Liberation

As a young boy, my favorite thing to do was stare at my reflection.
I would often find a reflective surface such as a mirror, shiny table, or a puddle of water, and just gaze into my own eyes, two blue orbs staring back at me. In times like those, I would wonder; Who am I? Why do I exist? What causes me to think the things I do?
None of those questions were ever asked out of sadness, nor were the emotions I felt upon finding no answer for them. Just... pure curiosity.
Though I repeated the practice often, I never did find an answer. Eventually, I decided that some things just weren't worth knowing.
And, as the years went by, I did this less and less often.
Mother did tell me that thinking hard was like digging your own grave.
That was when I was a child. Now, as a nineteen year old man, I don't need to know the answers to such questions. There are far more important things than that.
The bump of a shoulder against mine caught my attention. Looking in the direction the distraction came from, I noticed a young man sitting next to me, his body slumped and his head hanging low, a cap pulled on his head and over his eyes. He seemed to be sleeping. I envied him.
Sleep didn't come easy to me these days. Not to any of us. "Us" referring to the men who were all in the back of this cattle truck with me.
Some of them were old, some young, and some were even, dare I say, handsome. Those thoughts, unfortunately, were the kinds of thoughts that brought us all here. We were on our way to what was called a "liberation" camp. Our sexuality was what we were to be liberated from. We were to be made "better". To be made "straight".
If this was about making us better than, pray tell, how come we haven't been fed in three days? How come we're all crammed into a truck designed for animals, over one hundred of us to a vehicle? How come, at the aforementioned camps, we were worked to the bone and often killed?
Those were the only questions I pondered on these days.
The truck jumped and rustled, the men inside being thrown around like ragdolls, and through the tiny cracks in the roof I could feel a slight breeze flowing through. I didn't care that I was getting stepped on, the clothes I was currently wearing becoming even more filthy. All I cared for was freedom.
The vehicle stopped. For the first time since I stepped onto this death car, the door was being toyed with. Unlocked. Opened. Sunlight streamed through. An officer assigned to this particular group today stood at the front. Arms crossed behind his back, playful glint in his eyes. Daring someone to make a move. He was staring at us.
Suddenly, a small smirk crossed his lips and he spoke.
"Welcome to the California Liberation Camp, boys."