Monday, August 29th, 2318
Word has gotten out. There are times I find myself wishing for Marma and her unsubtle cattiness. Wishing I had realized my freedoms and privledges of the city and appreciated them. Even the solitude -where I had cried hot tears for arms to comfort me or a friendly face to make me smile- I mourn the loss of. Funny how it is we can miss those things that made us miserable just as much as those that made us happy.
I have been dedicating the few moments of writing I have to journal in the book of my father’s stories. Those memories are fading faster than I realized. It is important work. Or so I tell myself. I try not to actually think upon my father while I write. If I do, then crying starts and I lose those precious moments and smear the ink with fat drops. Exhaustion overwhelms the birds that fly in my dreams, plunging them into black nights.
But the word has gotten out and there is nothing I can do for it. They know, every single one of them, I can see it when I meet the gaze of angry eyes. They know I chose the Hygrodomes. And they are all wondering if I am a spy, what branch of Government I work for, who I will snitch on first, who after that? And then, when the answers to those questions don’t come, they wonder if I am a Liberal, a terrorist, a Utopian, here to bring them down or bring down what they do. They don’t know and it scares them.
The laundry where they assigned me has nearly fifty workers. The steaming heat is stifling. My hands raw even after so little time. The large space set aside for it is far away from anything important, too far for me to damage anything even if I was sent to. No one of consequence to tattle on.
Yet, they won’t talk to me. They won’t ask the simple questions with simple answers. They choose to live in fear, to hate me. I crumple the paper once again. Then quickly smooth it out when I realize what I’ve done.
I’m clinging to this scrap, I know. I won’t let myself think that this was a cruel joke from crafty hands and diamond smiles. There had to be a reason for him to send me here. There has to be something important for me to leave behind even that miserable life and be imprisoned in white caught up in rolling hatred. There has to… Hasn’t there?