Where the Stars End

by Ross Anthony

  “Well, young man,” the elderly clergyman’s voice echoed overhead. I looked to see where he was, but he was out of sight. “For the Church and State to permanently come together, the Cleanse must be done. This, you, are the beginning of a new, pure world.” He had a sound of confidence and excitement, as if he were on to discover a new landmass, or he had sighted the mythical Pegasus.

  I felt my mind revving back up and a sense of control returning. “So what, you’re going to make me pure? And… and if I don’t, then what? You’re going to Cleanse me like you did Peter?”

  “Need not worry about the details, Mīlo. We have a whole course of purification outlined for you, starting with this, right now. Look forward. On the screen before you, we’re going to show you some imagery. All you have to do is look at the pictures and we’ll take care of the rest.”

  The lights in the room dimmed, allowing the wall-sized screen to shine.

  A graphic image of a naked man stroking himself appeared on the screen, followed by two men kissing. Then the images turned to audible video clips of men having sex with each other.

  I thought about Nicolas.

  My cheeks grew hot, as I was embarrassed by my arousal. I knew that, despite my inability to see the man, he was watching me.

  My heart rate monitor began to beep, indicating the increase in my heart rate, and just as it happened, a cringe-inducing current of electricity coursed through my genitalia.

  After a few seconds, the shocking stopped, and images of men and women being affectionate instead appeared on the screen. A few images later, and homosexuals crossed the screen again, bringing with them a consistently increasing wattage of electric shocks to my body.

  I closed my eyes so I wouldn't look at the images.

  Before I knew it, I was being carried out by two aggressively burly men.

  They looked as though they could be twins. Both of them were bald, revealing a perfectly waxed scalp. On them, they wore sterile white scrubs, not a speck of color in sight.

  “We’ll do this again later. Let’s get you something to eat,” said the Catholic clergyman as he followed behind.

  The two men, one holding tight to each of my arms, led me to another room. It was as empty and bland as the others. They whispered to one another. I tried to listen, but I could only catch a few bits that I tried to piece together.

  Their role seemed to be nothing more than security transports, and they referred to this place as a “conversion center” for “my kind.” The alleged intent of the facility was to make us heterosexual, but I doubted that part. Peter was evidence enough to make me believe this was nothing more than a torturous slaughterhouse.

  They sat me down, and shortly after a woman carried out a cup of beef broth and a packet of two saltine crackers.

  She was dressed in a boxy, all white nurse uniform, which looked as though it had been pulled from the closet of a 1950s clinic. Her brunette hair was wrapped up tightly under her nurse cap.

  After the brief meal, which I’d practically inhaled, another nurse who looked like a carbon copy of the first one entered the room. In a small paper cup, she presented to me a peculiar red pill.

  As it dissolved with the saltines and cup of broth, I felt myself feeling somewhat numb in every sense of the term. The tingling I felt in my toes ceased, as well as my thoughts. I had become a vacant body.

  I was amazed by how rapidly the pills went into effect.

  From there, two more identical men, bald, waxed heads, crisp white scrubs, hauled me down a narrow hall.

  Whether it was the same two men, I wasn’t sure. Aside from the priest, everyone else seemed to be mass produced out of a factory. In addition their physical appearances, the way in which they moved was identical. Every move was seemingly robotic and perfectly orchestrated. The deliberation in their steps was strict and in sync with one another, not one of them missing a beat.

  Together, the men tossed me into a dark prison cell of a room and locked the door shut behind me.

  I rested on the stony, cold floor of my concrete box within the conversion center, exhausted from the day’s therapy sessions.

  Outside of the sessions, that was where I was kept, locked up like a dog at the pound.

  There were no clocks or windows to the outside, leaving me with no concept of day or night. I tracked my approximate days by therapy sessions, which were more like torture than therapy.

  At first, it seemed as though they curated one, maybe two, sessions a day. Eventually, everything seemed to blur together into one endless experience.

  In addition, the seemingly-soundproof room didn’t have a chair or a bed. All that was provided to me was a hole in the floor for a toilet, tissue, which was more closely related to sandpaper, and a copy of the Holy Bible. Per their intentions, I would sit reading it in a small ray of light from the hallway, peeking in through the barred window in the door.

  I thought about how God couldn’t be real. What type of being would permit such atrocities as this to be inflicted upon one?

  My mother, after all her trials and tribulations, taught me that we as human beings were in no place to judge one another. That position was left for His higher authority.

  Yet there I was, being judged, and rather cruelly.

  I didn’t choose my life, and there was no way of changing who I was. I was just Mīlo Barkley from birth, not special to anyone other than my mom.

  I continued to wonder why I was I being put through such torture.

  Maybe God was real, and He was punishing me for my being the way I was. It was possible my mother was wrong all along, and love wasn’t acceptable between two men or two women.

  Because of my unwillingness to conform to the standards of the so-called “New America” President Stetson was creating, I eventually accepted that I would be forced to live a lonely life up until my death, right there in that cell.

  I curled into the fetal position and turned over on the hard floor, trying to find comfort within myself. I wished to once again be tangled up with Nicolas in the sheets of his bed. I craved his warmth.

  My eyes forced themselves shut, taking me back to that day in the crosswalk.

  A day that, without my realizing, had changed my life forever.

  Fourteen

  As the subsequent sessions ensued, speculums were brought in to keep my eyes from closing. What seemed in the beginning to be a long few minutes had grown to feel endless.

  As I was forced to watch “the show,” my eyes increasingly dried out like a grape becoming a raisin the dead heat of summer.

  After the supposed doctors grew tired of the electric shocking, they tried temperature treatments. These treatments consisted of extreme hot or cold contact with the body at the sight of homosexual behaviors. They decided this was less amusing.

  Another time, vomit inducing medicines were forced down my throat after every homosexual image appeared on the screen. After a man and woman kissing appeared, they rewarded me with a raisin, though the rewards would be quickly returned to them in the form of bile after the next explicit homosexual image.

  I felt like a puppy being house trained: a treat for good behaviors, and a lashing for bad ones.

  Between treatments, Reverend Joffries, the clergyman who “welcomed” me into the Conversion Center, would read me Bible verses and lecture about diseases that God created to admonish the sinners such as myself.

  He also blamed my mother for feminizing me, and said she in her own right was a sinner because she was a mother out of wedlock. In addition, he suggested my lack of a father being a contributing factor for my same-sex attractions.

  How he knew these facts about me and my family's history rattled my brain, but nothing could really surprise me at that point.

  After the lectures, the nurses would follow up with a bigger purple pill, which made me feel light, as if I were floating.

  They would watch me take it, and they’d aggressively check my mouth to ensure I had swallowed the medication.
r />   After several doses of pills, and the timing in which they were provided, I realized they were trying to alter my overall state of being. They were trying to correlate the feeling provided by the pills with what the session had just “taught” me.

  It, of course, was all an effort to make me a devout heterosexual Catholic, one fit for New America.

  Eventually, I learned to hide the tablets between my cheek and the very last tooth of the top-left side of my mouth. I’d then discard them in the hole that was supposed to be my toilet.

  I was in disbelief of Peter’s actions, yet in a way in awe of his courage. I had no idea he felt such a way about me, enough so to kiss me at least. He always seemed to be a go-getter in that sense. Although, I had never seen him in that way, and I was angry because if he’d kept to himself, maybe he’d still be alive and we wouldn’t have ended up here. However, this fate was seemingly inevitable and he knew it all along.

  As sessions carried out, I felt myself growing weaker with each passing day. There was no way I was getting out of that hell alive.

  The men, who had seemed to be my personal escorts of sorts, took me from my cell and led me into a different room. This one was gray and empty, with the exception of a table and chairs resting in the middle.

  “You are a transgression against our Lord and Savior’s hearts,” Reverend Joffries began as the two men sat me down. “Why aren’t you responding to our treatments, Mīlo? We want to save you.”

  I thought for a moment. It didn’t matter what words I followed up with, because every outcome in my imagination was the same: death. This was my “Peter moment” to make my own proclamation. Even if only Joffries was the one to hear it, at least I’d say it and make it known to someone.

  “If being ‘saved’ means being a citizen within a society that erases the colors that painted our once free nation, then I’d rather be Cleansed.”

  The priest stared at me, the wrinkles making up his face displaying years worth of disdain.

  “I’ve experienced the hope of love and all its glory, so nothing that you preach to me can ‘save’ me from who I am.” I paused as I calculated what more I could say, and realized there was one more statement I needed to make. “I am gay,” I proclaimed with a smirk, knowing that would be my final jab.

  And as I said “gay,” I realized that I personally hadn’t ever come to terms with it, with me.

  Until that moment, I had never actually used the term. While I had absolutely no reason to be, I was afraid of it defining me and that in my saying it, I would have to take on the historical responsibility that would come with it. In addition, the word over the years had become synonymous with politics, and I wanted no part of it. It was that ignorance that put me here.

  I again was wrong. It was never just a label; it was about respecting those who had come before me and honoring the countless individuals who endured the trauma I myself was being bathed in. It was about remembering all the men and women who died fighting for my freedom to love.

  Saying the word aloud rang in a sense of peace and freedom. I was no longer afraid to die.

  ‘‘You are a foolish young man,” he snorted, closing his book. “But if you insist, we’ll have the holy cleansing water prepped for you shortly.”

  He gestured behind me, and into the dimly lit room came two burly men. They wrapped their meaty hands under my shoulders, lifted me from my chair, and dragged me out of the room.

  I remained limp, maintaining a dead weight.

  They brought me into another room, one significantly brighter and more clinical, like the very first room.

  The men picked me up and strapped me to a table. It was similar to the one on which I had started this misery.

  The priest followed in briefly afterward and inserted a needle in my arm.

  My vision grew fuzzy as black circles closed in around the room.

  I thought maybe that was it, but when I woke up, I was still strapped to the table but in an upright position.

  Two of the nurses joined me and the priest. I expected nuns, as that would’ve seemed more fitting with their theatrics.

  The old man stood, hunched before me as he dipped his finger in a dish presented by a nurse. He raised his finger to my forehead and wiped a cross pattern while he demanded, “Repent and believe in the Gospel.”

  He moved beside me and picked up the King James Version of the Book of Psalms from a tray brought forth by the other nurse.

  He began Psalm 23:

  “The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.

  He makes me lie down in green pastures,

  he leads me beside quiet waters,

  he refreshes my soul.

  He guides me along the right paths

  for his name’s sake.

  Even though I walk

  through the darkest valley,

  I will fear no evil,

  for you are with me;

  your rod and your staff,

  they comfort me.

  You prepare a table before me

  in the presence of my enemies.

  You anoint my head with oil;

  my cup overflows.

  Surely your goodness and love will follow me

  all the days of my life,

  and I will dwell in the house of the Lord

  forever.”

  He closed the book and handed it off to one of the women. The other woman served a tray with a single needle and syringe.

  The man grabbed the needle, flicked it, and pushed out any air in the syringe. The contents of the syringe were crystal clear. It was what Joffries had referred to as the “holy cleansing water.”

  One of the nurses came to my side and tightened a strap around my arm to get a vein to bulge.

  My mouth was dry, and I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I remained silent, as I was ready for death, for freedom.

  Reverend Joffries flicked the vein, which had trouble showing as I was dehydrated. “Such a shame you’re not as pure as your skin. You’re the perfect shade of white.” He looked at me with his cold black eyes and grinned.

  If I had any saliva to spare, I would’ve spit at him.

  Just as the old man brought the needle to my arm, an intruder appeared at the door.

  “What is it?” shouted the old man.

  The nurse who had just wrapped my arm hurried over to the door, then quickly hurried back to whisper something to him.

  His face went blank, and he looked absolutely dumbfounded.

  “Well, Mīlo. It appears that there was a mistake made here today.” He let out a sigh of disappointment. “You’re being released.”

  “Is this it? Am I finally dead?” I wondered.

  The nurses unstrapped me from the table and walked me down a dark hall.

  I had to be dead, as it felt like I was floating.

  I was brought to a room where a man stood, waiting. He wore a charcoal black suit fitted for business. It was Nicolas’ father.

  “Thank you,” he said to my escorts.

  The priest and the two nurses left the room quietly while the escorts stayed behind.

  “My name is Tobias. Do you remember me, Mīlo?” he asked.

  I nodded my head as I wiped the ash from my forehead and onto my white garbs.

  He looked at me with guilt in his dark chestnut eyes. “Before you say anything, I have to apologize to you,” he began. “I am so very sorry for the way Patricia and myself conducted ourselves a few weeks ago-”

  “Weeks?” I breathed, confused. My voice was still weak.

  “Yes, you’ve been in here for almost two weeks,” he replied.

  My voice was hoarse. “It feels like so much longer…”

  “I can only imagine, and I never knew it would become this, Mīlo.”

  I started to shake. All I wanted to do was sob, but I had no tears.

  “I always knew Nicolas was different, and seeing you at the hospital that day confirmed it. The first several months at New Westminster, I’d never
seen my boy so excited about art. I didn’t know how to feel about it, to know that my son would never have a wife and kids of his own, and that my boy would be living against the word of God… But then my son said something one day: ‘God makes no mistakes with his creations.’”

  “Nicolas was listening to me,” I thought proudly, “but what is Tobias doing here, and why or how is he able to get me out?”

  “I thought about it,” Tobias continued, “and my love for my son runs deeper than the faith I have in a manmade book. What is happening to this country is ungodly, and it’s my duty as a father to take care of my son, and I know that he truly cares for you. He risked his life for you, and I promise I’m going to get you both out.”

  He slipped a folded manilla envelope to the bald men and they left the room in silence. I assumed it was money in the envelope, and that’s how he was able to get me out. Though I was too weak to say or ask anything.

  “There’s a catch,” he started. “Patricia can never know. She’s against you in every way. Perhaps over time she’ll come around, hopefully, because it’s her son, but for now we move silently.”

  I shook my head in acknowledgment. “Thank you,” I croaked.

  He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and walked me through the ominous hallways of the facility.

  As we left, I noticed I could see into rooms though the tiny windows in the doors that lined the halls, doors I had never noticed until this moment. I saw others strapped to tables as I had been, with their own priests by their sides. The entirety of my time in the center I had never seen anyone else.

  Some of the individuals looked far worse off than myself, like they hadn’t had any nourishment for a much longer time.

  These men and women were being tortured, and for possibly longer than the Cleanse had even been happening.

  As we approached the end of the tunnel-like hallway, the door to the outside world buzzed open.