Burn With The Stars

The times were so different, compared to what I was told existed a long time ago. Mama Nancy had told me tales of a people filled with hopes and dreams to conquer the odds and seemly achieve the impossible. Her description of what was had sounded so perfect. It left me wishing that I was born during those times. Truthfully, it sounded like a fairy tale, and we all know what they say about fairy tales; they never existed.

Apparently, there was once equality among us. We lived in a sect-less society. The family unit was sacred and valued. Kids were shown unconditional love; they weren’t exploited and valued based on their usefulness. They could dream and be filled with so much hope for their future, encouraged to love and be loved by friends and family. Sadly, things changed.

This is Urania, and things are completely different now. For one, kids weren’t allowed to grow up with their families anymore. They were groomed in the children's halls until they come of age for an outing ceremony.

Each time I think about my time in those halls, I don’t seem to recall any memory. The first-ever memory I recall was the day I was outed. I was 10 years old at the time, which was the normal age for the outing ceremony. It was the first and worst day of my life.

It’s been 11years since that day and I still have nightmares about it. I have never stopped asking myself if there was something I could have done differently to change the result of my reading. I remember hoping it was a wrong reading altogether. I even tried to convince myself that a second reading would give a different result. I just needed to be tested again and everything would be fine.

As they dragged me out me of the hall, I had hoped my screams would save me from the doom they had sentenced me to, but they had paid me no mind. They just went on with the reading of the next child. I guess I wasn’t the first child they heard screaming like their life depended on it.

They called me a parasite, meaning I had no value. I existed at the mercy of others. Since I had no gifts, the least I could do was to serve the ones that had. So they said. People like me were called an abomination to Urania. I wasn’t even given a birth name. No one tagged a parasite was. We could keep the serial numbers given to us at the children’s hall, but that was the only means of identification granted to us.

I was assigned to the fields, to labour on a Royal’s farm. It took me seven years of extra labour to afford to buy a name for myself. I chose Evelyn Bolt. I had no hidden meaning why I choose the name. It just sounded right at the time.

There were many others like me, “Parasites”. We are the most populated sect in Urania. I heard it bothered the royals that the number of abominations kept increasing yearly and the thought of this always gladdens my heart. I should at this point establish that any discomfort to the royals gladdened my heart.

* * *

It was a horrible day, as usual. That was nothing new. Except that my slave driver was meaner than usual, everything else remained the same. He had always been the lead actor in my nightmares, but with his current decline in character, they were just going to get worse. Although life as a parasite was hard, I quit complaining about it when I turned 16.

As parasites, we were the labour force of Urania. We were the builders, cleaners, guards, farmers, gardeners, tailors and providers of all other menial services. We offered these services to the families we were assigned to. It would have been fine if we were paid for our labour, but as parasites, we are regarded as slaves. We are forced to serve without pay. The little stipend granted to us at the end of each year is said to be underserved. They worked us tirelessly daily, controlled us with the help of the slave drivers assigned to us, and left us to decay.

Some families were kinder than others and provided their parasites with the pill to slow down the decay process, but very few families provided enough and no parasite could afford the pill, so decaying was inevitable.

My slave driver had never been a nice man, but his attitude towards me and the seven others assigned to him had worsened considerably. There was a cruelty to him I had never seen before. I avoided him as much as I could because of this. I didn’t want to be at the receiving end of his next angry outburst. I had no proof of my suspicions at first, but the foul smell that soon began to ooze off of him confirmed to me his decay process had accelerated rapidly. No one else seemed to smell the odour, but my senses had never been wrong.

Even though there were no physical symptoms of decay on him which was the reddening of the eyes and the darker colouration of the skin coupled with disgusting-looking sores, I knew he had lost control of his decaying process the same way I knew something bad was going to happen to Mama Nancy. It had been a gut-wrenching feeling I just couldn’t ignore at the time. I haven’t been able to put my fingers around what made me so sure, but I hadn’t been wrong.

I still remember the slap I received when I told her that her serial number was going to be called on the next roll call. How could I ever forget it? Aside from my slave driver, no one else had had the privilege of hitting me. You see, fighting was prohibited in the halls. And even if it wasn’t, no one had any energy left to engage in any physical alteration at the end of a full day.

After that incident, she didn't speak another word to me. A week later, her serial number was called, and that was the last time I saw her. Her expression when she was being dragged outside the hall has hunted me ever since. I saw great fear in her eyes, one I had never seen before, but what was most alarming was that her fear wasn’t directed at the guards, it was directed at me.

It’s been five years since that incident and I still haven’t been able to figure out what was so scary about me. I had nightmares about it the first couple of months after it happened. Honestly, I still do sometimes. The actors in my nightmares change with the season, the only constant in these dreams is me.

* * *

The cold winter breeze gushed into the room from the opened window, causing me to shiver. I reached for my cover sheet and hugged it more tightly. As usual, a nightmare woke me up from sleep. The actual issue was that I am never able to recollect the dream. The only things I remember are the emotions I felt in the dream, which are “fear and despair”. It usually keeps me awake the rest of the night and the fear of having another nightmare keeps me awake at night a couple of days later until I succumb to my body and sleep again. Then the cycle begins all over again.

I tried to turn over to my left side as I laid on my bed. Lying on my back wasn’t doing working out for me anymore. Wrong move. My attempt at moving only multiplied the pains I was feeling all over my body. Courtesy of the day’s work.

My slave driver worked me like crazy today even though I tried my best not to provoke him. I hoped he would be in a better mood tomorrow, even though I doubted he would. His mood seemed to worsen daily because of his accelerated decay process in my personal opinion and I, unfortunately, have had to deal with it.

I made another attempt to turn over to my right side. Grunting through the painful and slow process, I successfully turn this time.

Looking out through the opened window, I noticed it was pitch black outside. Not even a single star could be seen in the sky. More surprising to me was the noticeable silence. I spent most of my nights wishing sleep away thanks to my nightmares, so am always awake at this time of night and am quite familiar with the sounds of the night. The usual chipping sounds were gone, so were the painful sobs and morphed screams.

I always tried to ignore does every single time. It never did me any good pondering on what or who was crying or why they were crying.

On very few occasions, the sobs were from my hall mates and I knew what was being done to them. Each time the slave drivers came into our hall at night, I snored louder. Everyone did. It was a failed attempt to convince ourselves that we could do nothing to help because we were fast asleep, but the shame it brought the next morning was undeniable.

As long as I did not know who was abused, I didn’t have to avoid anyone’s gaze. I force myself to move on from it, but at the back of my mind, am praying I wouldn’t be next to be visited. Thankfully, I was very healthy, so they stayed away from me. They always went for the deteriorating ones because no one would question why they spiralled so low so quickly during the monthly screening. That was expected from someone who had lost control of their decay process.

The mate lying beside me whispered something in her sleep. She must be having a pleasant dream with that grin on her face. I thought to myself. I fought the urge to wake her up. Being green with envy was clouding my judgement because even if I woke her up, it still wouldn’t help me sleep. Her ability to sleep so peacefully was a superpower I wished I had. Sleep was the only relief we got in this terrible place. After an entire day filled with hard labour, the six hours of sleep were the most valued treasure, but for obvious reason, I couldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t because of lack of trying.

I have tried every trick there is in the book to chase away nightmares, but to no avail. All my attempts have failed miserably, leaving me very frustrated with myself. But tonight was very different. The dream felt different as well. So was the fear. It was more intense, more personal. I tried to wish it away, but I couldn’t. It was that knowing feeling all over again. Something bad was about to happen and this time, it was about to happen to me.

I lay silently, hoping the morning never came. There was a certainty, unlike anything I had ever experienced before, that it was going to be my worst nightmare manifesting itself in real life. There was going to be another roll call, and my number was going to be on it. My instincts have never been wrong, it was what has kept me alive all this while.

In the eleven years I’ve been here, there have been 120 roll calls. There has never been a fixed date for it. It could happen any day of the week, but it was usually within a 4-6 weeks interval. Living in constant fear of being called, especially when you had no idea when it was going to be, was exhausting.

Glancing again at my hall mate lying beside me. I try to recall her number, but fail. I try to recall anyone’s number, anyone at all, but come up with nothing. Everyone here is a step away from death. Names and numbers are irrelevant. Speech itself was a waste of strength.

I haven’t spoken to anyone ever since Mama Nancy was taken away, well, except arguing with my slave drivers, which happens a lot. This is probably why he has been so cruel to me lately. Added to the fact that he was on a downward spiral. I was a nuisance to the slave drivers, and I did that because they couldn’t hurt me. Not as much as they do the others. I hadn’t begun decaying, and the council knew that. If any unusual spike showed up in my reading, it would be easy to detect, and my slave driver would have to answer for it.

I wondered if I would be missed after I’m gone. Would anyone remember me? I still remembered Mama Nancy. She had been my only friend here. I had literarily forced her to start speaking to me. Now, I miss her more than ever. On nights like this, when I couldn’t sleep, she usually sang me lullabies. They never helped, but the gesture was appreciated.

I concluded a while ago that my slave driver had been right when he said befriending one another was a bad idea. They usually discouraged inmate conversations and punished us if they found us communicating with one another for too long. Making friends was a horrible idea, because when they are taken away, you are left with all these memories to deal with, which was why I stayed away from anybody and everybody after Mama Nancy was taken. I had learnt my lesson. But now that my end was arriving, a small part of me wished I had made friends. At least, I wouldn’t be forgotten so soon. There would be someone silently grieving for me the same way I was grieving for Mama Nancy.

I hoped her death came quickly enough, even though I know having your organs harvested couldn’t have been pleasurable, I choose to believe she died blissfully and painlessly and I will take this belief with me to my grave, which is not so far away anymore, for my own sanity.

I doubt they found any healthy enough organ to harvest from her anyway. She was already so weak. Considering the unfavourable condition we were kept in., her organs were most likely irredeemable.

* * *

Suddenly, I hear multiple footsteps approaching from outside the hall accompanied by a familiar stench of decay.

My slave driver was close, and he wasn’t alone. The day must have broken.