Stars Of Our Lives

T is for Thurmond

My time at Thurmond seemed to exist in its own dimension. It was like one, eternally long day. One that never seemed to end. All of the real days just blended and mushed together, repeating and tangling in my mind no matter how hard I tried to keep them straight.

It was impossible to count them. So instead, I counted seasons. I scratched a 'W' into the paint on my bunk for every winter. An 'S' for every spring. An 'Su' for every summer. And an 'A' for every autumn. In the end, I spent four springs, four summers, five autumns, and five winters at Thurmond.

So little happened in those years, and yet, so much at the same time. It was repetition, a routine designed to break you. And break you it did. Everyday I forced myself out of bed to just get back in it the next night more broken than before. Slowly, so painstakingly slowly, I learned to grow a thicker skin for it all. I learned to stomach it, just enough to survive till the next day. Like all the other girls in my cabin.

Those girls became more than just my roommates. By the end of the first winter, they were my family. We'd stay up as long as our bodies would allow, telling stories about our lives and homes before Psi. Sometimes we'd play games or I'd teach them old songs Krel and I used to sing together. And sometimes we would just sit with each other, too tired to do anything else.

Once, I swiped a pair of sheers from the Garden shed to give everyone a haircut. Just for the fun of it. Mary and Shannon worked meticulously on each other's, while I let Davaros chop away at mine. By the time Mary had helped her even it out, I had something close to a pixie cut. But I loved it anyway.

We clung to those little moments. Those little stories. Thinking back, that's what kept us alive. That's what kept us from losing ourselves behind those barbed wire fences.

But those weren't the only moments that happened.

Oddly enough, those moments, the violent ones, they were good for keeping time too.

The first time I was beaten by a PSF was my third day there. I was bent over in the Garden, my skin blistering with sunburns. Mary had sent me a cross-eyed look to be funny, and I'd chuckled under my breath without thinking.

The nearest PSF was next to me in an instant, grabbing me by my hair and yanking me back. He slammed his baton down on my ribs, another officer holding down my legs so I couldn't curl up to protect myself.

"You wanna laugh?" He's shouted at me. "How 'bout this? This funny? Why aren't you laughing anymore?"

The pain was almost unbearable. The waves and cracks of it, coming down again and again, the horrible feeling of helplessness strangling me.

It was three horrible minutes until he finally stopped, blood smeared across my face. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to be alive. He muttered something about my last name under his breath then spat in my hair. And he left me there. Gasping and bleeding in the dirt.

I could feel the other girl's eyes on me, but I knew none of them could help me. I had to do it myself. 

So I did. 

I shoved down the flaming pain and I sat up. I pushed myself back onto my knees, and I kept working. That night, I waited until Davaros was asleep to ask Mary and Shannon the question buzzing at the back of my mind.

"They called me famous," I said. "They called my whole family famous. Why?"

Shannon sighed. "It's not like we know . . . but we've heard PSFs say things . . ."

"Like what?"

"Like," Mary winced. "They blame the Tarrons for the draft, I think."

"You think?" I asked. "That's a pretty serious accusation."