I began to panic as two men lead me down the dimly lit hallway to the warden’s office. My heart was racing, drowning out the squeak of their boots on the damp ground as they walked in unison. I was convinced I had been caught. Every possible means of execution raced through my mind-- who knows what the men would do to me? Just as my eyes began to well up with fear and dread, I was tossed back into reality by the sound of the men knocking on the warden’s door. We entered the room and I sat down in a stiff chair, preparing to face my fate.
“Thank you for bringing her in,” the warden addressed the men. “Brittany, I brought you in
here to tell you that you must be ready by 9 A.M. tomorrow. You have been sold.”
I sighed as a wave of pure relief ran through me. I was not going to be killed, at least not today. “Yes, sir. May I ask whom I have been sold to?”
The warden chuckled in response, amused by my audacity to ask him a question. “Men, take her back to the living quarters. Make sure she is here by 9 tomorrow morning.”
The next morning, I was brought above ground for the first time in my life. The same two men who escorted me to the warden’s office the night before guided me into a small silver car. One of the men sat in the back as a blockade from my escape. The other man drove the car, glancing in the rearview mirror before we departed to ensure I was still there. I had seen pictures of the outdoors before, but when you are stored underground in the old subways of Washington, D.C. since the day of your birth, you do not get out much. In a time where men ruled the nation, and all women were forced to live underground until a man decides to purchase them from the government to cook his meals, clean his house, or please his desires, there was no such thing as freedom.
Recently, I inherited the leadership of an underground women’s rights revolutionary group after the past leader was sold to a rich businessman. I joined the group 7 years ago when I was 16 after I was raped by one of the guards of the living quarters. It was always painful to watch the women around me get raped and abused by the men who patrolled the underground, but it was different when I experienced the trauma myself. I was sick of men oppressing women in the most exploitive, violent, degrading ways, but when I felt the pain personally, I took action. Many other women felt the same as I did-- that’s how the revolutionary group was formed. It was, however, increasingly hard to fight for change when the leaders and members of the group were constantly leaving after getting sold to men. Now, my purchase would be just another weakness in the revolt.
Who knows where I could have been headed-- for all I knew, it could have been the first and last time I saw the outdoors with my own two eyes. I took in the world around me as the car sped off to my next destination. What I recognized as cherry blossoms were beginning to bloom along the side of the road. I spotted a street sign reading "Pennsylvania Ave," cringing at the idea of getting sold to a government official. After all, I was an exceptionally good cook, which made me expensive, and the men who ruled this nation loved buying multiple pricey women. The White House began to materialize in the distance and I longed for everything for which it used to stand: democracy, the pursuit of happiness, the Constitution.
My mind was consumed in my thoughts of the lost revolution. I didn't even notice at first where we were pulling into. It was the White House. At first, I thought it couldn't possibly be true. What were the chances that I, a revolutionary leader, was sold to the President of the United States? I began to think it was some sort of trap. That they took me there to question me about the movement.  In panic, I reminded myself the president was just beginning his term. That meant he needed new cooks, cleaners, and women to sexually relieve him from his stressful job. I reassured myself I was only one of them. The car reached the end of the driveway and the men escorted me into the building.
"Remove all items from your pockets and place your bag on the counter. Step over here to be searched," a Secret Service agent commanded me the second I tentatively stepped through the door. Immediately, I complied with his orders and he forcefully pat me down checking for weapons or any other items. He discreetly slipped a thick piece of folded paper into the waistline of my pants; the edges stabbed into my hips like it was begging to be opened.
After I was guided to my room to settle in and the deadbolt was locked (from the outside), I unfolded the red stationery and attempted to decipher the scribbled handwriting. The note read, "Brittany- I am on your side. I want to help you, but it is not safe here. Meet me by the South Lawn fountain at 2 AM. My partner will let you out of your room at 1:30. Do not be late."
Fear overwhelmed me. I had no way of knowing who to trust here. I realized, however, I had nothing to lose. When the time came, the deadbolt clicked open and the door opened a crack. I hesitantly approached the door and opened it up. The hall was dark, and I could not see much, but the agent knew where he was going without any light. We made it out to the South Lawn in a matter of minutes. The wind was howling; branches were snapping off in the distance. It was blowing a mist from the fountain, and inside of the cloud of mist was the silhouette of the man who gave me the letter with a small, brown package in hand.
“Brittany, this package is for you. There is a small amount of cyanide poisoning enclosed, but it will be enough to kill the president. All you have to do is slip it into his breakfast tomorrow morning. I will be patrolling the kitchen that morning and I will take care of distracting the other agents. If we can take the president down, we have a plan to restore the government back to a democracy and get the women out from underground. We have a network of men up here who are highly trained and have been planning to overthrow the president. Are you willing to do this? This may be our only chance,” the Secret Service agent pleaded. I was going to have to take down the president.
“Why me? Why do you want to help women? How does it benefit you?” I asked the agent in disbelief. He gave me a surprising response, admitting to things many men would never have the guts to admit in this society.
“The treatment of women sickens me. Back when I bought my wife, we had a daughter. Obviously, she was immediately taken underground after her birth. But I couldn’t let her go. I secretly visited her, year after year, until one day I found her dead. A guard came on to her, and she resisted, pushing him off. He showed her the consequences he believed were adequate for a woman who ‘disrespected’ a man. I need to help women like my daughter. Women like you.”
“I will do it,” I responded out of shock and sympathy. “but what is the escape plan? How are you going to get me out of here alive?” It was hard to participate in a coup without knowing the plan.
“We do not have time to discuss the details, at least not tonight. I will extract you from the building once the president begins to die, and there will be a helicopter waiting for us out back. The rest of the men will take care of regaining the power,” he responded. He handed me the package, and turned around heading back towards the White House. I tucked the package under my trembling arm as the other agent escorted me back to my room. I climbed into my bed, only for a sleepless night.
The next morning I prepared the president my signature French toast, but with a hint of the cyanide’s almond flavor. When I finished cooking his meal, I opened the dark oak cabinet and chose a yellow china plate with the presidential seal looming in the center. I slapped the french toast directly on top of that patronizing bald eagle and drizzled the syrup on top, but I began to get scared. I was about to assassinate the President of the United States. There was a fifty-fifty chance I would leave the White House alive. When women overstepped their boundaries of mopping the floors, making dinners, and living as a slave to men’s desires, the consequences were unheard of. Any woman who had defied men never returned again. If they did, they came back damaged beyond repair. Thinking about these women who decided to stand up for their self-worth, however, gave me the courage to walk into the next room and serve the president his breakfast on the dining room table of the White House. After all, men never expected women to revolt. They did not think they had the brains, courage, or power to triumph over men. I placed the plate in front of him, and he began to eat his breakfast without even looking up at me. I took a few steps to the corner of the room, patiently waiting there just in case he needed a drink, or a napkin, or anything else.
Within minutes of finishing his meal, the president fell to the ground, foaming at the mouth. A Secret Service agent who happened to walk by the dining room as my partner and I were escaping through the window raised his gun up, but the other agent shot him to the ground before he could shoot us. After the gunshot, the president fell silent and stiff. The agent and I jumped out the window and sped over to the helicopter without looking back. As the helicopter lifted off of the ground, we realized the other agent who helped us was following close behind. He waved at the helicopter, begging for it to stop and let him in, but he was shot in the back by those who were loyal to the president. I gasped and fell to the floor of the helicopter, struggling to catch my breath as the occurrences of the day caught up to me. The President of the United States was dead, women were going to be freed from years and years of oppression and slavery, and democracy and equality were on their way to restoration in the United States.