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Rebirth	By : druscillaryan Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Green Day Views: 931 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Green Day. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Chapter One: The Boy in the Attic
- 2-Chapter Two: The General
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Disclaimer: This never happened, fortunately, and I own no one you recognize.

I would like to say that I hate all the words in this story. They're hateful, evil, mean, and uncalled for in society. But they are necessary for my story. I'm sorry.

"Whoever saves one life, saves the world entire."

Rebirth
Chapter One: The Boy in the Attic

I.

He was young when he kissed the boy in the house next door. They were playing tag when Billie kissed his friend.

He was young when his parents took him to the attic, shut and locked the door. ‘Better a prisoner in your own house than a prisoner in the camps’. Billie didn’t understand what they meant, didn’t understand what a camp was. But he knew how many rafters were in the attic, how many floorboards. He knew how to play tic-tac-toe and he played by himself in the dust on a table.

Billie didn’t know the reason that he was locked in the attic. He had kissed a girl at the park before. His parents had laughed then. There was no attic when he kissed the girl at the park. When he kissed the boy next door there was screaming. No one smiled. His father grabbed him by the arm and threw him in the attic.

He didn’t know why. It would be years later before he found out.

The raid happened four years later though Billie knew nothing of time. He heard screaming and crashes, the cries of the baby that had been born while he was locked in the attic. He said nothing, made no sound. He was brought no food for three days. That’s how he knew his family, as they were once called, was gone.

It was on the fourth day that he heard the attic door being opened. He shrunk into the corner, under the table. It was a boy who saw him. A boy that was much older than Billie. At least Billie, who had not seen himself in a mirror for two years, thought so. In reality, the boy was only two years older than Billie’s twelve.

The boy said nothing at first, just shut the attic door behind him. He stood as high as the low ceiling would permit, surveying the boy under the table. “Who are you?” he asked finally. His voice was different from Billie’s, a faded English accent under his words.

“I-I live here.” Billie said softly, the first words he’d spoken to a person since he was eight years old.

“Who locked you in here?” the boy spoke with authority and cool detachment. “Your parents?”

“Where are they?” Billie asked, surprised that he cared. The people who recently occupied the house meant so little to him now.

“They were taken to the camps. Did you know your parents are Jewish?” The boy’s fingers traced the stain of the rafters on the ceiling.

Billie’s green eyes blinked. “What’s Jewish?”

The boy snorted. “You’re either really stupid or really funny. Hell, maybe even both. What’s your name?”

“Billie.” He crawled out from under the table, but didn’t stand.

“Billie. William.” the boy paused. “English. That’s interesting.”

“It’s not William. It’s just—“

“Shut the hell up. That wasn’t a question.” the boy snapped. “Now get up. It’s time to find out if you’re getting processed or not.”

II.

“So why did they lock you in the attic?” the boy asked, watching Billie practically inhaling bread and water. He was idly pulling the trigger of an empty gun pointed at the ceiling, feet on the table.

“I think it’s because I kissed someone.” Billie said, feeling no shame. At eight years old he hadn’t yet discovered the trait and being locked away from society hadn’t developed it either.

“Who the hell did you kiss to cause that?” the boy asked, not even turning his eyes toward Billie. “Jew? Spic? Faggot? Nigger? Ragh—“

“What’s that mean?” Billie interrupted, causing the boy to turn and smack him across the face.

“Don’t you fucking interrupt me! I could shoot you right now and no one would give a shit, you understand?” The boy pointed the empty gun at Billie, pressing it directly to his head and clicking the trigger. “Now tell me who you kissed.”

“He lived next door.” Billie whispered. “His name was Nathan.”

“You’re a faggot?” the boy asked, laughing. “Damn, kid. No wonder they locked you in the attic.”

Billie looked as if he were going to cry. “What’s a faggot?”

“It means you want to fuck other guys.” the boy said. He slapped Billie before another word left his mouth. “And you’re definitely not getting processed. You’re damn lucky for it, too. Now shut up and stop asking stupid questions. Here’s what’s going to happen:

“You’ll stay here in this house. If you leave it, either I or someone else will shoot you. You will never say ‘no’ to me. Tomorrow I’ll pick you up clothes and you’ll wear only them, not that you have much of a choice. And you’ll stop asking stupid questions.”

Billie bit his bottom lip, nodding. He needed to ask those ‘stupid questions’. Being locked in an attic for four years hadn’t given him much of a vocabulary, let alone socialized him.

He didn’t know about the world.

And he didn’t know about the war.

“C-Can I ask one more question? Then that’s it?” Billie asked, voice getting nervously high. He winced, expecting to be hit.

“Let’s hear it.” the boy said, tossing his gun from hand to hand.

“What’s your name?”

Two blue eyes looked at him in shock and the boy’s lips almost smiled. “Michael. Biblical.” There was a pause. “Call me Mike.”

Billie gave a nod, followed by a yawn. He was dragged down the hall by the boy named Mike and pushed roughly into a room. “Don’t leave here until I come get you.”

“Good night.” Billie murmured. It was something the woman he used to call ‘mother’ said to him once upon a time.

There was a pause. Then the light disappeared, the door shut, and the lock clicked. And for the first time since he kissed the boy next door, Billie fell asleep in a bed.

III.

Billie was sitting on the bed, legs crossed and playing with the bottom of the pants Mike had forced him into after his shower. He gave a tired sort of smile when the door opened. Mike didn’t return it. “I’ve been thinking. Why didn’t your parents turn a faggot like you into the camps?”

Billie said nothing, remembering the way Mike had slapped him for asking questions the day before.

“Let me guess.” Mike snapped, throwing Billie down on the bed. “You don’t know what the camps are?” When the younger boy shook his head, Mike spit on him. “They’re for people like you. Faggots, kikes, handicapped—“

“And I’m a faggot.” Billie said, closing his eyes.

Mike spit on him again. “Yeah, you are.”

“Wh-Who doesn’t go?”

“What the hell did I tell you about questions?” Mike snarled. “Do you really want me to shoot you?”

“No.” Billie whispered.

“Kid, what the hell is wrong with you? You don’t know anything about camps, you don’t know what a faggot is, you don’t know anything! How old were you when they locked you up? How old?” Mike yelled.

“I was eight.” Billie said quietly. “I just had my birthday.”

“How old are you now?” Mike demanded.

“I-I don’t know.”

Obviously not satisfied and quite pissed with the answer he received, Mike spit on the younger boy again. “Stay here.” he stormed out of the room, cursing under his breath. Billie heard gunshots, more cursing, and footsteps. Mike entered the room again. “You’re twelve.” A paper was held in front of Billie’s face, his birth certificate. “They locked you in the attic for four fucking years. No wonder you’re so fucking stupid.”

Billie wanted to protest, to say he wasn’t stupid, but he didn’t want to be spit on or smacked either. So he simply sat there and pretended everything Mike was saying was true. “Th-They said I was better there than in the in the c-camps.”

“You were.” Mike said. He lit a cigarette. “Better locked in an attic for four years than four hours in one of the camps. At least you’re alive.”

“They’re dead then.” Billie said. He said it with complete detachment. He had long ceased to believe he had family. Someone who shoves food into the attic two times a day is not family.

“Yes.” The confirmation was also said with no emotion. “Better off in the death camps than the experimentals.” Mike apparently didn’t mind explaining about the camps. His face almost glowed as he explained them. “The death camps are easiest for the kikes, the faggots, all you degenerates. You either get shot or thrown in the showers. I think you should all get thrown to the doctors but my father says it’s too costly and why would we want to waste extra money on you?”

Billie said nothing, his mind that was still eight years old trying to comprehend what was being said. “Showers.” He didn’t raise his voice up at the end like a question spoken. He hoped it might not be rewarded with a slap.

“Gas showers. You breathe in the gas, the gas kills you. But the experimentals are the most fun.” Mike’s face lit up again. “The doctors test you. Sometimes they cut a hand off to see how long you’ll live before you bleed out. How much hair they can pull out before—“

“Please stop.” Billie said, his face going white at the mention of blood. He knew he was going to get slapped but it was better than listening.

Mike glared at him. “Go shower. Now. Your clothes are in there. Now!” he snarled as Billie slowly crawled off of the bed.

Billie was feeling as though he would drown in the water when he heard things being kicked and the cursing of the boy who had found him in the attic. The fourteen year old boy with a gun who thought Billie’s name was Faggot. The boy who pistol whipped Billie as soon as he walked out of the bathroom, before kicking him and walking to the kitchen.

Billie woke up with blood sticky on his cheek. He went to the bathroom to wash it off, flinching when Mike appeared in the doorway. “You need a haircut.” he noted. He grabbed Billie and pulled him by the arm toward the kitchen. The washcloth, dotted with blood, fell to the floor.

Mike cut Billie’s hair to his shoulders, his fingers running down through it. “It’s thick.” Mike’s own hair was cut short. When he was out ‘among people who mattered’, though Billie didn’t know it, his hair would be in a side part. A dark hat with a symbol Billie wouldn’t understand on his head. A fourteen year old dressed as a soldier.

“If I were a faggot, you’d be pretty.” Billie smiled and Mike slapped him. “I’m not.” he snarled. “So don’t smile at me like that.”

“I kissed a girl once.” Billie mumbled quietly. “I kissed a girl once, too.”

“Say whatever you want. You’re a faggot no matter how many girls you kiss. It only takes one time. You’ll never lose that. You’ll have that pink triangle branded on you for life. A faggot Jew.” Mike lit another cigarette.

Billie wasn’t a Jew. He didn’t know what a Jew was, but he wasn’t one. Mike knew what a Jew was. He knew Billie wasn’t one. He knew why Billie’s parents were dead. Mike hated his father. And he knew why Billie’s parents were dead.

IV.

Billie was in the corner of his room. He was hiding under the desk. He knew Mike would kick the desk. Mike knew where he was hiding. It took three minutes for Mike to come in and kick the desk. He pulled Billie up by his hair and threw him against the wall. “What did I say to you about telling me no, fag?”

“You wanted me to put my hand on the stove!” Billie shrieked hysterically. His eyes widened as Mike pushed him to the bed, then lit a cigarette.

“Come here.” Mike beckoned with his fingers, cursing when Billie didn’t move. Taking two steps toward the bed, the lit cigarette pressed against Billie’s cheek. The younger boy screamed as tears flooded his eyes. The cigarette pressed to Mike’s lips. “You need to learn to listen to me.” With that he left the room.

Billie was washing his face when he saw Mike next, a new cigarette in his hand. “Does it hurt?” He received a small nod. “Remember that.”

“It hurts less than a stove would.” Billie mumbled.

“You want to figure out?” Mike snapped. “You keep it up, faggot, and you’ll have more to deal with than a couple of burns.”

Billie didn’t say anything, just went back to wiping at his cheek. Mike watched him for a few minutes then shrugged and walked away. Sometimes he wished he had left Billie locked in the attic. One less faggot to worry about.

He didn’t know what had made him leave the attic door open when it should have been closed. He didn’t know why Billie wasn’t lying with the other faggots in a mass grave, a number burned to his flesh. It couldn’t be because he felt sympathy for him. Mike’s father was second in command of the Rebirth militia; his son didn’t feel sympathy.

Billie appeared in the doorway of the kitchen with his head down, wet hair hanging in his face. “I’m sorry.” he whispered, turning to leave.

“Wait.” Mike stood up and walked to the younger boy, pulling the back of his hair so Billie’s green eyes looked at him. “You’re learning.” he said. “Eat. Then go read or something. Stay out of the attic and stay in the house.”

Billie blinked. “Mike, can you tell me about the war?”

Once again, the fervor returned to Mike’s face. He sat down and Billie sat across from him. “Do you even know what war is?”

“People fight? And go to camps?” Billie tried. “Like faggots and sikes and Jews?”

“Kikes.” Mike corrected. “And Kikes are Jews. It would be called murder if it weren’t war, what we do. But it’s war so it’s all right. We’re getting rid of you.” He looked straight at Billie. “All of you that aren’t worth it. One perfect race. No fags, no Jews, no blacks, no crips, no Catholics, no half-breeds, no immigrants, no French or American or Irish.”

“But I’m not most of that.” Billie said. “I think.”

“You’re a fag and you’re a kike. Your family’s German but that’s not good enough.” Mike shrugged. “You’ll die soon enough.” Billie bit his bottom lip. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re shit to me. Once I get sick of you it’ll either be an experimental or I could take you outside and shoot you. Depends on how much you piss me off.”

Billie’s head lowered again. “Can I go now?”

Mike’s chair scraped as he pushed it away from the table. “Eat first. If I wanted you to look like a camp worker then you’d be in a camp.” When Billie didn’t move Mike did, cocking his gun and shooting it at the ceiling. Billie stared at him, green eyes wide.

“Eat.”

Billie moved as quickly as possible to the nearest cupboard, bursting into tears after Mike left the room. At least when he was locked in the attic a fourteen year old boy with a gun wasn’t shooting at the ceiling and burning him with cigarettes. But despite the fact that Mike obviously wanted him dead, Billie wasn’t running away.

He needed him.
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