Father thistled around with the sailor's rope in his hand and tied an 8 inch stick on the bottom of his poster paper. The paper he had scribbled on earlier, read the words "equality for all, justice for the underground." The underground is the center of politics in this day and age, and a topic that fuels debate and controversy among citizens in our town. Many kids talk about it in our school but many fail to accurately describe the place, for it's built 50 feet underground where no one except for corrupt government officials witness and make it their job to keep forced slaves in labor.
I help father zip the sign inside a massive leather bag. It carries extra paper, a water pouch, as well as a swiss army knife. The knife is specifically for me to use, and although father completely exterminates the idea of violence, we both have that little urge to protect ourselves regardless. My mother was sent to the underground ten years ago, when I was only seven. She was an activist, not a silent one, but one that was willing speak as well as listen. Her actions attracted the curiosity of the police, and before we knew it, she was sent to the underground, the place she fought very hard to resist. Before I leave the apartment, I snatch a picture frame from an oblique drawer then head out of the door.
"Son," My father's deep voice echoed amongst the hallway, "If anything happens, just run." I nod before heading out of the building. A large crowd stands in the middle of city streets, blocking the usual traffic flow, and filling the air with furious chants. Father grabs my wrist and pulls me inwards where I am squished by large sums of people. We take the sign out of our bag. I raise it high so that it is parallel with the other signs that read the same sentence,
"Equality for all, justice for the underground!"
EQUALITY FOR ALL, JUSTICE FOR THE UNDERGROUND. EQUALITY FOR ALL JUSTICE FOR THE UNDERGROUND. EQUALITY FOR ALL, JUSTICE FOR THE UNDERGROUND. The sentence rings in my head as I holler it, spewing out the same emotion as the people next to me. My father does the same thing. So does the girl in the blonde pigtails, wearing rags that mirror poverty. And the man in the red t-shirt who wears a cap and carries a picture frame of a little-girl, probably his enslaved daughter. The chanting echoes as more people swirl in to join the protest. But alarms.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
Government officials file out of their cars, carrying guns that have the capability to kill a large mass. We spot a helicopter in the sky, dropping down bombs, causing explosions to blow up buildings and crowds. Cries, blood, and gunshots. Chaos. So what do I do? I run.
My father is behind me, but he is grabbed by a member of the government. The guy punches him in the abdomen and he collapses on the floor before being chained up. My instinct instructs me to slide out my knife but father is taken away before I can do so. My agonizing screeches sound as the wheels of the white van he is taken into flees away. There is only one place he is going. One place I know of. The Underground.
