In the summer of 2045, after my freshman year in high school my parents were killed by the government. People accused of sympathy were executed in public and on live television. The whole country saw their deaths. No one cared. No one felt sorry. They couldn't. It was illegal.
Name, Date of Birth, and Parent's Names. My name is Julian Kilpatrick Hansen. I was born on March twenty-first two thousand and thirty to Caleb Michael Hansen and Martha Elizabeth Lewis.
Good. Age. I am eighteen years old.
Treatable Medical Conditions. I hate this part; I have to tell them that a part of myself was defective. Well, defective in their eyes. Homosexuality.
They don't say anything for a minute. They're wondering why I never saw a counselor during high school. They're wondering if I've been defiled in that way. They're wondering if I've kissed a boy. They're wondering if I'm a lost cause and should just be executed on spot, for being "mentally ill" and not doing anything about it.
That's unfortunate. Sexual encounters. None.
Except for Martin James in eighth grade when he let me give him a blowjob, and Henry Peterson in tenth grade who pounded me for a whole night straight, his cock throbbing in me when he finally shot his load deep into my body, and many other boys in alley's and in the woods. I was their little slut that they didn't have to tell people about.
Good. Fertility. Fertile.
Third sex. Can get pregnant. Have two children in the Badlands with their father, hoping that I make it through this interview in one piece and get to them without dying.
Penis length. Why? Seven and one half inches. Not that any girl will ever feel it inside her.
How many times do you masturbate a month? Their first outright question. The one you DO NOT lie about. They'll know. Especially when you're third sex. We're screamers. Twice a day. Once in the morning, once at night.
They're silent again.
That's not good.
If they go quite twice you are royally screwed.
You are lying.
No I'm not.
You are lying.
It doesn't count as masturbation when I'm getting my ass reamed by several guys at once hoping to fill the void of my lover and children.
Why do you lie?
I can feel the slight, totally unnoticeable swell of my abdomen. The third child I carry, slumbering in my body, waiting to be born, hoping to be born.
The main questioner, a man with unruly silver hair and a sharp stares, searches my body carefully without touching me. His eyes widen slightly, imperceptibly. He asks for a private questioning session. The others agree.
He walks around to me, places his hand on my neck and pulls me into a kiss bitter with unshed tears.
Why didn't you tell me? You didn't need to know. It's my child, too. It's the child of a criminal. Why do you care? Criminal?
I lean into his arms before I answer. I can feel the knife he keeps in his jacket pressing against my chest. He could easily kill me if I say the wrong thing. He could kill me even if I say the right thing. I'm a whore, pregnant with a politician's child.
Julian? What do you mean criminal? Two children and lover live in the Badlands and they wait for me. Two? Yes, twins.
He pushes me away and pulls his knife out. I close my eyes and wait. I'll never see my boy's faces again; never again feel Jason's crushing hugs or Luca's sloppy kiss on the cheek.
The politician says a short prayer for my soul, crosses himself, and brings the blade down on me. A flash of pain and then nothing.
I'm dead before I hit the ground.
My mom was pregnant with my little sister when she was executed. They government almost waited until the pregnancy was over, but cruelty and face took over and it was decided that the growing child would be a sympathizer and thus would need to be executed anyway. That's their excuse anyway.