The Islanders

i.

                Prisoners smell. They smell like sweat and piss and infection. Of course, these are teen prisoners I'm talking about. I don't know how it is in the other wings of this place – for all I know, the adult wing could be sparkling white walls and tea parties – but where I am? Please. Flies already have a short life span, but I'm sure they die faster in here. Their carcasses sit on windowsills, in between the bars, and litter the corners of rooms and the sides of halls.

                A siren rings around the building, echoing off the grey stone walls. The cuffs around my wrists rub against my skin in a way that makes me wince. I wish the guards would drop the whole thing; no one here has enough guts to make a break for it. And if there was someone who did, she's smart enough to know better. The guards are trained to shoot first and ask questions later. I've seen them take down prisoner after prisoner. They are ruthless and operate on the idea that, since we're prisoners, we're already dead and bullets are cheap.

                The person behind me spits and I feel some of it ricochet off of the ground onto my ankle. I make a sound of disgust, earning me a look from the guard closest to me. He raises a brow, either from curiosity or as a warning; I can never tell. Some of the guards are actually nice – as nice as prison guards can be – but others are the spawn of satan. The worst part is that you can never tell which is which until they're putting a bullet in your head or giving you clean water to drink after vomiting up bad food. It's a cruel guessing game and I've seen so many people make the wrong choice.

                The person in front of me, I think his name is Nevan, leans back so he can whisper something to me. “Rumor is they're going to kill all of us,” he says it like it's a joke, like I should be amused. Nevan has a sick sense of humor and his favorite thing to joke about is our inevitable demise.

                “Pleasant.” I hiss back before we get caught. I glare at him, my own warning, and he shuts up but not before he gives a nasty laugh. My hatred for Nevan is obvious to everyone, even him, but he decides to ignore it. I think he's waiting for me to snap and get myself killed. One of the guards in the front of the line gives a sharp whistle and everyone stops walking. It's a bit scary how well we work together, given our circumstances. We're like a well oiled machine that hates itself and is waiting for a single gear to resist turning. When that day comes, I pray to God that I'm dead already. It ended in blood, and only a few drops were from the militia. Every prisoner was killed. Only the youngest children were spared. The ones who had no choice about being here.

                All one hundred and seventeen of us are filed into the courtyard and a shiver runs down my spine. I refuse to believe anything Nevan says, but I cannot shake the thought that a concrete courtyard is easier to clean than the stone walls and floors inside. You wouldn't even have to worry about the smell; the wind would carry it away soon enough, unlike inside where the reek seeps into the walls and floors to remind everyone about what happened all those years ago. Armed guards line the walls, standing still as statues, guns slung over their chests. Us prisoners are forced to stand shoulder to shoulder, barely able to feel the breeze that sweeps in.

                Massacre. The word is on repeat in my mind.

                The sun is high in the sky, blazing bright and surrounded by the blue, blue sky. It's one of the only pretty things I still have, other than the journal I keep hidden inside of my thin mattress in my cell. That's one thing I am brave enough to do; hide something. Monthly inspections get at least two people whipped every time, but I'm willing to risk it. I've never written anything inside of it, and the pages are still pristine white, but I imagine what it would be like to fill the pages. What my handwriting would look like sitting on those light beige lines. If it would be pretty or ugly, if I could still string together sentences that make sense.