Fragments of failed Democracy
May 2, 2027
Day 847 of the New Order
The United States of America
Writing this on scraps I found in the abandoned pharmacy. The shelves are empty now — no insulin, no vaccines, nothing. Just dust and broken glass. Fitting, really.
They’re saying the measles outbreak in District 6 has claimed another 30 kids. No one knows the real numbers anymore. The “official” channels only broadcast what they want us to hear. Remember when we had independent news?
Feels like a lifetime ago.
The camps along the border grew again last week. I saw the convoy of buses from my hiding spot in the old library basement. People pressed against the windows, children mostly. Where are they taking them all? The official term is “temporary processing facilities” but we know better. Nothing temporary about those walls.
My hormone supplies ran out two months ago. The black market’s too risky now — they’re checking IDs at every corner, and the new biometric systems can flag “gender inconsistencies.” Three people from my old support group disappeared last week. Just… gone. Like Denise before them. Like Brendan.
Like so many others.
Medicare got gutted again. Found Mrs. Pérez from apartment 4B digging through dumpsters behind the closed hospital. Her social security barely covers bread now. She cried when I shared my canned beans, kept apologizing for being a burden. She worked 40 years as a teacher. Now she can’t even afford her heart medication.
The markets are a joke. $30 for a gallon of milk, when you can find it. People fighting over basic supplies. The “luxury tax” on feminine products is up to 200% now. They say it’s to protect “traditional values.”
More like traditional cruelty.
There’s talk of resistance in the western zones. Whispers of safe houses, underground networks. Hope feels dangerous these days, but sometimes it’s all we have. If anyone finds this, know that we existed. We loved. We survived as long as we could.
Must move again tomorrow. The patrols are getting closer, and this hiding spot won’t last. To whoever reads this: remember us. Remember how quickly it all changed. Remember that we saw it coming but couldn’t stop it.
And if you’re like me, if you’re different in any way they don’t approve of.
Stay strong. Stay hidden. Stay alive.
Passed through downtown today. Had to — the patrols blocked my usual route. The tent cities stretch for miles now. Not just under bridges anymore — they’ve taken over entire neighborhoods. The old financial district is a maze of tarps and cardboard. Saw former tech workers huddled around barrel fires, still wearing their faded company hoodies.
They closed another school yesterday. Fourth one this month. “Resource optimization,” they call it. The ones still open are just propaganda centers now. Kids reciting the new pledges, learning revised history. No more critical thinking allowed. Teachers who resist disappear. The brave ones run underground schools in basements and abandoned stores. Teaching real science, real history — if they’re caught, it’s the camps.
Can’t go near Chicago anymore. Or Detroit. Or most of LA. The gangs control those zones now — some working with the government, others against them. Regular people caught in between. Atlanta burned last week. They say it started with a food riot, ended with martial law. No news crews allowed in, of course.
Helicopter spotlights sweep the streets at night. Looking for gatherings, looking for resistance, looking for people like me.
Always looking.
- G
[Scrawled in fading ink across several crumpled pages torn from an old medical records notebook]
Image ©2025 Gael MacLean
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