I am posting part of chapter 6 from my second book, The Struggle. I hope to have the third book edited by mid-January.
Hidden Illuminati Child
I am 16 years old and Anagram (Ana), my Illuminati cult presenter, is fronting in Germany. I am at one of the Illuminati’s private medical facilities. The doctors here have just confirmed that I am pregnant, and ascertained that the fetus is male. My Illuminati mother is with me. She immediately makes a call to the head of the German family because the child has been fathered by David Rothschild, and may prove a useful tie with the Rothschilds in the future. I pay close attention to the call because I need to know the fate of this child. Would the German father decide that another Battenberg-Rothschild bastard son would not be useful at this point, and so order an abortion? Even worse, would this child be sold at birth into the violent, perverse underworld of sex trafficking and human experimentation? Would I be ordered to foster the child out? Or, maybe, just maybe – I might be allowed to keep my son and raise him myself. Waves of love flood me for my little unborn son, and how I wish that I could be the one to dictate his fate.
The discussion between my mother, who is one of my main Illuminati programmers and the German father continues. Another voice enters the call, and I hear Timothy Brogan, another one of my main programmers join the conversation. He strongly advises that we retain this child because my maternal instincts could then be harnessed for loyalty to the cult and my programming.
As Ana, I know full well that it is extremely common for teenage girls in the Illuminati to be allowed or encouraged to bear a child who is then fostered out or ‘hidden’ in other Illuminati households. This child is essentially a hostage, i.e., the young mothers are told that if their programming fails or they disobey orders from the cult, then they would never be allowed to see their child again, or the child will be killed. Typically, although the Illuminati cult presenters remember the child and look forward to the times they are allowed to be together, the non-cult, ordinary day presenters have no memory of the hidden child because they are told that the child would be painfully killed if they ever remember him or her, or the cult. In this way, the hidden son or daughter helps ensure the amnesia of the non-cult presenters and the obedience of the cult presenters, as an Illuminati child matures into adolescence. I am only surprised that at 16, I have not already been made to have a hidden child.
For a moment I allow myself to hope that my non-cult presenters might be allowed to have the story of being a teenaged mother and so I might actually get to raise the child myself. My heart sinks bitterly, however, as the conversation develops into a detailed discussion of the advantages of fostering my son with the Rothschilds.
“It will cause them to trust Ana more,” notes Brogan.
“This is critical as they are already showing interest in her skills as an oracle,” my mother puts in.
I tune them out as they continue the discussion, wrapping my arms around my belly. Although I do not have the power to keep him, at least, I have the power to love him as long as he is still with me.
The next time I am in France, I tell David, “I’m pregnant,” as I have been told to do by the German family.
“Well, don’t let it come near me until it’s old enough to carry on a decent conversation,” he replies casually.
I think to myself, “Typical David, he doesn’t have a paternal bone in his body.”
It is time for the birth, and I am attended by my twin sister, as expected, and by the people I am closest to in my family: my mother, sister, and my beloved friend, Barbara, who is also a high-ranking trainer. As I deliver my son, I feel a deep surge of sorrow inside. As Ana, I have absolutely no idea that this birth has triggered the deep anguish that my Jesuit cult presenter, Luce, experienced when she had to sacrifice her firstborn years before in Rome. Instead, I believe that it is because I am remembering sacrificing my firstborn son in Germany when I was 13, a required ritual for all Illuminati teenagers. My sadness is dispelled, however, when I catch my first glimpse of my red-faced, crying, very healthy young son. His name is David, in honor of his father. I tenderly pick him up, hold him to my breast, and nurse him, ecstatic at becoming a mother. My attendants all congratulate me, and I fall asleep soon afterwards, my infant son next to me in a small bassinet.
That evening, they move baby David and I to a small stone cottage on the property of the Rothschild main summer residence, with a servant to take care us. Over the next few weeks, I am allowed plenty of time with baby David. I nurse him, burp him, change him, and coo over him. I am completely in love. He has started growing fine wisps of light brown hair, and his eyes are still an infant blue. I am convinced that when I smile at him, he smiles back at times, although he is still so young. My mother, sister, Barbara and other close friends in the Illuminati visit frequently. I never tire of showing David off to them, or of talking about him to them. They smile patiently, and agree with me that he is indeed marvelous.
During one visit, however, my mother states firmly, “It’s time to take him to his foster home.” She had warned me about this event coming several days before, but I had refused to think about it.
I begin crying. “I don’t want to give him up!” I yell. My loud voice startles baby David and seeming almost in sympathy, he begins crying loudly. “See, he wants to stay with me!” I begin crying, and both David and I have tears streaming down our faces.
“You know you have to do this,” my mother and sister remind me. “You will be able to visit David from time to time, and he will always know that you are his real mother and how much you love him.”
Their words don’t help. I love my baby, and cannot bear to give him up.
“I can’t,” I say, trembling. “I’m not able to give him up.”
“If you don’t, you know I can’t let you keep him, if he makes you weak. I will kill him myself to make sure that doesn’t happen,” my mother hisses at me. At this moment, I hate her with a blinding rage. I hate this woman who throughout my life has never tolerated weakness in any form, who has pushed me since earliest childhood with her own blind ambition.
I cannot keep David, but I can make my feelings known.
“I hate you, I hate you, bitch!” I tell my mother. “I will never forgive you for this!”
“Hate me if you must, but know that I am doing my best to protect you and my grandson, even though you can’t realize it now,” my mother says. She reaches out for my son, and I clutch him to my breast.
“Mother, please, don’t do this,” I sob, as anguished tears flow down my face. Little David is crying in tandem with me, his fists curled and his screams filling the room.
“Ana, you must, and you know it!” my mother replies. She sends Lizzie to go and ask two men in the next room to come in and help her take my son away. The men literally hold me and pry my arms open, and take my son, who is still screaming, away. I lie down on the bed, and feel as if I am dying. I cannot describe the loss and bereavement I feel.
I pull myself to my feet and scream, “Kill me, mother!” I cannot even see her for the red haze of rage and grief, “Kill me, finish off what you have started today!”
“Ana, stop it!” she screams back. “You will see David in a year, once he is settled in his new home. Don’t you want him to live? To have a good life?”
“I could have given him a good life!” I yell in anguish.
“You are only a teen, without money of your own. How could you possibly support him? And yourself? For you would both become outcasts if you failed to give him up. Is that the life you want for your son?”
I lie on the bed, and cry for hours, until exhausted, I fall asleep. I have told my mother to leave and not come near me again. Lizzie and Barbara hold me and comfort me. Later in the day, Brogan comes and sits next to me on the bed.
“I hear that giving up wee David was hard on you,” he says, in his brogue that seems like a mix of northern UK and Scottish. “I know your heart is breaking,” he continues.
“You have no idea!” I sob, “I will never recover from this!”
“Aye, I know it feels that way now,” Brogan says. “But one day, you will see your son as a fine young man in a successful career, and feel proud of what you did for him today.”
“I will never be proud of this!” I insist. “I hate you and everyone else for making me do this!”
“You are going through the pangs of motherhood and loss, what all girls your age must go through,” Brogan tells me. “All survive this pain, and it really is for a purpose: to remind you that the daytime presentations must never remember us. To remind you to always obey. For your young son is your covenant to do so, and his life depends on you. I know the price is dear, and has cost you more than you feel you can bear. But for the sake of all the others you love, you must do so. For you also hold their lives in your hands – and your heart – and they also have done the same for you, including your mother, your sister, and your friend.” He turns and looks at Barbara, who is four years older than me, who nods sadly at me.
“I had to send my son away to a foster family too,” she whispers. “I know how really hard this is on you.” I see tears in her eyes, and realize that my closest friend in the Illuminati does understand.
“How did you survive?” I ask.
“One second at a time at first,” she says, coming over to me and taking my hand. “It helps that I can see him whenever I am in Germany. They let me play with him, and he calls me ‘Mama’ and it means the world to me to know that he is doing well.”
“Oh, Barbara,” I say, and fall into her arms, weeping. The others leave, and the two of us cry together for a period of time, and then she holds and kisses me.
“I wish I could live a different life,” I whisper to her.
“S-s-h-h!” she cautions me, whispering into my ear. “They can listen to us, you know. Don’t say anything you don’t want reported back.”
“At this point, I don’t care,” I tell her.
“But one day, you will,” she reminds me. “And your son will, too.” So wordlessly, she holds me and comforts me throughout the night.
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