15 YEARS AGO
Aren't you bothered?
Gray walls, monotonous routine, paper thin clothing not enough to fend off the cold weather. The holidays are just about to arrive and she's not looking forward to it at all, yet a warm smile is etched on her lips. It is not emitting that warmth of fondness or hope, but of being resigned to fate.
The breakfast is the usual stale bread, only a piece for her to eat upon all her comrades have taken one each and left. As much as she wanted to have some soup to ease the feeling of having colds, she stopped in her tracks upon noticing the bunch of flies already gathered around the pot and ladle held by that sweet old lady who's still capable of doing all the chores despite having a bad back. Noticing the burgundy and honey yellow shawl wrapped around the elder's trembling shoulders, she'd thought of the day her and two of her friends gave it as a joke, yet until now it's still worn by her with such a genuine smile on the now wrinkled face signifying the span of time, she's able to survive, unlike her and the other orphans, the youthful ones.
Life does not care about age, does she?
The lady's one of the few individuals who has been kind to her. Behind the walls when she was continuously hit by a wooden stump or locked up inside a metal cabinet that smell nothing but rust, she never forgets to give her something to eat, even if it's just broken and soggy rice crackers despite of her trembling physique, as anything else is quite hard to be hidden well. She remembers when she tried to wait beside the leaking faucet even if the drops are seconds apart, just to wet the drying lips and lessen the burning sensation in her throat.
Returning to reality, she just went to the guard on the entrance door, held her hands for the iron cuffs to be removed before hitting the road. It has been three days since she was able to feel the gentle breeze outside, together with the sunlight hitting her face, not strong enough yet to cause burns but is quite uncomfortable for her dim eyes still adjusting to the brightness.
Isn't it tiring?
She takes the toolbox from one of her colleagues, quite shabby now in comparison to when she was starting, and then wears the usual disposable clear raincoat over the uniform which is nothing but just a faded gray jumpsuit, flinching occasionally when the edges hit her bruised wrists. It reminds her again of the damp walls in jail, where light only reaches when someone outside shines a lamp beside the small opening for food.
After a short wave of nostalgia, she got pulled back into the present when one hits her on the side with a baton he's holding, looking at her with a confused and hurried expression, as if telling her to move quickly and just start doing the tasks given. Still flinching from the pain from her side hit increasing every time her ribs move as she breathes, she starts walking towards an abandoned bus that is still connected to the collector's truck. Ibis red paint chipped off in most parts, the once brick red now rustic in color stains of blood is all over the tires and sides of the vehicle. Proceeding inside, she sees the almost empty gas tank mark and the key still left hanging and with just one swipe it would bring the bus back to life if not for other factors needed but not present at the moment.
The existence of the town where she grew up has always been a topic of debate that even involves the national government and humane non-political bodies. In the eyes of the public, her mere existence shouldn't have existed at all. In the face of the gains, she's more than valuable. She'll never die easily.
Living in that place she'll never call home, after undergoing various plights to avoid being thrown away or deleted from the list of workers, or the orphans who have come of age to handle both menial and physically draining tasks, she only lightly understands the concept of varying emotions, but she does understand the feeling of hunger and tiredness. Fear is irrational and pain can be numbed. Other than those, everything else are not essential and should not be given attention. Once in a while, when she breaks out of that circle of thoughts, together with others who do it as well, she ends up locked in isolation for a month at most.
A broken arm can be reconnected, an open wound can be healed, but once dreams started showing up after every sleep, it's a need for isolation as well. You shouldn't dream. You cannot dream. That's a daily mantra. But then she keeps her quiet for she enjoys that fleeting feeling of thrill, of enjoyment, of oddities she'll never encounter while awake. To reach places she'll never set her feet on or have a normal pleasant conversation with people she'll never meet, all those fragments of her night illusions are treasures she'll always keep in mind. It'll always be worth it despite of the beatings.
Remembering being locked inside her cell, she contemplates upon knowing that her roommate would return for the night. Perhaps, she talks while asleep, or tosses loudly in bed, both actions deemed inappropriate for her. She, like the others in that orphanage, exists for the country, the same country that could easily abandon them. After all, the government provides funds for that orphanage to continue despite of other similar facilities starting to crumble down and were forgotten.
Why lose the chance of being stuck alone in a different room now? It will always be the best scenario.
If she ever gets beaten once again, what does it differ from the hundreds she'd already received before? It won't make sense to feel afraid now. For her, it still felt better than the whimpers in punishments from the red chambers where she once peeked into but will never get access through.
Her faults are appropriately disciplined through isolation and sense of reflection, and it means the basement level, but those who are brought into the upper floor where those rooms filled with red decors can be found, smelling of sweat and filled with sounds of profanities, they're not even given an explanation on what they've done wrong. It's always, of them being unlucky at that time. She's the one of those who never gets called, and she might not be emotionally mature, but she understands.
She started having doubts that day, something she'd never expected to think of while growing up. After some time, eating the leftovers or cleaning bloodstains with the body still beside her doesn't even faze her anymore. Right now, amidst the changes she wanted to accept it all, but hugging the difference kept bothering her peace and supposed stability she's grown accustomed to. The more she knows, the more she fears. Their purpose of existence has always been clear, yet the path still felt foggy and it's getting harder to keep on walking with a blind eye each day she lives in that hole. Turning dirty to clean. Being cleaned to turn dirty.
Another hit of the baton on her left shoulder pulls her away from the recurring thoughts and seeing the pissed-off look from the officer observing her work, she starts the cleaning process. Dead bodies were normal, burnt ones felt nastier, but picking the parts one by one like this was new for most of them. Was the person who decided to do the crime simply interested in the rush that killing gives? Was it due to some history the culprit wants to avenge for? Was the action planned and preemptive? Sudden and rushed?
She should not be curious. The only expression she should be having now is that blank look in the face like everyone else but she kept on imagining various forms of reenactment in her head, curiosity growing each day. Sooner or later, it'll be her body that will be collected in the same manner, by someone wearing the same dull uniform she's adorned now. It's not hundreds of generations yet, but the facility that cradled her formation has a story of its own and every year feels nothing but another copy of the past decades.
When those people wearing fancy and bright pieces of clothes and ornaments pay that facility a visit while looking at her with either disgust or pity, she'd heard them say she's like a prisoner, or how unlucky she is to be born with the predisposition of being in that pigpen, and of her wasted youth and hazy future.
What irritates her the most was the smell that lasts for a while even after they're long gone. Of strong and expensive cigars used by the men and of pungent perfumes owned by the women, or vice-versa, either way it brings her into a fitting cough, together with the others who try to pretend they're not affected at all with tears welling up in their eyes. After all, they should be sensitive enough to cope with the needs and the nature of their work, as much as it pains them. It's one of the many things expected from them.
As she places the last piece of the slim fingers with bone slightly seen peeking between torn flesh and skin, she was pulled into the side and pushed again after a folded canvas clothing was thrown over her head. Pulling it off and placing it on the road, she places the container on the side and starts laying them one by one, like a routine. There should never be piece amiss. Or she'll the one to lose something in place of it.
She never writes the results but simply do observations; she's not allowed to infer or comment. It is simply doing all the dirty works needed to comply with the requirements while the achievement easily falls into the arms of those who simply provided the answer after the whole process. Solving and long equations were already settled on the spot by people they are familiar with but do not mingle with as they only get the information needed and move outside the clearance area. Them and their crisp-looking suits.
Nothing of the sort is of that much importance to her though, of easily forgotten wins or empty recognitions. They can never be recorded outside the facility as part of the society. Never, if the orphanage houses them. Solitude felt more valuable. Being alone without all the eyes observing every action to accomplish the tasks given or being locked up on her own to think of what she's supposedly done wrong despite of having done nothing wrong at all, those were the hours she craves for.
Giving her full attention once again to the reassembling of the bones, she noticed a set which is of a smaller built, indicating a child, someone most likely not in the teens yet, and her thoughts wandered once again to the memories of her own childhood.
Of the days she'd asked why some of her roommates were pulled away with cheeks tear-stained while others are cowering in fear. Or when they attended to each of them to make sure they take the medicine without a name every morning upon waking up and at night before going to bed. The little games they play among themselves while in a blind spot away from what the cameras can reach. The lighthearted pranks and the little bits of laughter she can still remember despite of being taught not to act that way. They were still embedded deeply in her mind, but her chest hurts every time she remembers.
It signifies weakness. And every sign of weakness is deemed inappropriate and useless. If one cannot thrive towards the path they lay in front, might as well not allow one any chance of traversing it at all.
For now, she'll walk on that road, until she has the strength to pave the way she wants to tackle for herself.
Wouldn't it be nice to just get away and have a make-believe story of your own what ifs?
Wouldn't it be nice to slowly count your last days while looking at the swaying bamboo leaves behind the wall where you hid when you were still a kid, clouds passing by reminding you of the cotton candy left by a social worker but ended up shrinking because you just looked at it for hours?
'What are you stalling there? Move!'
His voice sounds more like a ruffian, with a tinge of phlegm. As much as he had looked tough before, in her eyes, he has always been the softest of all the guards there, not in strength but in how he cares for them by ensuring that they won't get hurt in the process of cleansing done. His old age doesn't demean his tough standing among the ranks but amplified it instead.
He is someone she looks up to, but even if she does reach his strength, she'll never receive the same recognition nor acceptance. As he moved into the direction of other workers, line of sight now back to the assembled bones, she removes the dusted gloves and start going towards the toxic waste bin.