A Camomile Place

Chapter One- An identity, huh?

Books

"In my hometown, there is an island.

Where they punish kids for crime and conflict!

No one knows their awful lives, but

They're going to H-E- Double hockey stick!"

That's our rhyme. That's the song that hundreds of the town children sing to us, as they jump to their skipping ropes merrily. Usually around twelve thirty-five, a group of eager schoolchildren, their eyes glistening with malicious delight, come by the docks and shriek the song like some horrific choir so it's impossible for us not to hear. Obviously, we don't like it very much. It's not accurate. We're not in here for our own actions; It's for our parents.

I'm Books, I'm sixteen years old and my father killed two people. Not the greatest introduction but that is all the authorities need to have me locked up here until the end of my life. I'm not Books to them though. I'm BCF. Just a line of random letters. Nothing with personality. That is what a name is for everyone here. God forbid us having normal names that may help us fit in with society! We're not human since we are the offspring of monsters. That is their logic and we cannot argue. The only time they treat us unlike dirt is during the end of winter. That's the time we're allowed a new set of uniforms and nightshirts to start the new year off fresh. They don't celebrate Hanukah here though nor any religious holiday. What's the point of celebrating God's achievements when he created things like us, I guess?

Our self-esteem isn't helped by our uniforms. We boys have dirty white shirts with navy ties and brown waistcoats that match with our trousers. The girls have dull yellow blouses with ugly patterned pinafores and long grey skirts which are straighter then rulers and as uncomfortable as chairs made of nails (at least, that's what they have told me). Boys' hair is combed neatly to the side (but not so much it looks Hitleresque) and the girls' lengthy locks are tied into plaits to avoid it getting caught in machinery. Which brings me neatly to my next point; The work. Rather than going to school, the inmates here are expected to do factory work that is too unpleasant for the locals to do like filling cigarettes with tobacco, dipping matches into phosphorus and shirt weaving. We usually have 15 hours of work a day with an hour for lunch. It's hard work but it means you sleep well at night, even if the beds were just thin sheets stuffed with straw on a metal base.

Every Sunday (our only off day, since it's the Lord's day in Christianity), We sometimes get little presents from our family. My father was sent to the gallows two years ago and my family have seemed to have forgotten about me, so I don't get anything from them. Kindly, my girlfriend Bluish shares her little chocolates and novels with me, so I don't go away empty. Bluish is one of the female prisoners and is my best friend/love of my life. She's the one who gave me my name Books, since she knew I loved reading. She's called Bluish because it's her colour. Her eyes are sparkling blue, her apron is blue and I am blue every time she leaves me. God, that sounds so needy and pathetic. I guess I am, really. There are only eight, as far as I'm aware, who have their own names on this island and they're Yeller, Hill, Haystack, Kettle, Bronzie and Satin. We don't know each other very well yet, but I'm sure we'll cross paths.

 Anyway, I'm glad I've got an identity. 

I've missed it.