me before crawling the car forward on the stop-and-go highway. "I mean, you should be happy to do this to save my life, Erin. It's kind of your fault anyway."

What the fuck?? I made another noise and another exhausted, useless attempt to get my hands and legs free.

"Yeah. It is. It's because of your pathetic ex that I met those guys in the first place."

I stopped listening as he continued, talking about how Marcus had pretty much forced him to play poker, how Marcus had talked him into betting money he didn't have, et cetera et cetera. I stopped listening because it was all fucking bullshit, excuses he was making up so he didn't have to feel bad about himself. I pretended to listen, though. I lay still and looked at him and quietly, patiently, picked at the tape around my wrists. I didn't dare try it before when he was on high alert, but he was distracted now. And the car was still barely moving. If I just got my wrists free, I could get out. I could hop to another car before he could even park, and they would help me. It took another few minutes of Lance ranting -- letting loose secrets he had probably been keeping pent up for a long time -- before I finally had my chance.

In one big twist I got my hands loose, released my seatbelt, and flung open the car door.

But Lance was faster. He grabbed my hair in a painful hold and yanked me back toward him until I was bent sideways with my head nearly in his lap. Then he reached over me and slammed the passenger door. "God damn it you selfish fucking cunt."

I was already reaching over my head, trying to scratch at his eyes, but he grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind my back. "Mrfff," I groaned as my shoulder wrenched.

"I cant believe I told you they were going to kill me and you don't even fucking care!" my brother raged, pulling harder on my arm. I cried out in pain.

I couldn't see from where he was holding me down, but I felt the car accelerate as he took an off-ramp. I didn't know what to do. My face grew hot as my eyes welled with tears. After a couple minutes Lance parked the car, grabbed the duct tape re-secured my wrists, this time wrapping a good length up my forearms so I couldn't reach the end with my fingers. After that, he buckled me into the seat and wrapped layer after layer of tape over the button so I wouldn't easily be able to release it.

We were off in no time, and I was further from escape than before.