A/N: Welcome back! The photo shows the tattoo or at least gives you a rough idea. I am neither a tattoo artist nor do I like my hand, but I am pretty sure I sucked at the description in the story... sorry for that. And be careful, there is a vivid scene of violence and strong language in the end, maybe not appropriate for all the audience. Enjoy the slightly longer chapter, guys!
Oh my God! What the freaking hell have you done? Your dad is going to kill you! Please, oh my God, Rayen, change that announcement! TAKE IT BACK!
I panic. Pure chaos is flooding my mind. But the answer is final. I can't change anything back. My life has a purpose now, but I am overwhelmed of the dircetion I am heading in. I must be insane! I am not even the type for joining the Army! Well, yes, you are. You are sporty, tough. You can act without emotions slowing you down, that's what you did your whole life. You follow orders, even though they have been mouthed by your father til now. I want my thoughts to just end.
I close my eyes to gulp. As I open them again, my surface isn't about to crack anymore. I look happy and confident. The people in front of the podium cheer towards me. I smile with sweaty palms and shaking knees. It's like I watch myself in shock from a third-person-perspective, not able to paticipate any longer. I solemnly shake the presidents hand, then I follow him.
I am attempting to take part at the ultimate ceremony, after that I am officially considered adult. It is a tradition. There are machines that could easily do it more accurately, but still we remain with humans doing it. I sit down at a white chair. I am still in shock of what I did. I can see the questioning eyes of a medic in white clothes, I numbly nod. The guests built a crowd around me and the chair in a respectful distance.
And then it begins. Left hand first. I am tattooed. Every adult on Alatis has got a tattoo on their hand(s) regarding to the profession they have. You can choose the colour - either black or the the colour that symbolizes your work field. Medics for example can have either black tattoos or light blue ones. Or they mix up the colours. Technicians and engineers are yellow. Logisticians are red. Social jobs of any kind are purple. Development, science and IT is white. Politicians are green.
Since the colour of the army is black anyways, I don't get to choose. As I mentioned, we stick to the tradition of letting humans colour the skins. I've heard that back on earth they literally inked the skin, like shooting little pigments under the surface. Even I can tell that that must be really unhealthy. Nowadays we colour the skin by shooting lasers into it. I don't exactly know how it works.
I just notice the burning pain in my hand. I frown. I have seen other 21 years olds hysterically crying in pain, so I expect it to increase. Nothing happens. I don't really believe it, but the pain is not much more than a tickle to me thinking of the ways my father hurts me on a regular, even a daily basis.
My father. In my head these two words are spit out in disgust. I look up. Still everyone is smiling. Except for him. His gaze creates a threatening atmosphere that apparently only I sense. His face is cold, his eyes are stabbing me. I am terrified. I have ruined my life. It has been fucked up before. I am so terrified. He will kill me. This time he'll beat the hell out of me and he won't ever stop. I am still smiling superficially. But a single tear runs down my face and drops onto my suit.
Everyone must think it's the pain - now on the right hand. But it isn't. I couldn't care less about that burn. My brain just simply cannot forget the pain that will come.
I clench my jaw and force my head down to look at my left hand. The outcome is pretty damn cool - the tattoo of soldiers is always a wing on each hand. It starts at the basis of the thumb and spreads majestically over the back of the hand and onto the index finger. If a soldier puts both their hands next to each other with thumbs touching parallel, the impressive pair of wings creates a gracefull creature. Of course the theme is inspired by the name Alatis. And if a soldier grabs a weapon the wing on their hand cups it protectively like an eagle would protect it's baby. I already love my wings. And they even managed to make me forget about what will happen in the evening when Dad comes home. You're lucky he doesn't punish you right now - only his self-esteem about the high social status prevents him from doing so right now.
The celebration continues after my tattoos are finished and my profession is integrated into my ID. The atmosphere is light and fun. At least I assume that everybody else thinks it is. Finally my father is called for a medical emergency and leaves. As the door closes behind him I let out a heavy breath of relief I didn't even know I have been holding.
I reassure about everyone being pleased and content, making sure nobody would notice my absence. Then I sneak out and hurry home to our quarter.
At a normal 21st birthay the closest friends would have waited there and it would have become the party of our lives. But since I had no real friends nobody was there. Not that I expected anything else, I think bitterly.
I rush into my room and lock the door. Breathing heavily I slowly sink down on my knees. I have messed it all up. The dull illusion of being safe from him here overcomes me. I know it's an illusion. But at least I am alone now. I let down my guards. I cry. Silently, but I do. I don't cry often. I haven't cried like this since my mother died 14 years ago. Normally I would hate myself for the affection, but do not care enough anymore.
Why did I even decide to join the Army? Well, Rayen, you know that. You hate people. You are constantly disappointed by people. You are smart and sporty, you take orders. Joining the Army means that you have the least amount of social interaction within all the possible jobs despite the interaction with your comrades. Mostly you would just stand there. Paying attention. Being ignored by the normal people. And in the unlikely case of a fight with whatever there might be you could prove your fitness. Mostly to yourself, because there is nobody else to proof anything, but that's better than nothing. You are a social outcast. You do not let any emotions come near your - why not make that your profession?
It seems like my subconcious mind has thought a whole lot about joining the Army without me even knowing.
After a while of just sitting on the floor crying I decide that I have to do something. Somehow prepare myself. I'd love to prepare myself for my father coming home, but I can't even imagine his rage. So I can only prepare for the life I have chosen. I use my hologram to look up what to do next. I read through the information about how long my drill will take, what the subjects are, what my future tasks as a soldier of the Alatis Army exactly are or where report. I don't have to sign in anymore - with adding my profession to my ID I have automatically been signed in.
Then I come across the most releasing information ever, my salvation: I learn that soldier is the only profession with a residential education due to the high importance of team spirit. That means I move. Immediately. I move away from my abusive father! I can flee!
The incredible is happening! Adrenaline floods my system. I jump up, ready to pack my stuff and disappear as soon as possible.
I stand in the middle of my room amd realize two things. Firstly, I have no suitcase. Living on a space ship you can't leave doesn't require that. But secondly, I do not own a lot of stuff to take with me. I grab my toothbrush, brush, shampoo and the little make up I own and put it in the middle of my room. I look around. I decide to take my surrogate suit and my underwear. At last I put the little teddybear my mother sewed for me when I was 5 on top of my belongings.
I remember owning a backpack, so I look for it and put all my stuff in it. I am ready and adjust the backpack by throwing it onto my back - with a snap it connects with the shoulder parts of my suit. I am ready. I can go now and leave it all behind.
I look around room for one last time. It looks even more impersonal and empty than before. I feel like I had no life at all. And maybe that's the ugly truth. I sigh and head through the door for one last time. For the second time today I am in the hall of our quarter and tying the shoelaces of my chucks. Only this time I am not alone - and I realize too late.
"What are you little bitch thinking you are doing, hm?"
Threatening quietly grumbles his way too familar voice behind me. My body tenses immediately.
"Who the fuck shitted into your little dumbass brain?"
He closes the space between us, my backpack hits the wall as I try to back away, never meeting his eyes.
"You know who I am and who you have to be. There is no doubt - there never was. You know exactly what I have to do now."
His voice is so low. I am shaking. I smell his breath. I turn my head away.
"LOOK AT YOUR FATHER!"
He bursts out, I shriek, his sweaty, giant hand grabs my jaws and forces me to look at him. He breathes in and spits into my face. His free hand slaps me harder than ever before. If he hadn't held my jaw with his one hand, he would have dislocated it. I feel my face swell, sharp pain seethes beneath my skin. I am terrified.
"HOW DARE YOU DISOBEYING ME? HOW DARE YOU CHOOSING THE WRONG PROFESSION? YOU WILL REGRET THAT!"
I bet the "medical emergency" he was called for earlier didn't survive - things like that always make him even more aggressive.
Tears roll down my face as he smacks my head against the wall, but I won't make a sound. I feel blood running down my neck. He never escalated that quickly. I am scared to death. Literally. I am not sure if I will survive this time.
I am a tiny wreck hunching up on the floor, my arms thrown protectively over my head. I am just waiting for his next move and don't dare looking up. I hear hin grabbing something in his pocket, then there is the sizzling sound of a teaser.
He electro-shocks me. The pain is immense. I can't even describe it. But he must have set down the intesity to make sure I don't pass out too quickly. He is cruel, and he has fun torturing me. I can't move, I am painfully cramping on the floor, I can't tell but I bet he is kicking me.
After a while he stops and I stop cramping. He goes away and I still can't move after the shocks. My body sufferes, my soul bleeds, my eyes cry - but I feel nothing. Maybe I am already dead inside.
He comes back.
He has got a long metal pipe. I don't know where that is from, but that doesn't matter anyway. It's going to hurt. And he chuckles low and evil.
I hear my rips breaking, I see blood everywhere, my shoulder dislocates, the world goes black.