Christopher Enslaved
for Life at the Age of 22

By: Randall Austin
(© 2011 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 4
The Trip to the Facility

It was a relief to be away from the place of betrayal, but the ride from Mr. Worthington's house to the processing center was a somber one. Christopher could not speak because of his gag and muzzle, and there was nothing I could say that would make any sense. I was as dazed as he was. We rode together with our shoulders touching, each aware that there was nothing that could be said.

When we pulled away from the Worthington house, Christopher turned toward it and followed it with his eyes until we rounded a corner and it vanished away. Then he turned his face to me, and I could see that there were tears in his eyes. It came over me, how strange it is to see a human being in a gag and muzzle. The gag distorts the mouth, and the black straps dominate the face. Only the eyes retain their original shape, and they seem to shrink behind the apparatus of restraints like the eyes of an animal, small and lost. When Christopher looked at me, I had to look away, because already he was becoming a beast of burden, a drudge. He was halfway there. Already his well-creased slacks and his expensive shirt, that new blue color that I admired on him and had decided to buy for myself, next time I was at the mall, looked ridiculously out of place, like clothes on an animal. Suddenly the thought crossed my mind, "I'm glad it's not me. I'm glad it's him and not me." A wave of guilt hit me, but it was true. I WAS glad it wasn't me. Who wouldn't be? When we stopped for a traffic light, I thought I saw people looking at us with that expression of indifferent curiosity with which people regard prisoners or slaves, and I knew they were looking at me as if I were really headed where Christopher was. I wanted to jump out and yell, "Not me! I'm not a slave! I'm just here to watch!" And then I felt that wave of guilt again.

When the processing center loomed ahead into our sight, Christopher and I both tensed up. Located next to the central police headquarters in San Diego, the Slave Bureau and General Facility was a three story building that occupied most of a city block. A steel mesh gate lifted in front of us, admitting us to the garage entrance, and the officers parked the car in a vacant slot. Mixed in with the cops' sedans and SUV's were various kinds of official police and law enforcement cars. The SBGF handled all aspects of slavery, from the legal division to the holding cells and auction rooms, as well as running the slave processing center.

One of the officers opened the door on my side of the car, calling me "Sir" and treating me abruptly but politely, the way that police officers treat respectable citizens. Meanwhile, the officer on the other side was pulling the chained and muzzled Christopher out of the vehicle. I followed behind while he was led by a chain toward a door that said, "Do Not Enter Without SBGF Credentials". One of the officers rang a bell and another officer appeared behind a plexiglas window beside the door. The requisition officer passed a paper to him, and he spent a moment checking his computer, then handed the paper back to the officers on the outside and buzzed us in.

To be continued...

Posted: 04/01/11