Tattoo

I'm not really pleased with this, but I've been fidgeting all day and I don't think I will stop anytime soon, so I'd better post it before I change it again. Sigh. Fickle be my middle name.

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I look down at the boy in front of me: the stumps on his back, the questions in his eyes. His father's lips are pursed, the distance between him & his crying wife, telling. He blames her. This could never have come from his side of the family. 

I force a smile. I hear myself asking inane questions like if Batman and Superman were to fight, who would win? Did he like school? What games did he & his friends like to play? All the time, calculating, plotting, planning... It always went easier when they didn't fight it. When they didn't fight me. When they didn't see it coming. 

Did he want to see a magic trick? I could show him one... My hands were like torches. I could make them glow. Did he want to see my glowing hands? See? Weren't they special? Watch them glow... They were warm. See? When I touched him... See how warm they were? Does his back itch sometimes? I think my hands could help with that. They're so warm you see - it'll help with the itch. Yeah it was hard trying to scratch something you can't reach. Why didn't he turn around & see if I could help with that. Look at mum. Look at dad.

"Look at mummy, baby. That nice woman's going to help you. Just look at mummy."

It's hard to hear her clearly through the tears she's trying to choke back, but the boy responds to her voice. 

I lay my warm glowing hands on the boy's back. I feel the familiar metallic burn in my throat. Feel the blood soak into my shirt, making it stick to my back. I bite back what is almost a sob. How the hell did they ever convince me that the pain was my lot in life, my destiny...

The boy cries out. Tries to get away. His mother falls to her knees, reaches for him. Calista makes sure she doesn't get in the way, doesn't interrupt the transfer. I focus on my breathing, beyond the red haze, beyond the buzzing in my ears. Just breathe. Breathe.

I only know it's over when Calista gently lowers my hands. She speaks to the grateful parents. They're always grateful. They always don't know how to thank you. They always say so as they hurry to the door, eager to leave before someone sees them. Calista is all business as she sees them out, locks the door, gets the bowl and the sponge and settles down beside me. She peels off my shirt and cleans me.  She is as silent as I need her to be.

It seems an aeon before I am strong enough to stand. I go to my room & turn my back to the mirror. The wings are magnificent, impossible hues of blue and silver, cascading from my shoulder blades to the small of my back. Had they let him keep them, the boy would have been able to take flight. To soar.

"To escape..." I whispered.

He would have had to. Escape. The stigma. The shame. 

So instead, I took them. His wings. His stigma. There are a few of us who can, who will. The few of us you shun. Whom you pretend you don't see. We know who you are. We display your shame, literally, on our bodies, in all its glory, so you cannot meet our eyes. We are walking reminders of the Vote. The radiation fallout is all of our faults. We will be paying for it for generations to come. Some more than others. 

I have managed to hide the tattoos still - the red & purple vine hasn't yet broached the boundary of my turtleneck. Wearing pants hides the dragon encircling my ankle, weaving its way like a Grecian sandal strap, upwards to my left thigh. Thankfully, the third eye graces my right bicep and not my forehead. I can still manage trips into the city, glorying in ordinary tasks like grocery shopping or having a drink at a bar. I'm safe so long as I'm well covered.

There will come a time when I have to make a choice between hiding who I am and embracing the truth. Till then, I can still waffle between pretension and guilt, between the me naked in the mirror and the me I hide beneath the veneer.

It's a calling, they told me. You're chosen. You have a path. Embrace your gift and accept it with selflessness and pride.

Bullshit. 

They make it sound like you don't have a choice, but with the 20-20 vision of hindsight, I absolutely had a choice. I think that's why they recruit young - when they can weave you tales of the noble greater good, and sell you on how you are serving your people. You're too young to comprehend what you're giving up, what you're sacrificing... You're too raw to understand that though these people need you, they don't have to accept you.

We are isolated like lepers, as if genetic mutation is somehow contagious. As if we have all devolved back to uneducated, superstitious cavemen since the War.

I had never been in love, you see. I had never wanted to stretch out, exhausted, sated & naked beside another warm body and see lust, love & acceptance shine back from their eyes. I didn't know what I was giving up, Calista. I didn't know.

And then the tears came.