Welcome to

B R I D G E

EST. 2034

a CITADEL Bulletin Board System

“All those moments will be lost in time. Like tears in rain.”

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Online: 10 AM to 10 PM PST

PANACA NV/US

This is a message board for REUNITING PEOPLE who have been lost to each other since The Energy Uprising and the River Wars began in 2032 and the Western Territories split. It is updated every 24 hours. No message is ever deleted, unless it breaks the community rules. Messages date back to 2034.

If you are just having a look please log in as GUEST, password: guest. If you wish to apply for permanent membership, please log in as NEW.

RULES

1.     No slander, no diatribes about politics or religion, and no pleas for rescue. There are other message boards for that.

2.     No doxing. Most posters are anonymous for a reason.

3.     If you are working on behalf of, or as an active agent of, any of the following: Obsityan, InfiniCity, Arizona Territory, Dixie Rising, New Texas, or ANY of the Cartels, you can go fuck off right now.

4.     This is a space where loved ones are looking for other loved ones, not a place to look for a date.

Posted by u/CATGODDESS | 12 days ago | 3.12.2120

ReunitingFamilies/LookingforMissingChildren/FosterKids/ObsityanFamilies

Dear Bird and Bear,

Do you remember the stone raven? We kept it on the top of the retaining wall behind our apartment. Bird, you used to leave little offerings next to it: a flower, a pebble, a pinon branch, even the crust of a peanut butter sandwich. Bear would make fun of you, grabbing at the small pile of offerings just to get your attention.

How do I explain what has passed in fifteen years without putting us all in danger? None of what happened to me—us—was your fault. I made my choices before you two even existed. I try not to think about you both. I try to shut out where you might have been or what could’ve happened to you. Because of me. Because of who I am and what I’ve done. It hurts too much to know that I caused everything. I could have saved us, but I waited too long.

The happiest moments in my whole life were camping in the desert. Just the three of us, on the new moon. All curled into each other in one large sleeping bag laid out on a tarp on the sandstone, watching the stars as we fell asleep.

I tried to straddle the line between mom and midwife. Instead, I was shitty at both.

I’m sorry. I tried to shield you from my job. I thought that the more you knew, the more danger you would be in. I realize now that keeping you both away only made you resent me. I’m so sorry. I still dream about the yellow mist. I can taste it—the bitter uranium, poisoning everything.

Papa told me once that we don’t know if we’ve made the right decision until years down the road.

Of course you both were more important than my job. But if I didn’t leave whenever I got the call, someone might’ve bled out. If I chose to stay home and make dinner for you, someone else’s baby might not have made it.

I don’t know if you’ll remember this one time when we were in the ration line at Oh-mart. It was really early in the morning. Still dark out. You guys were about four. Still in your pajamas. I wanted to get there while they still had canned beans. It was so crowded. I felt something wet drip down the back of my neck. I turned around, and the woman behind us in line had spit down my shirt. She got really close up and said baby killer. I pulled you both behind me. I thought she was going to try to hurt you two. Or start shouting, or call security over. I don’t know how she knew who I was. I didn’t recognize her.

Then, I was afraid that one of you had heard what she’d said, and that you might judge me, too. It was a dark time in the Territory. Everyone was paranoid. It was before the trade agreements brought more food consistency. Before fertility treatments were legal again. Everyone was scared and hungry. Ice storms wiped out power every few weeks that winter. I thought it was safer to keep you guys away from the clinic. I thought.

When I was in prison, I got a letter from an old friend from nursing school. She said she’d met you, Bird. That you’d been in the hospital for detox after an overdose in 2105. I hope you are in recovery. I hope you are alive. I love you no matter what.

Bear, she also told me that you were recruited by Obsityan. That you’ve worked there past the end of your required contract. You might still be in. I understand. I know how it is in there. The calming numbness, the steadiness of food, clean air, sleep, and routine. A purpose. I just hope you are safe and happy. That if you do get out, you can come find me. All I want is to hold you and tell you how sorry I am about how it all turned out.

I don’t know how I could’ve made different choices, but I do wish I would have gotten us out sooner. I didn’t listen when people told me to go.

Do you remember where Grandpa’s house is? We visited once when you both were thirteen. I showed you the neighborhood where I grew up: the one-room school that I rode my bike to every day, the communal gardens, the reservoir. Grandpa and I got in a big fight the last day of our visit, and we left early. He wanted me to leave the two of you there, with him, where you would be safe. I refused. He begged me to close the clinic and leave my work in the Territory behind. I have never regretted anything more. Grandpa died while I was in prison. I am sorry I didn’t leave you two there with him when I had the chance. I wanted us to stay together. I see now how selfish I was. I had the chance to save you. I didn’t do it. But I couldn’t abandon the clinic, the people, the cause.

My family didn’t understand my choices at the time, and now they are all dead. I can’t say much more than that here. A neighbor is watching Grandpa’s house now. Their daughter moved in. They know about us. They are expecting you. When you arrive, tell them who you are. They have a package for you.

I will wait here until I die, or until I find out where either of you are. I’ll try to come find you. And if you are both dead, see you on the other side. I will check this message board as often as I can, which is probably going to be about once a month. I don’t have the internet where I am, and I don’t like to seek it out.

I love you,

Mama

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